Glass Houses
Author's Notes: This is a story that's been floating around in my head for quite a while, and after thinking about it one day I just had the urge to write it. I apologize in advance for any French or Italian mistakes I might make. Stella di Mattina means "Morning Star" in Italian, and "ciel" means sky or heaven in French, often used as an exclamation. I know the concept of the transfer student is overdone, but I just needed it here.
Disclaimer: The wizarding world and all related concepts belong to J.K. Rowling; Stella di Mattina and all characters in this story belong to me. On with the show.
Part One
I'm just not ready.
I know it's time; it's been a whole summer and I can't just stay home from school forever. I'm really very lucky; I'm getting a chance to start over, and this time I'll get it right. So why aren't I happy?
I don't want to leave. I always was happy at home, and this blissful summer has gotten me used to feeling safe and peaceful. I'm used to sleeping in the pine shade, used to spinning in the sunlight with the autumn leaves, used to staring at the rows of obsidian candles until the flames are patterned on my eyes. I'm used to my parents eating breakfast by the window with light flooding through the thin sky-blue curtain, smiling for me to join them, clearing their newspapers to make room for me. I'm used to listening as Marc sobs and wails while I'm curled in bed, clutching Véronique, who has absorbed my own tears.
I am not used to Stella Di Mattina Academy of Sorcery, and I'm not ready to get used to it. Ca ne fait rien - it doesn't matter. Ready or not, the enchanted balloon will arrive tomorrow, and ready or not, I will board it and be taken away.
--
Flicking the switch on her Reminisce, a combination of magic and science designed to connect to and record its user's thoughts, Orélie Jacques sighed deeply. The sparrows outside her bedroom window ceased their noise for a moment, and then continued the serenade. Behind the rectangular panes of frosted glass, Orélie shoved the spherical purple device into the pocket of her robes and flopped onto her unmade bed. One long arm curved automatically to encompass Véronique, a stuffed seal whose once-gray fur had faded to beige.
The tiny star-like mirrors on Orélie's ceiling twinkled down at the thirteen-year-old girl on the bed. In a restless motion, she brushed her wispy golden-brown hair away from her face, where it fanned onto the cream-colored pillow like a darkened halo. Wide-eyed and delicate, Orélie indeed resembled an angel gone wrong. The source of this wrongness was difficult to place. Perhaps it was the jerkiness in her movements, or the stubborn fear in those wide amber eyes. Perhaps it was the way her long fingers were constantly flexing and unflexing; maybe it was the visible sharpness in her teeth.
Whatever the source of her nameless flaw, it was not what troubled Orélie at the moment. No, she had bigger fish to fry, and it was these fish that occupied her thoughts as her mother pushed the door open.
"Orélie?" The low voice of Fiorella Jacques drifted, hesitant, into the room. Her height required her to stoop as she crossed Orélie's threshold, and the chignon atop her head brushed the doorframe. The prone figure on the bed stirred in acknowledgement. Fiorella placed a neatly folded stack of her daughter's robes on the mahogany dresser. With a sigh unconsciously echoing that of Orélie, she approached the bed and instinctively straightened the pillowcase. "I know you're nervous." Orélie responded with stubborn, sullen silence, one cold hand twisting in the grip of another. Fiorella tried again: "I'm sorry. The last two years have been hard for you, I know, but you have to go to school, and--"
"I know," Orélie responded wearily, turning to face her mother. "It's just the way things are," she continued in a monotone. "Ce qui sera, sera." What will be will be.
In an attempt at encouragement, Fiorella gripped one of Orélie's hands. "I really do think you'll be happy there. The Headmasters seem like very nice people, and the school is supposed to be very progressive. It's right by the Mediterranean; think how lovely that will be."
"I know," Orélie repeated. "I looked at the brochure. It's by the Mediterranean, and it's built of peach-colored stone, and there are trees and gardens around it. It's pretty. Maybe after a while I'll be happy there. It's the while that I'm afraid of."
