This is a work of fiction
This is a work of fiction. This work has not been endorsed by J.K. Rowling, Raincoast Books, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers, or any of the other holding copyright or license to the Harry Potter books or movies. Names, character, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, settings or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. This is a work of parody, as defined by the Fair Use Doctrine. Any similarities, without satirical intent, to copyrighted characters, or individuals living or dead, are purely coincidental. No connection is implied or should be inferred. Also note that this is not a commercial work. The authors receive no financial gain from its production or distribution. It is available without charge.
Simply put, I don't own Harry Potter, and this is FANfiction anyhow.
Author's Note: So, this is spawned from my first story (a oneshot) called From the UK to the US. This one will practically be all Original Characters (with the appearances of, references to, and possibly descendants of some of your favorite characters from the series)! I hope you all enjoy, and I would love some constructive criticism as well.
Chapter One: Peaches Made Her A Witch
The life of a seemingly normal young witch would to most be predictable, and if anything dull. Just ask Rochelle Goodfellow.
Rochelle, born in 1997, to Miss Rachel Goodfellow and Mister Noel Goodfellow, was an average girl in the Wizarding world. She was raised in Wolfbane Grove, an all Wizarding community very near Sacramento, California, in the United States. This neighborhood was nestled close to the grounds of the relatively newly established Wolfbane Academy of Magical Arts. The small town of Wolfbane Grove consisted of more or less 500 wizards and witches. It definitely had that "small-town" feel, where everyone grew up and knew everyone. About 60 of all the young adults after graduating from Wolfbane left for bigger and better things in life, joining the Aurors, or the Ministry, or something of the likes.
The town itself was a marvel, and wonder to many. To the Muggle, it looked as though it were an abandoned ghost town, just near the river delta coming southwest of Sacramento. Most Muggles could see this "ghost-town" they called Locke on their way to small grove towns nestled along the river such as Walnut Grove, Isleton, and the farm country of Galt to the northeast. The heart of Sacramento was only 30 miles away, and still, not a single Muggle had ever stepped foot on Wolfbane soil in decades.
Wolfbane to a Wizard was a bustling little village with neat little homes all lined up in little streets, and a friendly cluster of family owned shops and café's. It truly was a quiet town, where gossiping women and hard working men were bountiful. Children played, and everyone was overall agreeable with one another. But of course, there were skeletons, but nobody talks of those, right?
Rochelle was just an average girl. Very plain looking, not too exceptionally skilled at anything like the other children. Some were good at Quidditch games, others good in their magical studies with their parents, prior to attendance at Wolfbane Academy. Some were just outright smart, some were proud, some were brave, athletic, there were words galore to describe all the children in Wolfbane, but Rochelle was just plain.
Her parents knew it to be true, and they had long accepted this as fact. Also not having any other children, they grew comfortable knowing that they would not be raising up some young starlet of the Wizarding Community, for those kind of treasures always came with their drawbacks anyways. They had become accustomed to the fact that their daughter was just average and would always be so. It was like unspoken law.
Rochelle learned to like that no one expected much from her. But as she got older, she began wondering if she would be a Squib, and consequently not being able to attend Wolfbane Academy. She had never dabbled much in attempting magic like other young children did before they went to school, and she wasn't altogether sure of how it was to manifest itself in children, especially since they were forbidden to actually perform it outside of training institutes until the age of seventeen, in which a child was no longer a child, and henceforth an adult.
The week before her eleventh birthday, Rochelle sat in her cozy bedroom, watching the spring buds on the peach tree just outside her bedroom. Wishing the heat of summer would come, and the peaches, succulent and fragrant, were in full bloom. But there was no summer heat, and no peaches. Just the breeze of spring, and the always familiar smell of the oh-so-close river, which was probably high now with the melting snow starting to make its way down from the mountains to the east.
She didn't notice it for quite a long time that she was just staring out her window. It must have seemed odd. All the other children were probably at the river, or out and about, playing games and having their fun before the heat of summer was too much to want to go outside anymore. It was early April, but the heat in the California Valley often came suddenly, and with no remorse.
After a few moments of wishing for peaches, Rochelle noticed two things. The first, the sound of a violent snap, as if someone nearby had cracked a whip, and the second, a faint, familiar smell of the juice from the inside of a fully ripened peach. Rochelle's first thought of the smell was that her mother must have bought peaches from a trader and was probably cooking up a peach cobbler. Her second thought was of the sound.
