Silk and Sins- A tale spun with only the finest thread

This story is a companion to the Harry Potter series.  Please read Harry Potter, from J.K.Rowling.  The books are really inspiring.  However, this story is a companion, also, to the Phoenix Feather, a story by my friend over at the Persimmon Journals.  Please view her incredible blog at http://penandinkthepersimmonjournals.blogspot.com

Silk and sins

A companion to the Phoenix Feather

Near the seaside city of Marseilles, France, on the balmy morning of August 17th

“Daddy,” whispered Genevieve frantically, though quietly, “Daddy, you will come back, won’t you, Daddy?”  Her lip trembled tremulously and her voice quavered.  She clutched the receiver tighter, and pressed it into her warm, brown cheek. “Daddy?” The line was silent.  Much too silent for Genevieve’s liking.  Finally, he answered.

“No, Genevieve. I don’t think so. If only we had money for airfare.  Money’s scarce, though.”  He sounded weary, and very, very old.  He sounded so vulnerable, but Genevieve hated him just the same. She carefully set down the phone.   She slowly unlatched the door, stepping into the storm outside.  Abandoning all care and delicacy, Genevieve slammed the door shut and raced out, running blindly in the rain.  She at last came to a halt at a clump of rocks.  The choppy, churning sea was just visible.  Genevieve took a deep, shuddering breath and sat down.  Tears were sinking down her face, mingled with the rain and sea spray.  She hauled a stone into the mess of gray that was the ocean.  Looking back at the house, she recalled everything.  Her father, living in America, leaving her here alone with her already delicate mother. She sobbed just a bit harder.

Suddenly, a flash of white caught the corner of her eye.  She cupped her brow to shield from the rain, and peered in the direction of the white.  What was blurry became clearer, and she could see feathers, the distinct curve of a wing.  She blinked rain and tears out of her eyes.  A gust of wind blew powerfully, and the feathery object came hurtling out of its perch.  All she registered is that it must have been holding paper in it’s beak, because the edge met her cheek as the bird rocketed at her head.  Genevieve’s vision went blurry, and she stumbled to the wall of her house before collapsing in a muddle of tears, confusion, hurt, and drowsiness.

*************************

Meanwhile, in Marseilles, a conversation occurs……

“Olympe,” he muttered. “Olympe, jus’ consider it.”  The flickering fire reflected in her eyes, and he gazed adoringly at her.  His beard twitched into a smile.  Yet the smile disappeared as tears began to leak down the woman’s face.  “Olympe!” Her face contorted.

“I am strong,” said Olympe, very boldly. “Goodbye, ‘Agrid.  For ze cheeldrun.  I must stay, for them.”  Her voice had a very strong French accent.  Hagrid, the man, looked mortified.  He leaned in to Olympe.

“Come, Olympe.  Yeh’re not safe here.”

“I must stay, ‘Agrid,”  though Olympe was crying. Olympe was crying in spite of her strength, and Hagrid could do naught but begin to pat her on the back rather clumsily.  Hagrid lifted his pink umbrella, and, eyes dripping as well, bid Olympe farewell, already regretting his decision to let Olympe stay.

Olympe simply wouldn’t be safe anymore.  Neither would he.

Or any of the other half-giants.

*********************************

Genevieve pried the unconscious bird’s beak open and, with trembling fingers, grabbed the letter.  It was yellowed and water-stained.  The writing was penned in fine, turquoise ink in a thin script so beautiful and elegant, it barely looked real.  Genevieve stroked the owl’s feathery wing before noticing the thin, periwinkle strands laced in between it’s feathers.  Her fingers met a knot, and when untied a wrapped parcel came alight from the side of the owl.  A few ivory feathers fell from the package, but it was wrapped in the same periwinkle blue as the string that secured it.  Genevieve lifted the tightly wrapped package, the letter, and cradled the owl like a baby.  She stepped into the house to avoid the tempest outside.

