A few notes:
This story takes place in the Universe of American Horror Story: Coven, created by Ryan Murphy. The current supreme is Fiona Goode. The story will obviously not follow the same plotline as that would be rather pointless.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognised characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infrigment is intended.
Changes:
Miss Robichaux's Academy is a co-ed school.
Chapter 1
Welcome to Robichaux
Dedicated to C, without whom I might not have lasted this long.
"A witch is born out of the true hunger of their time." – Ray Bradbury
27 January 2012
Tyron Blacc was having a bad day.
Sitting in the principals stuffy office, listening to her rant was not how he wanted to spend his Tuesday afternoon.
"Never in all my life as a…." Mrs Coral's nasal voice rang through the air.
The principal was a strange, waspish woman with an extremely tight home perm and a pair of kitten heals that had no doubt seen better days. She sounded like someone who had come down with a particularly severe head cold. One could hardly blame Tyson for not listening.
"… such blatant disregard for school rules…"
Perhaps if he continued to stare off into space she would quit her little tirade. The window next to her desk offered a nice view of the quad.
"… and what's more is the fact that you continue to…"
He really couldn't see what her problem was. So he had smoked a cigarette on school grounds. So what? It wasn't like anyone had gotten hurt. Perhaps if the classes in this dump had been more challenging he wouldn't have to resort to entertaining himself.
"…call your mother immediately…"
That got his attention.
"… since you don't seem to find our punishments threatening enough." She finished, out of breath.
Two weeks of detention he could handle, but he was in no mood to listen to his mother tell him what a waste of space he was.
"I really don't think that's necessary Mrs Coral." He said.
"Oh on the contrary Mr Blacc," she began "that seems to be the only think that works with you."
He just stared at her as she rounded her desk.
"Perhaps you'll actually start listening now." said the principal as she opened a file on her desk.
Panic started to build within him. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint his mother. It was already enough for her to take care of two children all by her lonesome. The last thing she needed was this. The last thing he needed was this.
Mrs Coral picked up the telephone and started to dial.
He was running out of time. In a moment of sheer desperation he stood from his chair and yelled "No!"
The word had scarcely left his mouth when the curtains next to Mrs Coral's desk suddenly burst into flames.
He stared at the curtain in disbelief. Mrs Coral took a moment too long to react and the flaming curtains tumbled down, setting fire to her desk.
He took this as the opportune moment to hightail it out of her office. He could hear her screeching after him as he went.
He rushed through the hallways, pushing through the throngs of students in an attempt to get out of the school, and didn't even bother apologising when one girl tumbled down next to him, her books scattering across the floor. He had to get out of there.
In a panicked daze he rushed out of the main gates of the school. He could feel his hands shaking as he started to walk home. This was bad. Very bad. Tyron had no idea what just happened, only that it did not bode well.
Even though he had expected his mother to be furious with the events that had transpired at school, it still came as a bit of a shock when she threw a stiletto at him. The shoe in question narrowly missed his head and he resolved to better his dodging skills in the future.
His little escapade in the principal's office had made it into Ohio's evening paper. His mother was less than impressed.
Iva Blacc was not to be taken lightly. Even with her paunchy build, limp brown hair and standing at a mere 5'2, the woman was intimidating. She wasn't the type to forgive trespasses easily and this had made Tyron's childhood less than ideal. Every bad grade, every broken glass, every mistake had percussions that reached further than the norm.
She was by no means abusive or uncaring. Just a bitch. One that had been yelling at him for the better part of an hour.
Ring
The sound of a bell rang through the air and his mother went quiet. This turn of events was particularly strange seeing as they didn't have a doorbell.
"Well? What are you waiting for?" his mother asked, "Go get the door."
Tyron walked down the hallway and opened the door with a great sense of trepidation.
On the other side stood one of the strangest women he had ever seen. Her hair was flaming red and her face covered in wrinkles. She wore a flowing coat, silk scarf, act eye glasses and leather gloves. She wouldn't have looked out of place in some avant garde fashion magazine.
"How may I help you?" he asked.
The woman peered at him over her glasses. "Hello, my dear. Are you Tyron Blacc?" her voice was ragged and breathy, like that of someone who had just smoked a packet of cigarettes in an hour.
"Yes…"
"Oh, good. My name is Myrtle Snow; I'm a representative of The Robichaux Academy. May I come in?"
His first instinct was to slam the door shut in her face but he thought better of it when he saw 2 very large men, clad in tuxedos standing by a car that was parked in front of the house.
"Please do." he said with forced civility.
The woman stepped into the house and strode into the living room where his mother was. He was torn between wanting to ask her how she knew the layout of the house and wanting to cuss her out for her presumptuousness.
His mother took one look at the woman and adopted a carefully blank expression. "Hello." She said cautiously.
"Hello Mrs Blacc. My name is Myrtle Snow; I'd like to talk to you about your son's future." said Myrtle.
"His future?" his mother questioned.
"His education." Myrtle said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He could see his mother's annoyance growing.
"He's already enrolled at a High School Mrs Snow."
"Miss Snow," she corrected "and with recent developments you might want to consider other options."
"Recent developments?"
"The fire of course!"
Tyron was getting rather tired of them discussing him while he was standing in the room.
"I don't see how the fire changes anything. The school has agreed not to expel him. Rest assured he shall be punished accordingly but he will graduate at Jensen High." It was obvious that his mother was starting to lose her patience.
"But don't you see? The fire changes everything!" Myrtle exclaimed, "he needs to be with his own kind."
"My kind?" Tyron interrupted.