"Oh, Lapinne." The old nickname, grown from Orélie's fondness for rabbits, came easily to Fiorella. "You'll get through it. You're our brave girl. Just make a good impression, and it won't be Beauxbatons all over again."
Orélie exhaled, almost a sigh but not quite, as a protective frost spread over her eyes. "I know." She paused, held Véronique closer. "I know."
--
The next morning, warm and pleasantly breezy if lacking in sunshine, found the Jacques family assembled on the deck behind their house. Like a family portrait, they stood close together and organized: first Fiorella, looking regal with her dark blonde hair in an elaborate braid and holding the largest of Orélie's valises; then Etienne, several inches shorter than his wife, impeccably clad in bright green robes and tickling two-year-old Marc. In front of her parents was Orélie, clutching her valises tightly. She was dressed up for the occasion in indigo robes and amethyst earrings, with her hair in a loose knot, bringing out her resemblance to her mother. Her face was pale and blank, nervous eyes scanning the sky.
"Any sign of it?" enquired Etienne over the noise of Marc's giggles.
"Non," replied Fiorella brusquely. "Stop being so nervous. It's contagious." She grinned at Orélie, hoping to inspire a reaction, but none came. "Maybe there was traffic," she continued, forcing a laugh and elbowing her husband in the ribs.
"Ow," Etienne protested. "Traffic, heheh."
Orélie relented and addressed her little brother. "Marc, promise me you'll try to keep these two sane." Marc turned his head toward his sister at the sound of his name, then lost interest.
"Are you sure you packed everything?" Etienne pressed. Orélie sighed, nodded and submitted herself to what she knew was coming. "Wand?"
"Check."
"Schoolbooks?" Fiorella added.
"Check."
"Money in case you need anything?" That was Etienne again, though they might as well have been interchangeable.
"Check."
"Uniform for special occasions?" Unlike most magical schools, Stella Di Mattina Academy did not require its students to wear uniforms full-time, following the assertion that "young people need a way to express themselves."
"Check."
"Blon!" shouted Marc, pointing at the sky. As one, the three other members of the family tilted their heads upward. There they could see a sapphire-blue hot air balloon slowly descending on a path that was leading straight to the Jacques yard.
"Well, there it is," Etienne stated unhelpfully with a nervous smile at Orélie.
"Oh, please don't land on my perennials," prayed Fiorella as she stared in terror at the multicolored blossoms. Dropping Orélie's valise, she covered her face with ring-adorned hands, causing the rubies and aquamarines to twinkle in the weak rays of sunlight. Orélie silently retrieved her luggage (light brown and monogrammed in viridian), reached into her pocket and activated her Reminisce.
--
Oh ciel, it's here! It's plummeting down so fast, just like my stomach. It's like a bomb, sent here to destroy us all - no, I won't think that, I won't disrespect Guilliame that way. It's not a bomb, it's a balloon, a perfectly harmless, horrible, evil balloon come to take me away and bring me to some school all the way in Italy where everyone will hate me and I'll be all alone except for Véronique.
Help me, Véronique, can't you stop the balloon? I used to believe you could do anything. You could do anything.
--
Fiorella needn't have worried; the balloon landed a safe distance away from her tidy rows of flowers. As the large structure alit gently on the verdant, obssessively trimmed grass, an orange-haired wizard poked his head out and looked around. Spotting Orélie, he grinned cheerfully and waved.
"Buon giorno," he called, then continued in Italian. "You must be Signorina Jacques. I'm Antonio, your transport to Stella Di Mattina." Orélie smiled shakily and approached the balloon slowly, hunched with the weight of her suitcases. Fiorella and Etienne followed, the former with a hand on Orélie's silk-covered shoulder, the latter carrying Marc.
Antonio proved to be a very young wizard, perhaps nineteen or twenty. Though not handsome, particularly due to his bushy eyebrows, his smile-wreathed face exuded benevolence as he hefted Orélie's valises into the balloon basket. "You're transferring from Beauxbatons, no?" he ascertained. "You'll like Stella Di Mattina; I graduated from there myself."