Genevieve sat down on her bed and pried open the package eagerly. She kept her fingers gentle and delicate.  Whatever was in that package, she didn’t want to damage it.   She unfolded the paper.  Her fingers skimmed the topmost item.  For a second she was under the impression that someone had packaged a cloud.  The silk that made up the garment was so fine and so wonderfully sleek.  She brought the garment out of the package and gasped.  Light seemed to emanate from it.  It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen.  The sleeves were light and billowing.  The torso was tight and fitted, with buttons securing the center.  The collar was simple but gorgeous.  There was a single sash around the center, and a skirt that was pleated but flexible that seemed would come down right below Genevieve’s knee, with built in shorts of no finer material.  The whole thing was powder periwinkle, right down to the embroidered badge on the right breast reading “Beauxbatons” and showing a pair of elegant looking sticks, emitting sparks.

Genevieve studied the material, and with such tenderness that it was as if she handled a delicate body in her hands.  She shivered as her fingers ran over it’s every surface and crevice. It was stunning.  A thrill ran through Genevieve that made her tingle all over.  Without thinking, Genevieve slipped into it.

Genevieve barely felt it on her skin, yet she didn’t quite feel naked.  She felt lighter.  Like a single wisp of insinuating smoke, thin and yet strong.  Genevieve hurried to the mirror that spanned the thin door.  She hated to admit it, but she felt-sultry.  She felt gorgeous and mature and so, so scared.  What was this piece of magic?  Barely breathing, she looked into the mirror.  Even through the cracks and the dirt on the reflection, she could see how the dress was tailored and hemmed and sewn for her.  She had never felt so radiant.

Genevieve twirled around.  The skirt at the bottom of the dress swished lightly.  As she twirled, she caught sight of the owl, which was stirring and pecking at her bedspread.  She saw the yellowed envelope, dropped onto her pillow.  Genevieve slowly made her way to her bed.  Sitting down, she stroked the owl’s feathers into place.  She scooped up the owl and brought it over to the sink in the corner.  She ran the tap and plugged the drain.  The owl hopped to the sink rim and began to noisily slurp at the water.  Genevieve left it alone and went for the letter.  She pried the flap open, which was crisp with cold and age.  She tugged out the cream colored paper on the inside.  She unfolded the paper slowly.  She felt the fibers of the paper before reading,

“Beauxbatons School of Witchcraft and Wizardry welcomes Genevieve La Lune.”

Genevieve looked briefly at the rest of the letter and began feeling the lump in her throat.  Was her father playing with her?  Her father, teaching in America, born in America, who had read her the Harry Potter books.  Beauxbatons?  How cruel could he be to play such a joke?  She began to slide her fingers together, tensing them, ready to rip the paper in half, when she caught a penned name.  In icy blue, elegant cursive, she read, “Madame Maxime.”  She ran her fingers over the fancy handwriting that was not her father’s.  She caught her breath.  The ink was now smudged, and a thin blue streak ran across her pinky.  The ink was still wet.  The envelope lay expectantly, open, and the owl flew over to the bed.  The owl gestured out it’s leg.

Genevieve may have loved her father, may have hated him, but she knew one thing- he wouldn’t have gone to a lot of trouble to be cruel.  Not intentionally, of course.  He already had done so by mistake.

************************************

Genevieve walked into the dining room.  Her mother sat, shaking, in a chair.  Genevieve eyed her trembling mother and decided, in that instant, not to mention the letter or the owl that was currently perched on her mother’s bed.  Genevieve began to tremble too.  She couldn’t upset her mother’s delicate state.  Genevieve took a great, shuddering gasp, and silently cursed at her father for leaving her mother like this.  She took another gasping breath.

“Do you need your epi-pen, Genevieve?” her mother asked quietly, “Did you eat some peanuts?”

Genevieve began to cry.   She was allergic to almonds.

She turned her back on her mother, shuddering out,

“Non, merci, Mama. It’s okay.”

Genevieve returned to the table and grabbed her bowl of porridge with her hands shaking.  She shoveled down the hot gruel. A tear dripped into her spoon as she held it out, filled, to her mother’s mouth.

This was too much for an eleven year old to handle.  Genevieve kept a grip on the spoon, but her handle on everything else was slipping.

**************************************************************************

Later, in a cave surrounded by trees in a bare, bleak forest, Hagrid needs help……

Hagrid extended a hand to the mossy green boulder.

“Er…Grawpy,” he muttered, “yeh’re in fer a real treat, I’m gonna need yer help now, better wake up.”

