Chapter Five - Early Years
"Mrs. Zabini?" My voice betrays a slightly tremor as I knock on the door. Glancing down, I try to catch my breath– balancing a glass of brandy and an assortment of quills in my left hand as I fiddle with my wand, "I– I brought your drink."
The door promptly swings open, her amber eyes flashing gold as she locks eyes on the drink sloshing around in my hand. She is tall, taller than I am– which I suppose isn't saying much considering I'm not particularly tall... but she is much taller than I would have expected.
Take a deep breath Dennis.
The sweet smell of her perfume envelops me, the taste heavy on my tongue as she silently leads me into her room, back to the seats from yesterday. Today she is wearing a dress made from emerald green silk, or perhaps evening gown is a more pertinent description. It clings to her skin, unfurling in a mass of shiny fabric that kisses the floor as she walks, bobbing side to side to the rhythm of her heels on the scuffed wooden floor.
"I suppose you would like to get started then," her voice scratches some itch I'd finally managed to lock away in the back of my brain, only adding fire to the fuel. It's slightly more hoarse, almost guttural in comparison to yesterday.
"Well... we have a lot to cover." I nod, taking my seat in the plush armchair and pulling out a quill. I spent all morning pouring over my notes, typing them up and trying to get some sense of a narrative... but the problem remains. I do not know Helene Zabini, and I have only just started to get to know Helene Kama. How am I to write a novel that accurately portrays her– when I cannot seem to grasp at her very essence... the events and emotions that drove her to do what she did.
"Very astute of you Dennis." She runs her tongue across the base of her front teeth, flicking it slightly just as she raises the glass of amber liquid to her pinkish lips, "Where did I leave off."
"We had just gotten to you deciding to become a journalist."
"Oh yes," she laughs, nostalgia twinkling in her eyes as she throws her head backwards slightly, as if she is reminiscing of a different time.
—
"Mademoiselle Kama," Madame Boucher presses her lips together, forming a small frown as she rakes her emerald green eyes up and down my body. I sit, rather meekly, across from her at the small stool pulled up to the edge of her desk, "I'm sure you are aware that I host these meetings with all of my girls in Bellamy hall, it is nothing to be... alarmed by."
The tone in her voice, its slight upwards tilt, tells me otherwise. Boucher is just like every other professor– she only remembers the old days, skeptical of anything resembling change. I nod slightly, fiddling with the dainty gold ring on the base of my pinky finger. My hands feel leaden, threatening to bore a hole in my lap as I look up at her anxiously, my eyes flitting to the large grandfather clock parked just to her right.
"Is there some place you need to be?" One of her thin black eyebrows, contorting her face as an expression of skepticism replaces her usual mask of diplomacy.
"No Madame." My voice sounds small compared to the grandeur of her office, as if I am not meant to be here– as if I am just another lost object for her to toss out the door.
"Forgive me– you kept looking at the clock." Her words cut into me, slicing at my face. A small smile curls on her lips at my obvious discomfort, "I have looked over your Ordinary Wizarding Level class registration submission."
"And frankly..." The smile turns into a repressed laugh, "I believe we have much to discuss– after all, it is my job to make sure that my girls are prepared to succeed."
"Have I filled out the form wrong?" I internally curse. There were many pages– maybe I dropped a few on the way to her office. Or maybe she's picked up on the small gooseberry preserve smudge on the upper left corner of the third page. I told Marie not to eat at my desk– but the blasted girl never listens to me.
"I just thought you might want to know that you have bubbled in the wrong options on accident– it's a common mistake," One of her hands, resembling talons with her long pointed white painted nails, reaches down into the underbelly of the large mahogany desk, procuring a small packet of parchments, "Many girls use the bubble sheets upside down."
"Oh," I small gasp escapes my agape jaw as she hands back the form to me, my eyes scouring the paper for any sign of a slip up, "Are you sure– I thought this was the bubble for writing?"
Something that can only be described as a mixture of a laugh and a snort erupts from her pursed lips, her cheeks flushing slightly as she catches herself, raising a single ebony colored hand to cover her powdered face, "Pardon my rudeness Mademoiselle Kama– I thought that you selecting the... writing seminar was a mistake."