Orélie responded politely in Italian; Fiorella hailed from Milan and the Jacques children were bilingual. Antonio waited patiently while Fiorella and Etienne said their last goodbyes.
"We'll write to you every day," murmured Fiorella reassuringly, "and it won't be long until vacation. Remember, you have the power to change things, make it different this time." She gave her daughter a tight hug. "We love you."
Then it was Etienne's turn. He moved to tousle Orélie's hair, then stopped as he saw the smooth knot. "You're growing up so fast," was his wistful remark before he returned to bland cheer. "Keep your chin up. Make us proud."
"We already are," asserted Fiorella.
Orélie smiled, affecting nonchalance, at them both. "Arrivederci. Voi amo. (Goodbye. I love you.)" Antonio graciously helped his charge into the balloon basket, where she turned to face the wind.
"Prepare for liftoff!" the ballooneer shouted. Still waving, M. and Mme. Jaques backed away, Marc struggling in his father's arms. Orélie concentrated on the wicker of the basket as the balloon began to ascend, unable to deal with seeing her parents' continued waving. One good-bye was more than enough.
--
Here we go, off to my newest personal nightmare. It's a good thing I like flying; one more fear would be the last thing I need. The scenery is pretty; I can see everything spread out down there, like Papa's magical map except this is three-dimensional. Dollhouses and broccoli forests and rivers of spilt water and tiny Muggle cars and, oh, some horses in a field. I wish Antonio would let me stay there with the horses, but I suppose he'd be fired for that.
I'm glad the wind is so loud; it makes talking unnecessary and I just couldn't handle talking to Antonio now. Not that he isn't nice; I guess it's lucky that I didn't get stuck with some grouch. Not to mention he's living proof that students have made it through Stella Di Mattina Academy and come out in one piece, though I can't be sure of his sanity yet.
This is really very nice, the wind blowing in my face and everything. My knot's come undone; I should have had Maman do it - I won't think about Maman. I'll just focus on how lovely this is, riding in a balloon high above everything with the wind whistling and clouds dissolving into mist whenever we come near, as if they were afraid of us. I don't think I'd mind so much if I were supposed to spend the next few months in this balloon. I could just… keep looking at things, that's all…
--
Orélie quietly deactivated her Reminisce, which she used to record anything she considered a landmark in her life. She intended to gather this information for use in the distant future when she would write her autobiography. Not egotistical enough to believe that the general public would desire to read her memoirs, she used the promise of this volume as justification for living her life to the fullest - carpe diem, so to speak.
"Signorina!" Antonio shouted over the noise. Orélie dragged her eyes away from the scenery to face her guide as the wind whipped her hair across the side of her face. "We're going down to pick up another student. D'accordo (okay)?"
"D'accordo!" Orélie called back, tightening her grip on the side of the basket. Another student, a potential friend or more likely enemy. She began piling her valises against the side of the basket in preparation for the new arrival; her ears suddenly felt full as the air pressure rapidly decreased. Warily she eyed the swiftly approaching trees, houses, rivers and tiny Muggle cars, barely noticing the balloon put up its Invisibility Shield (Aveuglian Shields™ - protection you can rely on!). Orélie's ears went wild as the balloon touched down in an apparently deserted meadow.
Deserted, that is, except for a teenage girl with a large knapsack. "Rosina!" Antonio shouted, deactivating the Invisibility Shield. "Ciao!" The girl - Rosina - picked up her knapsack and hurried toward the balloon. With a grunt, she hefted her knapsack over the side of the basket and hopped in after it. Orélie squashed her valises more tightly together to make room.
"Grazie (thank you)," Rosina grinned. She was a limber-looking girl, perhaps fifteen years old, with olive skin, dark green eyes and sun-bleached brown hair. "Are you new to Stella Di Mattina? I've never seen you before, but you look older than the first-years."
"Si," replied Orélie with a nod of her head that somehow gave the impression of a curtsey. "I'm Orélie Jacques; I transferred from Beauxbatons." Rosina replied with a nod - good, thought Orélie, she doesn't want to interrogate or insult me - and knelt to rummage in her knapsack as Antonio prepared the balloon for ascent.