What looked like simply a mossy green boulder moved, and turned.  It was a grotesque head, with yellowish teeth and a leering grin. The giant lumbered towards Hagrid.  Clods of dirt flew off his feet.  He moved his lips to speak.

“Hagger!”  It roared ecstatically, his voice resonating.

“Yes, Grawpy, now, come on.”

Hagrid led his half-brother out of the cave.  A hooded figure waited with bated breath to complete his mission.  If only the giant would walk faster.

*******************************

Genevieve lay on her bed, in the dress.  She had tugged out her braids, and her intense, dark hair lay splayed over the cream colored bedspread.  She drew her thin hands to her arm.  Slowly, she clamped her two fingers together.  “Oooowww!” She shrieked.  “Okay, I’m definitely not dreaming.”  She rolled off of the bed, landing hard on the floor.  “OOooooooooohhhh,” she moaned.  Genevieve peered under her bed, where piles of books and clothes cluttered the ground.  Millions and millions of “cleaning days” had accumulated here.  But now, Genevieve saw something special.  She reached her hand into the junk and withdrew a torn, battered book.  She looked at the cover and abruptly began to sob.  Tears soaked the dusty cover and smacked the words, “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.”  The withered pages were soft and smelled of moldy glue.  She hugged the book to her chest and rocked back and forth.  She hiccuped and kissed the book.  She quietly murmured, “it’s okay, my Jenny, my Jenny girl, it’ll be all right, my Jenny, my girl.”  She opened the cover of the book.  Through her blurred eyes, she could read the thin emerald ink in that tight handwriting.  Property of Rob LaLune.  Rob LaLune, reading her that book, introducing her to the world of magic.  That world that seemed to be beckoning.  The world she didn’t want to believe in, in case she got hurt. She stroked the ink. She eagerly flipped through the pages, finally finding the first mention of Beauxbatons.  The mention of their headmistress.  The mention of their uniforms.  She glanced at the garment on her bed.  She couldn’t believe any of it. For now, she would have to settle with the memory that the book held. “Je t’aime, papa,” she said, “I love you.  Still.”

***************************************************

Olympe carefully pressed the school’s seal into the hot, sapphire wax.  She gently eased the edges into the cream colored paper, lifted the last letter, and secured it to the tawny owl beside her.  The owl took off through the window, wings spread high, and disappeared into the clear sky.  Olympe drew her cloak tighter around her throat and scraped melted wax off of the table.  She crossed the last name off of the list.  She gathered up her things.  She had someplace to go, and at this point she could only wait until the start of the new semester and the arrival of all the children.

******************************************************

Genevieve was growing antsy.  The smell of ink had gotten to her head, and she had stroked the letter so many times that her fingers were bright blue.  She swung her hair around to the left side and intricately began to plait it again.  Slowly she twisted her hair around her fingers, laying piece after piece in place.  She kept her braid taut and tied it off with the emerald ribbon strewn across her bed.  Finally, she pulled on it once more and swung it over her shoulder.  She was bored of waiting.  She was just about ready to call her best friend Renee over.  She was pretty close to screaming.  This letter didn’t help her at all. If it was real, what was she supposed to do now?

She walked to the front door. “Going out, Mama,” she called.  Genevieve pushed the door open and immediately felt the salty spray from the ocean.  She stepped gingerly over strewn rocks and small boulders. She grabbed her beat-up bike from the side of the house.  She was riding, riding to town.  Maybe she would see Renee and get a good laugh out of something.  Maybe she would find something to clue her in to what was going on.  Maybe, maybe not, but Genevieve knew that she had to get out.  She kicked off of the ground and pedaled furiously towards town. She spat a raven colored hair out of her mouth and resumed her usual, quiet, even-tempered state.  Suddenly, her foot slipped off of the pedal.  The laces got snagged in the gear, and Genevieve went sprawling into the dust.  She felt fine, but her foot throbbed.  She pulled off her sneaker and quickly looked around.  No one could see this, her foot, her worst flaw.  She remembered the horrible boating incident.  She could still feel the icy water.  Now, she simply surveyed the scrape that ran across the skin where three of her toes once were.  In a boating incident as a child, frostbite had driven her to amputation: luckily just her toes, but amputation nonetheless.  No one knew, not even Renee, and she wasn’t about to let that change.