She peered further out her window, and the scent of the peaches was stronger, and it was obvious to her that it wasn't coming from her mother's kitchen. She looked down, and saw the peach tree branch sagging beneath the tremendous weight of what seemed like dozens of…peaches! Half the branch had cracked and split up, and the other half was holding on by little more than a few splinters.
Hurriedly, Rochelle ran through her house, out and around to the side to see if her eyes were lying to her. But no! There they were, huge, fat, juicy peaches. Plump and full; just ready for her to sink her teeth into.
Cautiously, Rochelle plucked one off the branch, probably much relief to the poor tree, and she turned it over in her hands.
How on earth did these get here? She thought to herself. She must have magicked them into existence, unconsciously, much like other children do when their magic begins to manifest itself. I am a witch!
A huge smile spread across her freckled face as she began gathering the plump peaches into her arms. They were her own prize to show her mom; something definitely worthy of praise. Her arms became full as she emptied the branch, which happily sprung back up a few inches, and she trotted into the sitting room where her mother sat knitting.
"Oh, honey, did you spend your savings at the trader's today for some peaches, when it'll just be a few months before we have our own?" Her mother furrowed her brow when she saw Rochelle's arms filled with the gorgeous treasures.
"No! Mom! I made them grow with magic! Well, it was on accident…" she added, when she saw a worried look spread across her mother's face.
It was a moment, but then there was happiness in her mother's soft green eyes. She hugged her daughter and helped her take the peaches into the kitchen for peach cobbler that night.
When Mr. Goodfellow came home that night to the delicious smell of home baked peach cobbler he was thoroughly happy.
"Smells delicious, hon," he said to his wife.
She kissed him on the cheek, eager to tell him of Rochelle's accomplishment, but not wanting to spoil her daughter's excitement to tell him herself.
"Daddy, I did magic today!" Rochelle squealed once they were all seated at the dinner table. She told him of her seemingly ordinary day that ended in her first experience with magic.
"That's wonderful sweetie!" he smiled. He was such a handsome man. Tall, and broad. With such strong features, and thick chestnut hair, topped with gleaming emerald eyes. Mr. Goodfellow was definitely a catch. He continued, "I brought home a letter for you today, straight from the Ministry. They were going to Owl it, but I told them I'd rather just deliver it to you. Everyone else will be getting theirs by Owl tomorrow, so consider yourself special, Rochelle."
He handed her a thick envelope, with a beautiful seal emblazoned in the top right-hand corner.
"Wolfbane Academy!" Rochelle squealed with delight as she tore into the letter.
It was certainly addressed to her.
Dear Ms. Rochelle Marie Goodfellow,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Wolfbane Academy of Magical Arts.
Term begins on September the First, and there will be travel arranged from your home of record, Wolfbane Grove, CA.
Accompanying this letter is a list of needed school supplies, basic guidelines to know upon entering for your first evening at the Academy, and also a overview of the subjects you will be required to take your first year at the Academy, along with a list of elective courses, from which you must choose 3 to enroll in. The necessary forms must be returned by Owl before August 15th, otherwise you face having your electives chosen for you.
This, and more, is discussed further in the next few pages.
Congratulations, and we look forward to hearing from you soon, as well as seeing you September the First.
Sincerely
Robyn Jungwirth, Headmistress
It seemed unreal to Rochelle that over the past few weeks she had been wondering whether or not she even had magical abilities, and now she was being accepted into Wolfbane! She had long been called plain by many a neighbor, and also referred to as ordinary on many accounts. Now she had hope that she would be able to show everyone she was more than ordinary.
On top of everything, her eleventh birthday was only a week away, and that itself was a lot to look forward to.
Over the next few days Rochelle and her mother spent quite a bit of time at the market, shopping. Making sure she would be prepared for the upcoming year she would spend at the academy.
"Do I really need all this stuff, Mom?" Rochelle asked her mother, re-reading her list of required items for the hundredth time.
Basic Potions kit, Level I
Cauldron, Standard, Grade I.A.A., Black
At least three sets of Academy Approved Black Robes
Day Clothes for weekends and post- curricular activities
Dress Robes
Three Quills
Beginning Supply Ten Standard Size Ink Bottles, Black
Beginning Supply 100 sheets Standard Parchment, 8.5"x11"
Bookbag
A Wand
The following are textbooks required of First Year Students
1. Charms at Beginning Level by Buffetta Browner
2. Defensive Spells and Magic: Volume 1 by Lola Rigby
3. Magic From the Dawn of Time to the Middle Ages by Alfred Aronius
4. The Brewing Pot: Useful Potions Every Witch or Wizard Should Know, Volume 1 by Eliza Puttelle
5. The Form of Transfiguring by M.T. Snowright
And depending on your elective choices, three of the following will also be required.