"Straight to Stella Di Mattina now," he assured the two students confidently. Orélie made a small noise of acknowledgement; Rosina pulled a sandwich from her bag and tore into it. "Going up!" Antonio warned. Orélie leaned against the side of the basket, thankful that her ears were already messed up and could suffer no more for the remainder of the trip.
Once the balloon was safely in the air and invisible, Rosina finished her sandwich and tossed the remains over the side of the basket. Orélie widened her eyes at this blatant littering but said nothing; all of her energy was spent on worrying about Stella Di Mattina. Antonio started to hum vacantly as he operated the balloon's controls; Rosina offered a sandwich to Orélie, who politely declined and scrunched against the side of the basket. She thought she noticed Rosina roll her eyes in disgust or bemusement, but decided to give the older girl the benefit of the doubt.
--
Balloon trip, part two. I expect we're in Italy now. Would Maman and Papa have sent me to Stella Di Mattina if I didn't speak Italian? I shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth; it's bound to be better than Beauxbatons. Could anything be worse? Maybe Durmstrang; they probably use Dark spells on each other when they get in fights.
I wonder if Rosina is offended because I didn't take her sandwich. Papa always said never to refuse a glass of wine in Spain (but what if you're a recovered alcoholic?), but he never said anything about sandwiches in Italy. She probably thinks I'm a chic, snobby French girl because of my fancy robes and such; we probably weren't expected to dress up for the first day of school. What a way to make a good impression on everyone. I knew this enterprise was doomed from the start. I don't care what Maman and Papa say; this is going to be Beauxbatons all over again and I'm going to be a friendless outcast who gets hexed in the hallways.
--
Orélie dared a glance at her two companions. Antonio was gazing vaguely into the distance, and Rosina had wedged a pillow between her head and the side of the basket and was now snoring peacefully. It was almost as good as being alone. Inhaling deeply to make the most of the thin air, she let her eyelids flutter closed. The world within her lids was a mass of strange colors and flowing shapes, nature's version of an impressionist painting.
"Signorina Fuerto?" Antonio made as if to poke Rosina's shoulder but thought better of it. He turned toward the less volatile-looking Orélie. "Signorina Jacques?" Orélie obligingly opened her eyes, then squinted against the sun with a smile of acknowledgement. "We're almost there," the young wizard continued. "If you look that way--" he pointed into the distance "you can see the school."
"I'll take a look," Orélie acquiesced and pulled herself to her feet. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight was beginning to take on the ethereal quality of sunset. She let her gaze follow Antonio's gesture, where she could see a large building. Nobody could deny that it was pretty; its faintly Roman architecture was softened by the peach stone of its walls and columns. Straining her eyes, Orélie could make out smalls riots of color surrounding the edifice; those, she assumed, were the gardens. The scene grew larger, more detailed, closer, by the second. Orélie's stomach began to twist.
--
It really is pleasant-looking - not impressive like Beauxbatons, but they're probably going for the "home-away-from-home" look. Oh, Rosina's waking up. Maybe if I don't look at her she won't notice me. I'll just keep my eyes on the school. It's almost shining in this light, or maybe its some sort of magical effect like in the Muggle movies Maman talks about. Closer and closer… I can see the light reflecting off windows now. Oh, some of them are shaped like diamonds. Now if only there were a few made out of stained glass; that would be really gorgeous.
There's something green in the air behind the school, too big to be a bird. I think it's another balloon. Yes, I can see it better now, and there's a red one by the grove of trees - what kind are they? Pine, I think. Why does Antonio have to start chattering now? He was so nice and quiet during the trip. Ah, the Mediterranean. Well, I suppose I'm glad he pointed it out. It's so incredible, blue-green and glittering; I can almost smell the salt. I'm going to love those trips to the beach they talked about in the brochure. What am I saying? How can I love anything about school?
We're landing. Oh ciel, we're landing.