She pulled her shoe back on.  She was fine, absolutely fine, she convinced herself entirely.  She hopped back onto the bike and pedaled for only 5 more minutes.  She pulled around the corner and entered the tiny town that was her hometown.  Immediately she sighted Renee.  “Genevieve!  Salut!  Ça va?” Renee asked.  “Oh, fine, Renee.  Confused, though, and bored.”  Genevieve wasn’t ready to tell Renee everything.  “Oui, these owls!” responded Renee.  Genevieve nodded quietly. She dismounted her bike and safely tucked it by a tree.  She didn’t even think twice about thieves.  Not in their boring town.  She caught up to Renee and smoothed down her hair in a flurry.  For Genevieve, helmet hair was not an option.  Renee looked at Genevieve with her piercing eyes.  “You okay, Genevieve?? I mean, you look weird. Is-” then Renee lowered her vibrant tone to a more serious tone- “is your mom okay?”  Genevieve sighed, but did so very quietly and to herself entirely.   “No, not really.  But that’s not it.  Weird things have been happening, and I haven’t been doing anything about them.  I don’t know what to do, or where to go, and I can’t even tell you.”  She looked away from Renee.  Her eyebrows were knit tightly, the way they did when she tried not to cry.  “Tell me what’s going on,” commanded Renee in her usual nosy way, “I must know the affairs of my very best friend.”  Genevieve couldn’t take it anymore.  “No, I told you I couldn’t say!” She burst into very silent tears and began running blindly away.  She tripped several times, but picked herself up and kept running.  She felt warm blood on her jeans and she tasted tears, which were rapidly filling her mouth.  When she stopped running, she wiped her eyes and stared blankly ahead, and was surprised to realize that she was staring at a castle that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Madame Maxime gasped inwardly.  “Oh la la…c’est impossible….oh, non, non!” So many students had not yet responded, but that was the least of her worries.  For right then, a determined looking muggle girl was defiantly marching towards the school as if she could see it.  The girl had a shock of long, dark hair and a pointed chin.  She was very pretty and very clearly French.  She was wearing long dark jeans that were torn all up around the knees. She was bleeding, snot dripped out of her nose, and she wore tear tracks quite proudly.  On closer inspection, Madame observed a sheaf of cream colored parchment sticking out of her back pocket….

Genevieve got closer and closer. She was becoming quite thrilled at this point.  She yanked the letter out of her back pocket.  She perused it quite carefully.  Nowhere did it quite specify what to do, but “respondez s’il vous plaît, avec ton hibou.” R.S.V.P. with your owl.  Genevieve wouldn’t have known what to respond anyway.  She continued marching resolutely towards the ornate, powder blue palace.  Suddenly, a huge powder blue carriage soared above her head.  It seemed to ripple for a second, before landing spectacularly just meters away.  Huge, muscular palomino horses neighed and pawed the ground, snapping at the bonds that held them to the carriage.  Suddenly, the carriage(which, incidentally, was almost the size of a house) trembled as the door was thrown open, and the scariest and most intimidating woman Genevieve had ever seen stepped out.

*************************************

The ground seemed to tremble a bit.  The woman, who was quite almost the size of four times Genevieve, lifted her large hand sparkling with opal rings to shield her eyes from the sun.  The woman was dressed in beautiful blue robes, and her sleek, dark hair was pulled into a bun so severe that it seemed as hard as rock. She had handsomely olive skin and her features were almost carved: tight, sharp, and very strong.  “Bonjour,” the woman said stiffly, “Comment tu-tappelles? What is your name?” Genevieve started, jumping, and then responded in her quietest, most polite voice, “Moi, Je m’appelle Genevieve LaLune.”  She tried to stare defiantly into the woman’s eyes.  It didn’t work; the woman was quite too tall. Suddenly, frighteningly, the woman’s face broke into a large smile and she laughed a hearty laugh. “One of my students!” she declared, “I am Madame Maxime. And this,” she gestured spectacularly to the glittering palace, which was shining and stunning under the warm sun, “Is your school.  Welcome to Beauxbatons.”

