1219-1232
Seven year old Angharad had lived all her life in the same village in France with her father Clovis who ran the local apothecary. Unusually, the village itself was a mixture of magical and non-magical families, living alongside one another openly and quite happily for the most part. Angharad was the youngest of five siblings and the only girl, the boys ranged in age from 31 to 22 years old and all of them had moved away. Her mother Marguerite had called her daughter the blessing of her autumn years.
Marguerite was a powerful witch, but her powers had taken a toll on her and she had been growing gradually more and more frail as the years wore on. By the time Angharad was born in the year 1219, she was a pale, almost ghost-like, waif. She had always had an ethereal appearance with long silvery hair, bright sapphire eyes and a translucent complexion. She lived until her child was six months old and then, as peacefully as falling asleep, she passed away and beyond the veil.
Like her father, Angharad was tall with brown hair so dark it was almost black however her eyes were the sapphire eyes of her mother. She was an even-tempered girl but nonetheless a fiery defendant of those she loved.
Whenever Clovis was busy in the shop, preparing his remedies and treating his patients, she could be found either at her friend Zélie's house or her uncle's home.
Zélie was the daughter of Monsieur Foulque, the pompous village haberdasher. Two years older than Angharad, she was a girl who might be called plain were it not for her family's wealth and, although she had a great deal of intelligence and natural common sense, for the most part her only thoughts were of the latest fashions and how to attract the attention of the town mayor's eldest son, Béranger Cazergue. She was kind to Angharad, however her kindness had a tendency to express itself as a condescending pity which sorely tried Angharad's patience. Zélie had tried on many occasions to brew a love potion to use on the young man but to no avail, the only time she had succeeded in administering the draught, Béranger had been unconscious for a week.
As soon as she had turned 13, Monsieur Foulque had engaged a dowdy old witch of meagre powers as a governess for his daughter, however Zélie took an instant dislike to the woman she called Mademoiselle Sans Magie and did her best to avoid her at all costs. Angharad had attempted to reason with her friend but Zélie was headstrong and unwilling to listen. Finally, Zélie supposed that if the governess were to teach her, there was nothing to stop her teaching Angharad as well. Monsieur Foulque had never really approved of the friendship between his beloved daughter and the motherless child of the local physician but out of sheer exasperation he agreed and henceforth, the old woman taught both girls. Zélie herself took very little heed of her governess but Angharad was so interested in learning that her knowledge and understanding quickly outstripped that of the plain girl. As far as Zélie was concerned, if one were able to read and write and work some of the more genteel spells and enchantments, that was all a girl of her worth required. After all, she would never need any of the household spells used by the elves who scurried about her home, cleaning, fetching and carrying. Angharad feared that her friend was perhaps a little naïve but thought it best to say nothing.
Far above the haberdashery and the austere apothecary shop over which she and her father lived, Angharad preferred her Uncle Yvan's cottage. Yvan's house had no two stones alike and an untidy thatched roof long since in need of repairs. It was so different to her own home, always meticulously tidy and well ordered, Uncle Yvan suited his home and his home suited him. He was an energetic old man, his shock of hair was mostly white with patches of grey and a few hints of the bright red he had sported as a young man. He took pride in his wrinkles and at times disheveled appearance and possessed an inquisitive nature, delighting in the invention of all sorts of magical charms, gadgets and practical jokes.
-o-
The atmosphere in the village was changing. One morning Angharad and Zélie were in the haberdashery talking to the mayor's wife, Old Madame Thibeaud was having a quiet gossip with Madame Foulque while Monsieur Foulque and his apprentice arranged his wares in the shop window. Suddenly Capitaine Giraud entered followed by a couple of his junior officers. In the past, he had been jovial, happy to share a joke with the men and wink at the ladies. That day, however, his demeanour had altered beyond recognition. There was an uneasy silence as he walked slowly around the room, a supercilious sneer on his face. At a word, his young sergeant grabbed Madame Thibeaud's arm and dragged her from the shop.
"What are you doing?" cried Madame Cazergue.
"Following orders." replied Giraud "Based on evidence received, the old crone is under arrest for witchcraft and is to be tried immediately by Père Moulin."
With that, the law officer stalked out, bumping shoulders with Monsieur Foulque.
They looked at each other in shock. Monsieur Foulque turned to Angharad. "Go to your father and tell him to meet me at the church."
Word had spread about the arrest and dozens of villagers were in the street talking to each other. Clovis and Monsieur Foulque led an angry group of men to attend the farce of a trial.
Père Moulin was a Moldu, as non-magical people were called in France. He was a weak minded man, more interested in acquiring wealth for the upkeep of his little church than the spiritual welfare of his parishioners.
Marching into the church vestry, they saw Madame Thibeaud huddled in a chair, an ugly purple bruise on her cheek. Her hands were in chains and behind her were a half dozen armed officers. Clovis asked "On whose testimony do these charges rest?"
"On Mademoiselle Bastien de Villars." said Capitaine Giraud.
Monsieur Foulque snorted "Her? They have a lifelong dispute about the ownership of a cat and the fact that Monsieur Thibeaud married Madame Thibeaud. Have you any proof?"
Père Moulin looked at Giraud, uneasily "None, I must admit."
"In which case," said Clovis, leaning on the priest's desk "I suggest you release her."
"And if I refuse?" asked the Capitaine.
Clovis stood up and looked coldly at him.
Giraud shrugged, pulled a small bunch of keys from his pocket and threw them to the young officer standing next to the old woman. There was a hostile glint in his eye as the party left.
-o-
Shops and businesses owned by the magical community were attacked, threatening letters were sent and menacing warnings scrawled on walls around the village. Anxious residents began to leave, making for safer communities elsewhere, unfortunately, the situation was no different elsewhere in France.
The very worst moment of the unrest was the night when an unidentified individual set fire to Monsieur Foulque's shop. Thankfully, the family were able to get out of the house in time but the shop itself was completely destroyed.
-o-
The sky was still dark when Angharad, Clovis and Yvan crept into the bitterly cold night. As they reached the bottom of garden to climb over the wall and escape, they heard the unmistakable sounds of smashing glass and the front door of the apothecary being kicked open. With heavy hearts, they turned and left the only home they had ever known.
Apparition was a relatively new magical innovation and very few witches and wizards were keen to try it so the three of them walked all night. It was dawn by the time they reached a small field in which stood a low, scruffy house with a straggling line of people outside, each one looking more anxious and exhausted as the next. Young or old, alone or with family they slowly shuffled into the dilapidated building. As she got closer to the front, Angharad saw flashes of green and heard a whooshing sound. They reached the head of the queue and were faced with a large man, leaning against the fireplace and holding a large clay pot. He wore a sly smile and stretched out a hand to Clovis.
"Hand it over." He growled.
Clovis pulled a small leather pouch from an inside pocket of his cloak and tipped the contents into the outstretched palm.
His smile widened as he looked at the 15 gold coins Angharad's father had handed him.
"Times have changed. It's 25 now."
"What?" roared Yvan.
"You see? It's a question of supply and demand." said the unpleasant man, wrapping an arm around Yvan's shoulder, the sly smile still in place. "I supply the powder, you want it. Find more money or get out."
In the distance, they heard screams and explosions. The remainder of the people waiting outside tried to cram into the building, barring the door against the unknown assailant.
Taking advantage of the commotion, Yvan grabbed a large handful of the powder, flung it into the fireplace and together he, Clovis and Angharad jumped into the grate and the green flames, the men shouting "Godric's Hollow!".