--
Author's Notes: This is a story that's been floating around in my head for quite a while, and after thinking about it one day I just had the urge to write it. I apologize in advance for any French or Italian mistakes I might make. Stella di Mattina means "Morning Star" in Italian, and "ciel" means sky or heaven in French, often used as an exclamation. I know the concept of the transfer student is overdone, but I just needed it here.
Disclaimer: The wizarding world and all related concepts belong to J.K. Rowling; Stella di Mattina and all characters in this story belong to me. On with the show.
Part One
I'm just not ready.
I know it's time; it's been a whole summer and I can't just stay home from school forever. I'm really very lucky; I'm getting a chance to start over, and this time I'll get it right. So why aren't I happy?
I don't want to leave. I always was happy at home, and this blissful summer has gotten me used to feeling safe and peaceful. I'm used to sleeping in the pine shade, used to spinning in the sunlight with the autumn leaves, used to staring at the rows of obsidian candles until the flames are patterned on my eyes. I'm used to my parents eating breakfast by the window with light flooding through the thin sky-blue curtain, smiling for me to join them, clearing their newspapers to make room for me. I'm used to listening as Marc sobs and wails while I'm curled in bed, clutching Véronique, who has absorbed my own tears.
I am not used to Stella Di Mattina Academy of Sorcery, and I'm not ready to get used to it. Ca ne fait rien - it doesn't matter. Ready or not, the enchanted balloon will arrive tomorrow, and ready or not, I will board it and be taken away.
--
Flicking the switch on her Reminisce, a combination of magic and science designed to connect to and record its user's thoughts, Orélie Jacques sighed deeply. The sparrows outside her bedroom window ceased their noise for a moment, and then continued the serenade. Behind the rectangular panes of frosted glass, Orélie shoved the spherical purple device into the pocket of her robes and flopped onto her unmade bed. One long arm curved automatically to encompass Véronique, a stuffed seal whose once-gray fur had faded to beige.
The tiny star-like mirrors on Orélie's ceiling twinkled down at the thirteen-year-old girl on the bed. In a restless motion, she brushed her wispy golden-brown hair away from her face, where it fanned onto the cream-colored pillow like a darkened halo. Wide-eyed and delicate, Orélie indeed resembled an angel gone wrong. The source of this wrongness was difficult to place. Perhaps it was the jerkiness in her movements, or the stubborn fear in those wide amber eyes. Perhaps it was the way her long fingers were constantly flexing and unflexing; maybe it was the visible sharpness in her teeth.
Whatever the source of her nameless flaw, it was not what troubled Orélie at the moment. No, she had bigger fish to fry, and it was these fish that occupied her thoughts as her mother pushed the door open.
"Orélie?" The low voice of Fiorella Jacques drifted, hesitant, into the room. Her height required her to stoop as she crossed Orélie's threshold, and the chignon atop her head brushed the doorframe. The prone figure on the bed stirred in acknowledgement. Fiorella placed a neatly folded stack of her daughter's robes on the mahogany dresser. With a sigh unconsciously echoing that of Orélie, she approached the bed and instinctively straightened the pillowcase. "I know you're nervous." Orélie responded with stubborn, sullen silence, one cold hand twisting in the grip of another. Fiorella tried again: "I'm sorry. The last two years have been hard for you, I know, but you have to go to school, and--"
"I know," Orélie responded wearily, turning to face her mother. "It's just the way things are," she continued in a monotone. "Ce qui sera, sera." What will be will be.
In an attempt at encouragement, Fiorella gripped one of Orélie's hands. "I really do think you'll be happy there. The Headmasters seem like very nice people, and the school is supposed to be very progressive. It's right by the Mediterranean; think how lovely that will be."
"I know," Orélie repeated. "I looked at the brochure. It's by the Mediterranean, and it's built of peach-colored stone, and there are trees and gardens around it. It's pretty. Maybe after a while I'll be happy there. It's the while that I'm afraid of."