*****************************************

Genevieve was in serious withdrawal….or maybe it could be called denial. If she had seen herself, she would have called 911. And as she sat on her floor, caressing her letter and inhaling sharpie off of notes that her dad sent her, silent tears were spinning down her cheeks. Sure, she was happy. Thrilled, even.  But certainly sad. Renee couldn’t know, wasn’t allowed. Neither were any of her friends. She hadn’t told her mother yet; that wouldn’t go over well.  Genevieve just sat in her room, not willing to believe it, any of it.  She just couldn’t believe it.  What would her father think? She laughed, pondering the thought. He would call 911 for sure. Or book the first flight to France to check up on his daughter and write her obituary.  Genevieve’s laugh became a sad laugh as she realized this.  Her mother came into her room.  Genevieve, at first, tensened, but relaxed into pensive and sorrowful relief as she realized that her mother wouldn’t understand any of this.  “Morning, Genny,” her mother said lovingly, kissing the top of Genevieve’s head, “will you try on your school dress for me?”  Genevieve stood up as fast as her legs permitted. “Mama?” she asked, almost screaming.  “Oui, Genevieve,” replied her mother, “I went to Beauxbatons too.” For a second, a fleeting flash of pain was thrown across her face, and Genevieve looked at her more closely.  “We’ll get you a wand as soon as possible,” her mother said, smiling in a way that suggested she was sad to let her child go into this world. “I should have never kept it from you. I knew you were magical.” Genevieve smiled up at her mother. One of her good days, she could think straight. Obediently, Genevieve grabbed the dress and started to strip, shimmying shamelessly out of her clothes and into the dress, quick as lightning. She knew the dress in and out, she had even practiced putting it on. Genevieve let her mother button up the back, and then Genevieve carefully pinned her hair behind her ear, turning around to face her mother.  “Je t’aime, Genevieve,” said her mother, “Je me souviens.” Genevieve thought about that. What was it that her mother remembered?

Genevieve sat down on the bed with a thump as her mother left the room. Her mother came back in, clutching a thin box, covered in velvet. Genevieve felt all the air in the room vanish.

“ Non, mama!” said Genevieve disbelievingly. Her mother nodded, and passed the box to Genevieve. She felt the edges, frayed, worn, and slowly pried open the lid. Inside was a beautiful wand. Genevieve could only describe it as beautiful. It was slim and long, fashioned out of ebony.  It had a curved handle rather like a delicate and intricate sword hilt, and it was so dark and so perfect that Genevieve could barely even look at it, in all it’s glory.  She raised it out of the box and held it in her hand. Surprisingly heavy, it felt warm and right. Genevieve giggled, and the wand emitted just the lightest silvery blue mist, spraying the room. The room became a little brighter. Genevieve smiled hugely, and peered up at her mother. Her mom, for some reason, looked as though she was about to cry. “That was my wand,” she said. Genevieve smiled and kissed her mother on both cheeks.

“Merci, Mama.” She didn’t know what else she could say.

Two

Genevieve eyed the boy with interest. It wasn’t often that she could find a nice boy who looked…well, nice. And he happened to be helping somebody pick up their bags. Very nice. She looked carefully at his smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. Ugh. She let out a little, dissatisfied snort sound, quite unattractive. She lifted her bags higher, and tried to keep her chin and eyes sharp as the boy passed, surveying her.
“Need help, uh…” his eyes scanned her namecard, the magical little banner above her head, “Genny?” His voice was teasing.

“Je m’appelle Genevieve,” Genevieve said tartly, “can’t you read?” The boy’s smile melted and his eyes looked like ice. Good thinking, Genny, Genevieve mentally patted herself on the back. She hoisted her bags higher and walked into the threshold, studying the beautiful, cathedral-like ceilings and trying to brush away the uneasy feeling blossoming inside her. The place was beautiful and all, but something just really wasn’t right.

The noise in there was deafening. Owls swooped free around the open ceiling. Some were perched on the gold scaffolding. There were marble sculptures, and some were walking around delicately, dancing and carrying bags up the grand staircases. All around friends were embracing. As Genevieve turned to walk, she accidentally walked in between a couple sharing a brief kiss.

“ Excusez-moi!” Genevieve amended hastily, and walked away as fast as possible. She was lost, confused, and quite lonely. She felt sorrow bubble up inside her, and realized for the first time that sorrow actually kind of hurt inside. It was like an ache, that made your throat close. An ache, somewhere inside your ribs. In the region of your heart.
“Comment tu-tappelles? What’s your name?” a small girl with shockingly blonde hair was standing behind Genevieve. She looked similarly scared, but she clutched her wand in a very confident way.

