The Children
He was thin and tall, and his unruly dark hair made him look taller. He wore round steel spectacles, and he looked uncertainly through them at the gang of boys surrounding him.
“I don’t want any trouble…” he began.
Vince, the ringleader, laughed loudly and unkindly. He was confident, broad chested, almost blond, unlike his slinking dark-haired cronies. His thin lips bent in a twist that could be ironic amusement, or joyous cruelty. “You got trouble, coming here,” he jeered.
“I was just…”
“Just what?”
It was early August evening in Marseilles, but the air was still aggravatingly hot, the sunlight reflecting off the near-white of the tower blocks around them painful to the eye. There was nothing to shade this side of the buildings, yet the group of them stayed there, close to the baking wall, mainly because there wasn’t anywhere else to go, really.
“I was just leaving,” their victim said.
They all jeered and catcalled. Pierre – smaller than Vince, equally aggressive – stepped forward and slapped their quarry, trying to knock the glasses off his face. The glasses stayed, bent now, but there was a red mark on his cheek.
“What do you want?” he asked. Vince relished the fear he could hear in their quarry’s voice.
On a cooler day, they would have walked into the centre, catcalled at the girls, shouted insults to other youths, barged their shoulders into the older pedestrians - or picked their pockets for variety - always angry, always resentful. But it was too hot for such occupation now, so they’d been lounging here, snarling at each other like dogs, until a victim had walked right up to them.
He was carrying something in a paper bag. Some over-priced sandwich from a fancy shop. That annoyed Vince, so he stepped forward and knocked it out of his victim’s hand.
“Oh dear,” said Vince. “What else you got?”
“Nothing!”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I…”
“I don’t like liars,” remarked Vince. “You know what we do to liars?”
“No…”
They were on him now, grabbing his arms, their fists drawn back ready for a target to injure, their feet stamping at their victim’s.
There was a crack behind them, but Vince paid that no heed until Marcel vanished suddenly from beside him.
And then Jean disappeared too.
Vince looked round in amazement. There was a girl standing there, not very tall. She had something hidden in her hand, and when she pointed it at Jaz, next to him, he went too. There were pigeons around his feet now, to his annoyed bafflement.
The girl had flaming red hair, he saw, the pale yet red-cheeked skin of a true redhead, a determined jaw and angry eyes. He swore at her, luridly, as Pierre dropped away, and then her hand was pointing at him. He stepped forward and tried to punch her, but to his horrified amazement she was growing, hugely, shooting upwards. She was standing above him now, hands on hips, still angry.
All Vince could do now was run in circles with the others. He opened his beak to curse his attacker, but only a humiliating cooing noise came out. His arms were heavy, and feathery, and it was easier to fold them, and tuck them against his sides.
He had to get his own back. But how? She towered above him. On the other hand, there was a tempting piece of baguette, right in front of him.
And another.
And another…
“Sorry,” said the redhead. “I thought you were someone else.” Her hand was in her pocket now, so he could no longer see what she’d been pointing at the youths. Well, birds, now. He gaped through his bent spectacles at her in amazement, straightening the clothes his attackers had seized. “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” said the girl. “Just passing.”
It wasn’t him, of course. His features were entirely different to Harry’s, his shoulders too narrow. He had no lightning scar. Yet in the moment she’d been fooled. But why would he be here, in Marseilles?
“You’d best go,” she said. Her fingers tightened in her pocket. His glasses were unbent now, and straight, and he flinched.
“But…”. He gestured weakly at the pigeons pecking around his feet, feasting on his baguette.
“They’ll be OK. Now go.”
He shrugged, in a very French way. “OK,” he said. “But thanks. I mean it…”
“Bye,” she said. She held her ground determinedly, and he turned away, unsure now, then looked back at her over his shoulder. She was still gazing at him, and he twisted his head back in embarrassment.
A young mum walked past him, steering a pushchair with one hand and a small boy with the other, but then the boy was letting go of her hand and running towards the feeding pigeons, who scattered and flew away, leaving him alone, and triumphant.
The redhead looked around once more, then headed up the steps at the entrance of the block of flats. Inside were two sets of grey metal doors, both bearing crooked, paper signs. Lift out of order, read one in printed capitals. Not working, said the other, in a scrawl. She headed for the stairs.