"Oh, Lapinne." The old nickname, grown from Orélie's fondness for rabbits, came easily to Fiorella. "You'll get through it. You're our brave girl. Just make a good impression, and it won't be Beauxbatons all over again."
Orélie exhaled, almost a sigh but not quite, as a protective frost spread over her eyes. "I know." She paused, held Véronique closer. "I know."
--
The next morning, warm and pleasantly breezy if lacking in sunshine, found the Jacques family assembled on the deck behind their house. Like a family portrait, they stood close together and organized: first Fiorella, looking regal with her dark blonde hair in an elaborate braid and holding the largest of Orélie's valises; then Etienne, several inches shorter than his wife, impeccably clad in bright green robes and tickling two-year-old Marc. In front of her parents was Orélie, clutching her valises tightly. She was dressed up for the occasion in indigo robes and amethyst earrings, with her hair in a loose knot, bringing out her resemblance to her mother. Her face was pale and blank, nervous eyes scanning the sky.
"Any sign of it?" enquired Etienne over the noise of Marc's giggles.
"Non," replied Fiorella brusquely. "Stop being so nervous. It's contagious." She grinned at Orélie, hoping to inspire a reaction, but none came. "Maybe there was traffic," she continued, forcing a laugh and elbowing her husband in the ribs.
"Ow," Etienne protested. "Traffic, heheh."
Orélie relented and addressed her little brother. "Marc, promise me you'll try to keep these two sane." Marc turned his head toward his sister at the sound of his name, then lost interest.
"Are you sure you packed everything?" Etienne pressed. Orélie sighed, nodded and submitted herself to what she knew was coming. "Wand?"
"Check."
"Schoolbooks?" Fiorella added.
"Check."
"Money in case you need anything?" That was Etienne again, though they might as well have been interchangeable.
"Check."
"Uniform for special occasions?" Unlike most magical schools, Stella Di Mattina Academy did not require its students to wear uniforms full-time, following the assertion that "young people need a way to express themselves."
"Check."
"Blon!" shouted Marc, pointing at the sky. As one, the three other members of the family tilted their heads upward. There they could see a sapphire-blue hot air balloon slowly descending on a path that was leading straight to the Jacques yard.
"Well, there it is," Etienne stated unhelpfully with a nervous smile at Orélie.
"Oh, please don't land on my perennials," prayed Fiorella as she stared in terror at the multicolored blossoms. Dropping Orélie's valise, she covered her face with ring-adorned hands, causing the rubies and aquamarines to twinkle in the weak rays of sunlight. Orélie silently retrieved her luggage (light brown and monogrammed in viridian), reached into her pocket and activated her Reminisce.
--
Oh ciel, it's here! It's plummeting down so fast, just like my stomach. It's like a bomb, sent here to destroy us all - no, I won't think that, I won't disrespect Guilliame that way. It's not a bomb, it's a balloon, a perfectly harmless, horrible, evil balloon come to take me away and bring me to some school all the way in Italy where everyone will hate me and I'll be all alone except for Véronique.
Help me, Véronique, can't you stop the balloon? I used to believe you could do anything. You could do anything.
--
Fiorella needn't have worried; the balloon landed a safe distance away from her tidy rows of flowers. As the large structure alit gently on the verdant, obssessively trimmed grass, an orange-haired wizard poked his head out and looked around. Spotting Orélie, he grinned cheerfully and waved.
"Buon giorno," he called, then continued in Italian. "You must be Signorina Jacques. I'm Antonio, your transport to Stella Di Mattina." Orélie smiled shakily and approached the balloon slowly, hunched with the weight of her suitcases. Fiorella and Etienne followed, the former with a hand on Orélie's silk-covered shoulder, the latter carrying Marc.
Antonio proved to be a very young wizard, perhaps nineteen or twenty. Though not handsome, particularly due to his bushy eyebrows, his smile-wreathed face exuded benevolence as he hefted Orélie's valises into the balloon basket. "You're transferring from Beauxbatons, no?" he ascertained. "You'll like Stella Di Mattina; I graduated from there myself."