“Genevieve, Genevieve LaLune.”

“Anouk,” said the girl, “Anouk Landry.”  Genevieve nodded slowly and smiled warmly.

“Your father?” asked Anouk, “Rob LaLune?” Genevieve started, looking back on the girl with wide eyes.

“You knew my father?”

“Non, pas moi,” said Anouk, “but my father. They met in America!”  Genevieve looked away.

“Oui,” Genevieve said. Anouk saw Genevieve’s face and saw that the matter was closed.

“Ah, anyway,” said Anouk cheerfully, guiding Genevieve’s arm in a kindly, bossy way, “let’s go up there where we can get a good look!” Genevieve looked at Anouk, confused.

“I read everything there is to know about Beauxbatons, at least in the books anyway,” Anouk chattered brightly, “I really wanted to be prepared so I could help anyone in any way possible.  So, we all gather in the main hall for an opening speech. Then we go to our rooms.” Genevieve smiled. She already liked bossy, bright, leader Anouk.  Just then, a resounding sound passed through the air. It was a light sound, somewhat like chimes.  If fairy dust made a sound, this was it. All the students fell silent and the river of French that had been streaming through the air fell short.

“Welcome!” Genevieve craned her head and found that the effort was pointless. Madame Maxime was standing right beside her, her voice echoing out to all the students.  Still more were streaming in from the entrance, some older students apparating  at random, even more flying in on broomsticks and in small carriages.  The whole place had a certain aura of light and air. It was airy, fresh, and clean, but ornate. Genevieve still couldn’t keep herself from staring openly at Madame Maxime, who was glittering in a kind of shawl and a silk dress.
Silk. Genevieve looked back down at her open pleats of periwinkle blue, creamy silk swishing around her legs. Silk. She ran her fingers slowly along the edge of her sleeve and adjusted her ponytail. Anouk, beside her, flipped her suitcase onto the ground and sat down. Genevieve grinned, and focused on Madame Maxime.

“Today, this year,” said Madame Maxime, “is your time-” she paused. “The first, for many of you,” she continued, “to prove yourself. To come to terms with whatever person you are supposed to be.” Anouk gave a little sigh. Genevieve grinned at Anouk’s exasperation with Madame’s grand speech.

“What I really want to say, though,” said the headmistress, and suddenly her voice became almost urgent, with a strong note of heady bitterness, “is that you must, above all, stay strong.” Some of the older students smirked. “You must rise above whatever evils there are.” Genevieve felt a little chill. “That’s all.” Concluded, Madame Maxime rose into the air, and, with a slight shimmer, disapparated.

Genevieve shuddered.

“What did she mean, ‘evils’?”  

“Ah…” said Anouk, “see…” she yawned a rather huge yawn, “what did I miss?” Genevieve giggled lightly but couldn’t push away foreboding.

“I hate you, foreshadowing,” Genevieve whispered in a cruel, harsh whisper

“Don’t talk to yourself,” said Anouk sleepily. Just then, a slight wind came into the room. Genevieve smelled a light, salty breeze. Getting swept up in the current of students, she and Anouk made their way through a gilded and open doorway.

“Was that there before?” asked Genevieve in a hushed whisper.  The whole school was just a palace, this huge and beautiful, shimmering castle of magic. She could feel the magic tingling through the air, and now she could smell the salty breeze. The other side of the doorway was open, an open courtyard. The ocean lapped against the stones, and there were tables, laden with food. Genevieve could smell the bouillabaise and the fresh bread. There were perfect rounds of cheese, wine stilled with water, crackling baguettes and perfect, flaky desserts. Genevieve felt herself groan.  Tables ringed the seashore, and Genevieve pulled Anouk to one, leaving their bags at the door like all the other students. Upon sitting down, Genevieve found a clear, blue plate at the table. She grabbed the plate and ran to the food table, lying on breads and cheeses and ladling small amounts of soup. She saw some of the older girls, only giving themselves fairy portions of the light lettuce-y salad.  She smirked and mentally patted her very small stomach.

****************

“Anouk?”

“Oui, Genevieve?” 

“Are you as scared as I am?”