The stairwell was gloomy, with yellowing curved light fittings between wall and ceiling. As she looked up the stairs, she could see that several lights high above her weren’t working, and some of the closer ones were flickering.
She nodded to herself, as if in confirmation, and began to climb the stairs.
Her destination was the seventh floor; By the time she reached it, her thigh muscles and lungs were hurting, and she was out of breath. It was silent up here, apart from her footsteps, and everything had the dust of neglect. She reached a door that differed, that gleamed faintly with the sheen of use. She pushed the doorbell, but she could hear neither bell nor buzzer, nor any steps in response. She waited, then knocked on the door.
She could hear light, rapid steps; The door began to open, then hesitated, then opened a crack. In the dim light issuing through the gap she could see a small girl – five or six years old, perhaps – gazing up at her, her arm stretching upwards to the door handle. Her skin was tanned, her hair thick and dark, her eyes full of life. “Hello-who-is-it-please?” the girl asked.
“I’m Ginny,” said the redhead. “I’m here to see Ethan Zazou. Is he your brother?”
The girl continued to swing on the door handle and study her. “The TV’s broken,” she said, confidingly. “I wanted to watch Archibald.”
“That’s a shame,” said Ginny. “Is your father here?”
The girl let go of the door handle and disappeared, leaving the door ajar. Ginny wasn’t sure what to do, so she waited.
Now she could hear heavier yet quieter steps, and the door was pulled open, hesitantly.
“Hello?”
“Mr Zazou?” Ginny asked. He was middle height, broad-faced, pale. His eyes were aware, but his expression was worried, furtive.
He shook his head. “I’m Turpin. Paul Turpin.” He touched the head of the small girl, who had reappeared and was still staring at Ginny. “This one’s mine,” he said. “But the kids are called Zazou, both of them. What’s wrong?”
“I’d like to see Ethan,” said Ginny.
“Is he in trouble?” asked Turpin, edgily. “Go inside,” he said to the little girl, firmly.
“No,” said Ginny. “Definitely not. I wanted to ask him some questions, that’s all.”
The door started to close, but Ginny put her hand out to hold it open. “Please,” she said. “I’d like to help him.”
“Leave us alone,” said Turpin, frightened now. “He’s not interested.”
“Interested in what?” Ginny asked in puzzlement.
“Drugs,” said Turpin, reluctantly. “Anything like that.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” said Ginny.
“So why, then?”
“Is Ethan happy at school?” Ginny asked.
“Are you a teacher?” demanded Turpin, suspiciously. “Social worker?”
“A teacher, yes,” said Ginny. “Although I don’t teach at Ethan’s school. But I think he might be happier at a different school. My school, in fact.”
“We haven’t any money,” said Turpin, roughly. But his eyes were briefly afraid.
“It’s free,” said Ginny.
Turpin gave her a disillusioned, disbelieving look, and tried once more to close the door.
“Please,” said Ginny, leaning against the door. “Please listen!”
“Listen to what?” asked Turpin, through the remaining crack in the door.
“I know…” began Ginny, but then she stopped, and turned her head in both directions. Could anyone hear her? “I know why… I know why your electricity doesn’t work.”
The door opened then, so Turpin could stare at her in puzzled disbelief. “The electricity?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were here about Ethan,” said Turpin, in suspicion.
“I am.”
“Whatever it is,” said Turpin. “We’re not interested.” But he didn’t close the door, as he examined her worriedly.
Ginny couldn’t hear anybody close by, so she leaned in and murmured through the gap. “If I got your electricity working,” she said as quietly as she could. “Could I come in and talk to you?”
Turpin’s face was screwed up in disbelief. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.
Ginny moved quickly out of his view line, pulled out her wand and hid it behind her. She twitched her wand as she murmured “Hibio”. Then she could move back and renew eye contact.
“What?” asked Turpin in bafflement, but then he was flinching and turning away, because there was a lightbulb burning above his head, and a loud blaring sound behind him: An excited, babbling voice, then a fragment of music. Then more talking.
Turpin turned back to her in wonder and fear. “What did you do?” he asked.