Orélie responded politely in Italian; Fiorella hailed from Milan and the Jacques children were bilingual. Antonio waited patiently while Fiorella and Etienne said their last goodbyes.
"We'll write to you every day," murmured Fiorella reassuringly, "and it won't be long until vacation. Remember, you have the power to change things, make it different this time." She gave her daughter a tight hug. "We love you."
Then it was Etienne's turn. He moved to tousle Orélie's hair, then stopped as he saw the smooth knot. "You're growing up so fast," was his wistful remark before he returned to bland cheer. "Keep your chin up. Make us proud."
"We already are," asserted Fiorella.
Orélie smiled, affecting nonchalance, at them both. "Arrivederci. Voi amo. (Goodbye. I love you.)" Antonio graciously helped his charge into the balloon basket, where she turned to face the wind.
"Prepare for liftoff!" the ballooneer shouted. Still waving, M. and Mme. Jaques backed away, Marc struggling in his father's arms. Orélie concentrated on the wicker of the basket as the balloon began to ascend, unable to deal with seeing her parents' continued waving. One good-bye was more than enough.
--
Here we go, off to my newest personal nightmare. It's a good thing I like flying; one more fear would be the last thing I need. The scenery is pretty; I can see everything spread out down there, like Papa's magical map except this is three-dimensional. Dollhouses and broccoli forests and rivers of spilt water and tiny Muggle cars and, oh, some horses in a field. I wish Antonio would let me stay there with the horses, but I suppose he'd be fired for that.
I'm glad the wind is so loud; it makes talking unnecessary and I just couldn't handle talking to Antonio now. Not that he isn't nice; I guess it's lucky that I didn't get stuck with some grouch. Not to mention he's living proof that students have made it through Stella Di Mattina Academy and come out in one piece, though I can't be sure of his sanity yet.
This is really very nice, the wind blowing in my face and everything. My knot's come undone; I should have had Maman do it - I won't think about Maman. I'll just focus on how lovely this is, riding in a balloon high above everything with the wind whistling and clouds dissolving into mist whenever we come near, as if they were afraid of us. I don't think I'd mind so much if I were supposed to spend the next few months in this balloon. I could just… keep looking at things, that's all…
--
Orélie quietly deactivated her Reminisce, which she used to record anything she considered a landmark in her life. She intended to gather this information for use in the distant future when she would write her autobiography. Not egotistical enough to believe that the general public would desire to read her memoirs, she used the promise of this volume as justification for living her life to the fullest - carpe diem, so to speak.
"Signorina!" Antonio shouted over the noise. Orélie dragged her eyes away from the scenery to face her guide as the wind whipped her hair across the side of her face. "We're going down to pick up another student. D'accordo (okay)?"
"D'accordo!" Orélie called back, tightening her grip on the side of the basket. Another student, a potential friend or more likely enemy. She began piling her valises against the side of the basket in preparation for the new arrival; her ears suddenly felt full as the air pressure rapidly decreased. Warily she eyed the swiftly approaching trees, houses, rivers and tiny Muggle cars, barely noticing the balloon put up its Invisibility Shield (Aveuglian Shields™ - protection you can rely on!). Orélie's ears went wild as the balloon touched down in an apparently deserted meadow.
Deserted, that is, except for a teenage girl with a large knapsack. "Rosina!" Antonio shouted, deactivating the Invisibility Shield. "Ciao!" The girl - Rosina - picked up her knapsack and hurried toward the balloon. With a grunt, she hefted her knapsack over the side of the basket and hopped in after it. Orélie squashed her valises more tightly together to make room.
"Grazie (thank you)," Rosina grinned. She was a limber-looking girl, perhaps fifteen years old, with olive skin, dark green eyes and sun-bleached brown hair. "Are you new to Stella Di Mattina? I've never seen you before, but you look older than the first-years."
"Si," replied Orélie with a nod of her head that somehow gave the impression of a curtsey. "I'm Orélie Jacques; I transferred from Beauxbatons." Rosina replied with a nod - good, thought Orélie, she doesn't want to interrogate or insult me - and knelt to rummage in her knapsack as Antonio prepared the balloon for ascent.