Anouk propped herself up on her elbows. She looked at Genevieve carefully. Her face was like a pixie’s, chiseled and perfect as the light, the deep velvet moonlight, came slanting in the crystal cut window and through the canopy of her bed.  

“I am, Genevieve,” piped up Adele. “I heard the way Madame Maxime was talking, and it frightened me.”

“You guys are being silly,” insisted Melony, the largest of them. “We can do magic. We’re trained! And-” her voice dropped, “he-who-must-not-be-named is vanquished, right?” 

“Harry Potter!” cheered Adele.

“Harry Potter,” sighed Genevieve. All the girls giggled.

“I’m scared too,” admitted Anouk finally. They could only see half of her face in the moonlight. The room was open, a circle, and Anouk’s bed cast half in shadow.  Anouk buried herself deeper into her silken, soft sheets and sighed comfortably, “I’m scared too. I don’t know what I’m scared of yet.”

“Me neither,” said Adele.

“Same here,” said Genevieve.

“I suppose I’m a little scared too,” Melony admitted finally. And that was what really scared them all. That the bravest and the biggest knew something was wrong, even in this charmed place in the moonlight, in silk. Letting the sound of waves roll into their ears, feeling magic and surprise that they had finally found somebody, a person, a girl, a friend– like them.  There was still fear.

Part Two- A Traditional Schooling

WHAM.

“Ai!” yelped Genevieve indignantly. She sat bolt upright in bed and threw off the blankets that were covering her eyes. Light was streaming in from the skylights and throwing beautiful golden shadows across the circular dormitory. Each girl appeared to be sleeping soundly in their own bed.

Just then Melony rolled over, and Adele giggled.

“Adele!” Melony popped up, looking murderous. Soon, Anouk, Marie-Elisabeth, Marguerite, and Georgie were all pushing themselves up, wiping the feigned sleep from their eyes and giggling an awful lot.

“Who threw the pillow?” Genevieve demanded with a smile pushing at her lips.

Melony grinned sheepishly. 

“Go figure,” muttered Genevieve as she slowly slid her socked feet out of bed, making sure her socks were on securely. She stumbled to the floor length mirror and started brushing her hair.

“Breakfast is at nine,” Anouk announced.

Marie-Elisabeth groaned. “I wake up at eleven. Normally. Did anybody sleep last night?”

All the girls let out a murmur of “oui”s. 

Marie-Elisabeth sighed. “Too bad I didn’t.”

Genevieve started pulling on her beautiful uniform and tying her hair back into her usual braids. 

“Non, non, Genevieve,” said Georgie, “Leave it down. It’s so beautiful. Here.” Georgie clambered out of bed clumsily and took Genevieve’s ribbons. Then, with surprising deftness, she tied back the front of Genevieve’s hair. “Like a princess,” Georgie declared, and drew out a tube of mascara from her bag. “Here,” Georgie said, “pass it around.”

Genevieve sighed and let Georgie rake mascara onto her eyelashes. Genevieve would never admit it, but these girls were a lot more fun than she would have thought. It was like…well, it was just like a group of best friends. Already. 

As Georgie patrolled the makeup front, Adele made everybody’s beds. Marie-Elisabeth whined about being tired. Anouk cheerfully bossed everybody around and made sure that their schoolbags had the right books in them. Finally, everybody was prim and proper and ready to go to breakfast. They pushed open the glass door, and led a procession out over the green lawn. Each blade of grass was glittery emerald with dew, and the seven girls marched to the main school, Georgie braiding Adele’s hair as they walked and Marie-Elisabeth still whining.

“Shut up,” said Melony for the seventeenth time.

Genevieve smiled and piped up finally, “I’m hungry. Who seconds that?”

All the girls moaned in assent. They started sprinting across the lawn, and as they got closer to the school they could see other dormitory groups making their way into the school as well. 

Genevieve plopped down at one of the bench tables. She pulled a plate towards her.

“Where’s the food?” Adele questioned.
“I think it just…appears,” replied Anouk knowingly, examining her blue plate as though it were going to spring food out at any moment.

Just then, the multiple ice statues in the hall sprung to life, and started carrying around trays.

“Wow,” breathed Adele. Genevieve felt something funny stir inside of her. She shifted, and as she looked around she felt an awfully sudden click. She belonged here.