“Daddy!” called a child’s voice behind him. “It’s working! It’s working now! Can I watch Archibald?”
“Let me in and I’ll tell you,” Ginny promised Turpin.
With a look of bemusement he stepped back and pulled the door open, so she could slip inside. Without explanation, he turned away and stepped through a doorway. Should she follow him?
The sounds on the TV changed to something quieter, and spoken - A child’s voice, high pitched, rapid.
Turpin was back, staring at Ginny. “Are you from the electricity company?” he asked.
“No,” said Ginny. She pushed close the door behind her. “I just prevented Ethan hexing the electricity here. That’s all.”
Turpin looked at her in sudden terror. He took two steps to another door and opened it. His shoulders dropped, in relief. Ginny, stepping up behind him, could see a boy who strongly resembled the girl who had opened the door, sitting on a bed, knees up. He had his sister’s dark long curly hair, and was as tanned, but where the little girl’s eyes gleamed, his were sour and hunted. He looked to be about ten or eleven.
“Go away,” he said, uncompromisingly.
“How did you do that?” Turpin said, turning back towards her. “Did you hurt him?”
“No,” said Ginny, over her shoulder, intent on the boy. “It’s a simple spell,” she said. “It suppresses magic for about ten metres all around. I’ll be in trouble if there’s another wizard nearby,” she said, trying for humour.
“I don’t understand,” said Turpin.
“You’re Ethan, right?” Ginny asked the boy. He was looking at her with wary alarm, but didn’t nod or react to her words. “You’re the reason nothing works around here,” she said. “The lights. The tevelision. The lift.”
“Television,” corrected Ethan, eyeing her in annoyance.
“Whatever,” said Ginny. “You don’t like them, so you turn them off, right?”
He didn’t answer, but his expression was no longer anger, but amazement.
“Which makes you a wizard,” said Ginny, trying to keep eye-contact with him. “You could stay here, with your family, but it would be better, I think, if you came to Beauxbatons. You’ll like it there. Lots of other kids like you.”
“You mean it’s a prison,” said Ethan. She could see the fear in his eyes.
She shook her head. “No. Not a prison. It’s a school. It’s in the Alps, in a hidden valley. It’s… it’s beautiful, actually. And there are hundreds of kids there, like you. Boys and girls, who can work magic. It’s freedom, for you. For people like us. Can I show you something?”
“Show me what?” he asked suspiciously. He pushed himself up the bed, away from her.
“De Hibio,” she muttered to herself. “Nice slippers,” she said, out loud, and gave her wand a quick flick. Turpin made a noise of surprise, and retreated into the hallway, but Ethan was leaning forward, his eyes wide in amazement, at the pair of slipper-coloured rabbits now hopping around his floor, sniffing everything.
She could hear a door opening. “Dad!” shouted the little girl in the distance. “Dad! Television’s stopped again!”
The rabbits encountered each other, and then one was trying to climb urgently on top of the second. Harry’s fault, she said to herself, crossly. Even though he hadn’t been Harry. It seemed a good time to turn them back into slippers, and she hoped Ethan didn’t notice her red face.
“Your turn,” Ginny said to Ethan. “Give your sister her television back.”
“I don’t…” he said, and stopped.
“Dad! Television’s broken! Television’s broken!”
“Yes, you do,” said Ginny, calmly.
Ethan stared at her intently. He appeared to quiver briefly, and they could hear the blare of the television once more.
“Good,” said Ginny. Another twitch of her wand, and an envelope landed on Ethan’s bed. He stared at that instead, then reached his hand out slowly towards it. Carefully he pulled out the contents and examined them, his eyes growing wider. “Welcome to Beauxbatons,” she said.
Ginny’s second visit was to one of a linked row of modern houses in a small town in Southern Belgium. There were children’s toys scattered around the front door, and she could hear yells from behind the house of children playing. Apart from that, and the sign on a stick next to the road – “NO TO FRACKING,” it read – it was identical to the other houses in the row.
She rang the bell; This one worked, and a fierce-eyed, snub-nosed West Asian woman came to the door.
“Yes?” she demanded.
“Mrs Jatt?” Ginny began. “I wanted to talk to you about your sign.”