"Straight to Stella Di Mattina now," he assured the two students confidently. Orélie made a small noise of acknowledgement; Rosina pulled a sandwich from her bag and tore into it. "Going up!" Antonio warned. Orélie leaned against the side of the basket, thankful that her ears were already messed up and could suffer no more for the remainder of the trip.
Once the balloon was safely in the air and invisible, Rosina finished her sandwich and tossed the remains over the side of the basket. Orélie widened her eyes at this blatant littering but said nothing; all of her energy was spent on worrying about Stella Di Mattina. Antonio started to hum vacantly as he operated the balloon's controls; Rosina offered a sandwich to Orélie, who politely declined and scrunched against the side of the basket. She thought she noticed Rosina roll her eyes in disgust or bemusement, but decided to give the older girl the benefit of the doubt.
--
Balloon trip, part two. I expect we're in Italy now. Would Maman and Papa have sent me to Stella Di Mattina if I didn't speak Italian? I shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth; it's bound to be better than Beauxbatons. Could anything be worse? Maybe Durmstrang; they probably use Dark spells on each other when they get in fights.
I wonder if Rosina is offended because I didn't take her sandwich. Papa always said never to refuse a glass of wine in Spain (but what if you're a recovered alcoholic?), but he never said anything about sandwiches in Italy. She probably thinks I'm a chic, snobby French girl because of my fancy robes and such; we probably weren't expected to dress up for the first day of school. What a way to make a good impression on everyone. I knew this enterprise was doomed from the start. I don't care what Maman and Papa say; this is going to be Beauxbatons all over again and I'm going to be a friendless outcast who gets hexed in the hallways.
--
Orélie dared a glance at her two companions. Antonio was gazing vaguely into the distance, and Rosina had wedged a pillow between her head and the side of the basket and was now snoring peacefully. It was almost as good as being alone. Inhaling deeply to make the most of the thin air, she let her eyelids flutter closed. The world within her lids was a mass of strange colors and flowing shapes, nature's version of an impressionist painting.
"Signorina Fuerto?" Antonio made as if to poke Rosina's shoulder but thought better of it. He turned toward the less volatile-looking Orélie. "Signorina Jacques?" Orélie obligingly opened her eyes, then squinted against the sun with a smile of acknowledgement. "We're almost there," the young wizard continued. "If you look that way--" he pointed into the distance "you can see the school."
"I'll take a look," Orélie acquiesced and pulled herself to her feet. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight was beginning to take on the ethereal quality of sunset. She let her gaze follow Antonio's gesture, where she could see a large building. Nobody could deny that it was pretty; its faintly Roman architecture was softened by the peach stone of its walls and columns. Straining her eyes, Orélie could make out smalls riots of color surrounding the edifice; those, she assumed, were the gardens. The scene grew larger, more detailed, closer, by the second. Orélie's stomach began to twist.
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It really is pleasant-looking - not impressive like Beauxbatons, but they're probably going for the "home-away-from-home" look. Oh, Rosina's waking up. Maybe if I don't look at her she won't notice me. I'll just keep my eyes on the school. It's almost shining in this light, or maybe its some sort of magical effect like in the Muggle movies Maman talks about. Closer and closer… I can see the light reflecting off windows now. Oh, some of them are shaped like diamonds. Now if only there were a few made out of stained glass; that would be really gorgeous.
There's something green in the air behind the school, too big to be a bird. I think it's another balloon. Yes, I can see it better now, and there's a red one by the grove of trees - what kind are they? Pine, I think. Why does Antonio have to start chattering now? He was so nice and quiet during the trip. Ah, the Mediterranean. Well, I suppose I'm glad he pointed it out. It's so incredible, blue-green and glittering; I can almost smell the salt. I'm going to love those trips to the beach they talked about in the brochure. What am I saying? How can I love anything about school?
We're landing. Oh ciel, we're landing.
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