"Other witches of course."
"Absolutely not!" his mother had seemingly reached breaking point. "I will not let you taint my child's mind. Now kindly leave my house."
"Please calm down Mrs Blacc." Myrtles voice remained serene.
"Don't tell me to calm down! Leave my house before I call the authorities." His mothers face was turning an interesting shade of red. He had learned from experience that one should avoid her in such a situation.
"You'll hardly get anywhere…"
"Is that a threat?"
"No Mrs Blacc, only the truth." Myrtles face turned stoic, "Now, I've accommodated your little tantrum but ultimately it is up to Tyron." She turned and looked at him.
Tyron stared at her, mouth agape. He had never seen anyone speak to his mother that way. It felt strangely satisfying.
"Run that by me again would you?" he asked.
Myrtle sighed. "You, Mr Black, are a witch and I am offering you that chance to learn how to control your abilities. You have great purpose Tyron."
He felt heat rise up in his chest. A sense of relief perhaps. He had spent so long feeling like a waste of space that he had stopped bothering. To hear someone actually encouraging him was something new. Adding that to finding out you're a witch (which he was still reluctant to believe) and you had a whole lot of things to try and wrap your head around. He took a deep breath.
"How do I know you're not lying?" he asked, allowing a small bit of hope to creep into his heart.
Myrtle waved her hand and all the doors and windows in the room promptly started to open and shut in rapid succession, creating a great racket.
"Okay…" he stuttered. The house was still. He looked towards his mother. She had a look of pure hatred on her face.
"Mother..." be began.
"Go." She interrupted.
"But if you'd just…"
"I said leave!" she screamed, "You're just like your useless lump of a father. His head was too busy studying his little talent to take care of his family and look where that got him! I will not this in my house, now leave."
He could feel something break inside of him at the sight of his mother's coldness, but his resolve strengthened. Who needed her anyway.
"Come dear." Myrtle grasped his shoulder tightly and steered him out of the house.
They reached the car and he noticed one of the bodyguards loading his old suitcase into the trunk. Another one opened the door and Myrtle ushered him in.
He had hardly sat down when the car's engine purred to life and they were speeding down the street, away from the only place he had ever called home. He felt the pull of sadness in his gut but dutifully ignored it. There were more important things to do then mourn for friend he never really liked anyway. He only hoped his sister got through this. He made a silent vow to himself to get her out of there.
"How can you be sure I'm a witch?" he asked Myrtle.
She just tapped the side of her glasses and winked at him.
Tyson took one look at the looming white building and felt an inexplicable urge to hit Myrtle as hard as physically possible.
The little ginger had it coming.
The white building in question was Miss Robichaux's Academy for exceptional Youngsters. A conspicuous cover if there ever was one. Honestly, who even went to finishing school anymore?
Nevertheless, this was where Tyson found himself, standing in front of the wrought iron gates of an elite boarding school for witches in training, without any clue as to what he should do.
Being manhandles by little Miss Grace Coddington and her pet albinos wasn't exactly his idea of a good times but, in all honesty, things could have been much worse.
He could hardly believe that only a day ago he had been back home in Ohio, sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the principal's office, worrying about possible suspension and other things that seemed so trivial in comparison to the present.
They had travelled over night by train and in just a few short hours (featuring Myrtle talking in some obscene dialect of what he assumed to be English) later, he had arrived at the famed academy.
Suffice to say the place was a bit classier than Hogwarts.
The enormous house was three stories tall with white walls, black shutters, sprawling gardens and a huge greenhouse to the side. It was surrounded by a wrought iron fence and the only thing that indicated that he hadn't accidentally arrived at some rich lady's summer home was a small plack that read "Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Youngsters". Beneath the gate was a slab of stone with the words "From education as the leading cause, the public character it's draws." set in decoupage.
Before he could ogle the building any longer the large gates swung open before him. He turned around to address Myrtle to find nothing but his worn down old suitcase.
The bitch had left him there. So much for "looking after our own".
He picked up his bag, which suddenly seemed much heavier, and set off on the cobble stone path that led up to the front door. He rang the doorbell and heard a chime echo through the house. He was greeted by a balding man in a tux who wouldn't look out of place in an episode of "The Adams Family".
When had his life become a crappy soap opera?
"Uhm, Hello. I'm Tyson Blacc. Myrtle just dropped me off…" He tried not to let my voice betray how nervous he was actually feeling.
The butler just stared straight at him, not saying a word. After an exceedingly awkward silence the unnamed man took his suitcase from the floor besides him and beckoned Tyson to follow him into the house.
Apparently, people didn't like talking down here in New Orleans.
The inside of the house was light and open with tall, blanched walls and Greek inspired pillars. The floor was some dark wood and leading directly from the hall was a magnificent staircase that resembled two wings folding upward.
The man led him down a hallway and stopped in front of one of the numerous closed doors and proceeded to knock promptly.
"Come in." a female voice called from inside.
The man opened the door and pushed Tyson inside.
Inside seemed to be an office. The room had books stacked neatly into many bookcases and in the middle was a large desk, cluttered with an array of stationary. Behind the desk sat a blonde woman with glasses, wearing a kind expression. Tyson immediately felt a bit safer in her presence.
The woman motioned at the empty seat in front of her desk and Tyson sat down. He heard the office door shut gently behind him.
"Hello, my name is Cordelia Foxx. I'm the headmistress of Robichaux academy. Welcome." She said warmly.
"Hi, I'm Tyson. Uhm I'm new here." He stuttered out.
"I noticed." she replied with a wry grin.