“What’s wrong with it?” asked the woman, crossly.
“Nothing at all,” Ginny said, meekly. “I understand you’re worried about earthquakes.”
“Of course I am!” said the woman, still annoyed. “These companies think they can just ignore us! We have rights! They should be stopped!”
“I’d like to help,” said Ginny.
“Help how?” The annoyance was more surprise now.
“By stopping the earthquakes.”
“Are you from the oil company?” the woman asked in suspicion. “The government?”
“No,” said Ginny.
“So how are you going to stop the quakes?”
“By talking to your daughter, Qudra.”
“Qudra?” The woman flinched in fear. “What’s she done?”
“Well,” said Ginny. “Earthquakes, mostly.”
The third house was as different from the second as the second had been from the first. Ginny was in Northern Italy now, in front of a rambling stuccoed villa that stood in its own substantial garden. She’d had difficulty circumventing the electric gate that had barred her way, but now she was at the front door.
The man who opened the door was broad faced, with a well-fed stomach. He had a tumbler in his hand, which contained something clear, with ice. He eyed her with disfavour and surprise. He said something, presumably in Italian.
“Mr Agri?” said Ginny, in French. “Do you speak French?” A politeness, because she already knew he did.
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded, in French. “This is private property!”
“I’d like to talk to you about Concetta,” she said.
“What about her?”
“You’re very lucky to have a daughter like her,” Ginny suggested. “But I don’t think you realise how lucky.”
He scowled at Ginny in disbelief. “She’s a kid,” he said. “She’s nothing.”
“Is she here?”
“Who are you?” he countered.
“I’m a schoolteacher,” said Ginny. “But not at Concetta’s school.” She could see movement behind the man now. A slight figure, moving cautiously into view.
“Hello, Concetta,” Ginny called to her. But the girl was looking at her in fear and puzzlement.
“What school?” her father demanded.
“It’s called Beauxbatons,” said Ginny. “You’d be happier there, Concetta. It’s a boarding school.”
“A boarding school?” said the father with sudden interest.
“Yes,” said Ginny. “She wouldn’t be in the way any more. And she’d have her own life.”
“She has everything,” he said, roughly.
“Yes,” Ginny acknowledged. “From the money you won.”
He stepped back, suspiciously. “I should have known. Another charity, looking for money.”
“No,” Ginny said. “Would you like to go to a boarding school, Concetta? You wouldn’t be need to be afraid there.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Concetta’s father. “She’s not afraid!”
“She’s afraid of you,” said Ginny levelly. “Because every time you gamble, and lose, you hurt her.”
He looked at her in angry amazement. “What is this? What’s the game here?” He brought up his hand and stabbed his finger at her like a dagger. “And I don’t lose! You’re looking at a professional gambler!”
True, Ginny told him silently. You never lose. That’sbecause Concetta’s so afraid of you, she makes sure you win. But if I tell you that, you’ll never let her go.
It had been only two days ago that Hector le Blanc had come to see her.
Hector was a reporter for The Mage, the French magical newspaper. Last time they’d met, he’d mercilessly pried into her secrets, and she was naturally twitchy when he turned up at the school, unannounced. But his first words had intrigued her.
“I need your help,” he began. “Although the help is not for me.”
“What kind of help?” she asked.
“I read Muggle newspapers,” said Hector.
“I’m not sure I can help you there,” said Ginny in puzzlement.
Le Blanc shrugged. “It’s a hobby. Not for their politicians and their rock stars. No. For the small, unusual stories. The strange things that happen, that Muggles can’t understand, that they dismiss. But because all reporters like a story, they like to write about these strange things. And I like to read them.”
“But why?” Ginny asked. “Or is that a rude question?”
Hector had shaken his head. “No, it’s a good question. Why am I interested? Because in many cases the only explanation for these strangenesses is magic.”
“So talk to the Aurors. Statute of Secrecy is their job.”
“OK,” Hector had said. “Sometimes it’s careless wandfolk. Or stupid ones. And no, I don’t bother to report them to the Aurors. But often it’s young children.”
“That’s up to the Ministry, isn’t it?” Ginny had asked, puzzled.