"Is there a problem with my grades in literature?" I subconsciously pull the ring up and down the base of my finger, twisting it in clockwise circles until it leaves a thin red indent on my hand, the skin sore from the ceaseless rubbing, "I have already spoken to Monsieur Verdiere about the 80 I received on the first term exam, and he has agreed to let me revise my work–"
"No, it's just that... I do not have many girls who choose to go into writing, or the academics," She shakes her head, her short cropped bob of reddish brown hair swaying in the gentle breeze, "Perhaps it would be wise for you to choose a more... practical job. Something more realistic... like a nurse, or a schoolteacher."
"But I would like to be a writer."
"Helene," her voice catches dubiously, "I do not wish for you to be... disappointed once you have graduated and are left stranded with no job or prospects."
"Writing is a legitimate job prospect." I fire back, something within me igniting. The meek girl who walked into her office long gone, leaving only the fiery and determined young woman who decided she wished to be a journalist, "And if you assume that because I am female, I am capable of anything less than my male counterparts–"
"You are a pretty girl Mademoiselle Kama." She leans in slightly, narrowing her jewel- like eyes, "Your talents would be wasted hidden behind a secretary's typewriter."
This, perhaps, is the greatest insult of them all. Me, a secretary– the lowest level of the corporate ladder. I will not be condemned to a fate where the only words that I write do not belong to me.
"Though I suppose it might be more pertinent for you to look for a potential suitor," her hand extends towards me again, this time holding a small scroll of parchment, "This is an invitation to an afternoon tea with the Headmaster– quite exclusive, you should be proud. Many of the girls go on to have very successful connections. Have you heard of it?"
Of course I had heard of it. Les Papillons du Directeur, that is what they call them, because they powder themselves and dress in their fanciest dresses and bat their eyelashes at every manner of man who chooses to come to tea.
"I do not wish to be swept away like some swooning bride." I take the invitation, examining it skeptically, "It would be near impossible to maintain a writing position and to also have a family– and I would rather not give up the writing position."
"I beg of you, do not make this decision hastily," she hisses, leaning in slightly, as to offer harsh warning, "Your dreams will get you nowhere other than the streets– where you will be forced to turn to you looks to earn enough money for your miserable existence, and then you will look back and you will realize that I am right."
My eyes widen slightly, my breath hitching.
"You talk of wanting to leave France, of becoming something," she shakes her head, throwing back with cruel laughter, "Then you would do best to marry a man who will take you to his manor far, far away... and then you can play at writer with your little typewriter when your children are napping."
—
"You describe yourself as... meek, and almost insecure," I frown slightly, tapping my pursed lips with the tip of my feathered quill, "Pardon my asking but... why?"
"Because I was meek and insecure. Just a bit like you are actually," a smile tugs at the corners of her lips, "A skittish little thing with a hunger to become something greater than the world thinks possible."
This tells me two things. The first, is why she chose me, or perhaps some small part of why– because I remind her of her younger self, and this retelling of her life is just some otherworldly scheme to heal her inner girl? And the second: that I have my motivation.
Helene Kama was hungry. Hungry for power, hungry to leave France and become a successful writer. She was bored by the monotony of her social rank, expected to make herself appealing to men- which is clearly something she leaned into later in life, yet in her earlier years she seems to hunger for glory. She wanted to be remembered... which I suppose is a good a reason as any to rationalize actions. That is what Voldemort did, why he killed so many people and started a war. He wanted to be remembered. That is what Colin did, why he was so stupidly brave and got himself killed. He just wanted to be remembered for something other than his bloody camera.
"I assume you would like me to foreshadow this as a reason for your first marriage?" I raise my eyebrows, not really sure what to assume anymore.
A sharp laugh rings through the room, my cheeks flushing pink as she just sits there, unmoving, yet laughing at me. I had just begun to get comfortable, to relax slightly in the chair, allowing myself to melt into its velvety fabric. The hair on my neck seems to have returned to its natural position, standing straight up as a tremor runs through the length of my right arm, splodging black ink over the corner of my spare parchment.
Her amber eyes lock onto me, cutting through my sheer levels of terror. "I would like to think of Madame Boucher's disbelief in me to be a reason that I became a successful writer, not the reason I got married."