Le Blanc shook his head. “It’s different in Britain,” he told her. “It’s one country – well, at the moment it is - and there’s a magical monitoring service in place. So whenever a new unexpected young magical talent appears there, it’s noticed. And Hogwarts, I think, is always keen to harvest this. But here in France… Well, we would never support the idea of being spied on in our own homes. Or even Muggles being spied on. And, of course, other countries would never allow us to spy on their citizens. So those children are ignored.”
“So nobody notices Muggle-born wizards and witches here?” asked Ginny, aghast.
Hector shrugged. “Beauxbatons is already big enough, many think. If they invested in Muggle-born children as well, they would have to grow. And it is not a rich school.”
“I’ve noticed,” said Ginny, crossly. She’d been pleading with the school Senate all summer to allow her to recruit more Humanities teachers. “But what am I supposed to do about this?”
“You’re popular at the moment,” suggested le Blanc. “Take advantage of that.”
“To become unpopular?”
“Ginny, we need to help these children! The Hidden Duke has killed many, and his enemies barely fewer! They are our future! We need to protect them.”
“Protect them how?”
Hector ignored this. “And what happens to a magical child who doesn’t understand what’s happening to them?” he asked, impassioned now. “When they live in a non-magical world? Who can protect them? We need to act.”
“But what can I do?” Ginny protested.
“Just listen,” said Hector, producing a notebook and dropping it on Ginny’s desk. “You only have to listen. I’ve found a Muggle-born boy who hates Muggle magic. Electricity. Phones. Things like that. He battles with it, all his life. Things don’t work around him, because he stops them. If he came here, he wouldn’t have to battle. And what about a boy who sets things alight? Trees. Garden sheds. Someone’s going to die, soon. And a girl who’s making her father rich, because every time he gambles and loses, he gets violent!”
“But won’t he get violent if we try to take her away?”
“Of course. But she’s a child! It’s an uncontrolled power!” Hector had said, urgently. “What happens if she loses that ability? What value her life, then? You have to give them the chance!”
“But what about the children who don’t leak magic, Hector?” she’d asked, feeling overwhelmed now. “They’re still out there, aren’t they?”
“One step at a time,” he’d replied. “If we can bring the ones in danger here, to Beauxbatons, that will be a start.”
“But how do I get the Senate to agree?”
“Perhaps I should talk to them,” le Blanc had suggested. “I know things about some of them.”
“What kind of things?” Ginny had asked, suspiciously.
“The kind of things they wish to keep private, of course.”
“Let me just talk to them first,” she’d said hastily.
“Appeal to their better nature, you mean?” le Blanc had asked with a raised eyebrow. “I wish you good luck. When you need to rely on their worst nature, let me know.”
Michel Gouin, President of the Beauxbatons Senate, sighed gustily when Ginny raised the subject with him. “Yes, it is a good cause,” he agreed. “And we should be extending a helping hand to these children, for their sakes, and others’ as well. But how can I convince the Senate? And there will be a lot of resistance from the parents.”
“Resistance?” echoed Ginny. “Why?”
Another sigh. “Because they view Beauxbatons as an elite school. They set themselves apart from the Muggle world, and are opposed to mixing with them. When their children come here, they are purely with others of their kind. You can think of that as separating Kneazles from hedgehogs, or milk from cream if you prefer. But of course, you can guess which of those images the parents believe.”
“So what do we do?” demanded Ginny. “Forget about these kids entirely? Stick our heads in the sand?”
Gouin shook his head, regretfully. “This is Hector le Blanc’s idea, you say. Having our head in sand will not lesson the pain of that man kicking our other ends. No, you must speak to the rest of the Senate. I will arrange a meeting, and you will need to persuade them.”
“Me? I always lose arguments…”
“Possibly,” agreed Gouin. “But you haven’t lost a battle yet.”
“I don’t want to go to war on this…” Ginny began nervously.
“Perhaps it won’t come to that,” Gouin said soothingly. “Just a few healthy violent threats is perhaps all it will take.”
“Great. But what about the parents?”
“I suggest you don’t raise the subject with them. If you do, there will be many objections, that will spoil a peaceful summer. And parents are always a problem, whatever you do.”
“Yes,” agreed Ginny, with feeling. “I’ve always found that.”