For Astronomy, A Star Means Everything by Alexander Piffin
For Care of Magical Creatures, The Monster Encyclopedia by Witch's Press National
For Herbology, Every Plant of Magical Importance by Stephen Warcruck
For Muggle Studies, The Muggle World Around Us by Amelie Viora
Rochelle looked up from the list, and saw her mother had already entered the bookstore, conversing with the shopowner, Tim Turner.
Once inside the familiar smell of leather and paper greeted Rochelle's nose. Unwilling to admit it to anyone, Rochelle indeed loved to read, and it was a secret she was sure Mr. Turner would take to the grave for her.
Rochelle was never sure why it had bothered her so much if people knew she was an avid reader, but it was always nicer to have something to turn to and sink into, such as a good story, rather than being labeled as "bookish" or "nerdy".
He greeted her with a pleasant smile, and the same twinkle in his eye, as he turned to go to the back room and retrieve her schoolbooks for her.
"What electives, my dear?" he called from the room.
Rochelle hadn't even thought of her electives yet.
With a quick glance over her papers, she knew she had to choose three, and only four choices were allowed for first years.
She chose with a quick gut feeling for all three. Calling out to Mr. Turner, she said, "History of Magic, Herbology, and Care of Magical Creatures." She left out Muggle Studies, even though it truly was something she would be interested in.
In fact, Rochelle was often the type to go the edge of the front of the ghost town known as Locke to the Muggle world (which also hid the whereabouts of the entire town of Wolfbane Grove, and the monstrous campus miles off that was Wolfbane Academy) where she would stand at the edge of the grass, just beyond the buildings and watch the Muggles on the road. Most in automobiles, some in vehicles, and some pulling to the side of the road to gaze at the beautiful beginnings of the delta area that Sacramento was so boastful of.
Sometimes travelers would look across the road to see the desolate buildings, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the trodden looking Rochelle, probably thinking she was the ghost of some long forgotten town. Rochelle liked gazing as their faces would turn a shade of white, as they hurried their children back into their vehicles and scurried off back to wherever it was that they were going. Something about these events made Rochelle feel less ordinary in her world, and more strangely connected to theirs.
Mr. Turner returned with her stack of textbooks, which looked large and bulky, much to Rochelle's dismay, and her mother paid, thanking Mr. Turner kindly for his help.
He gave them a warm smile as they left his shop, on to conquer their next and final purchase, Rochelle's wand. The single item alone that would truly make her feel like a witch.
Nervous as she had ever felt in her entire life, Rochelle was now standing in the dimly lit storefront of the greatest known wandmaker in all the Western United States. How lucky of a little town like Wolfbane Grove be to have someone of such skill, and renown to reside here, and offer his services.
He was a distant descendant of some foreign wandmaker, told of briefly in the tales of Harry Potter, that every child of the Wizarding World knew of. Related to some British Wizarding family, but yet with no accent of his, having been brought up mostly in America due to his family's flee here from the long-past War with the Dark Lord Voldemort.
He was Oswald Ollivander, and he was young, handsome, and skilled; a kind, well spoken, patient person, and so many other things that people often marveled of him.
Rochelle, still only being eleven, couldn't help but being one of those girls that often got red-faced and giggly in his presence. Some attribute that to his fame, others to his unparalleled good looks, and others still to his charm and amazing personality.
Plain ole Rochelle, she thought to herself. Freckles, and mousy brown hair. These dull green eyes that don't even sparkle. Please don't let him look at me. Come on, Mom, let's get this done and over with, spare me the shame…
"Well, Oswald, she needs a wand! She's about to start her first year at Wolfbane." Her mom was already in conversation with him, as Rochelle was absentmindedly looking at anything but Oswald. Trying to hide her blushing face. What a giddy little girl I'm being! Get it together, Goodfellow!
"Ah! I remember my first year, at Wolfbane, it was only a few years since it had opened. In fact, I think it was the opened the year little Rochelle here was born!" Ollivander smiled as Rochelle hid a grimace at the mention of her being "little".
"Well, how does getting a wand work, I don't see any on display here," Rochelle asked, more directed toward her mother, trying to change the subject.
"Wands choose the wizard, my great-uncle would say." Oswald said, a sad look in his beautiful blue eyes. "First let me get a good straight look at you, Rochelle," he said, staring hard down at her.
Reluctantly, Rochelle turned to look him directly in the face. She focused on his blue eyes, the color of water, crystal clear river water, she thought. He was staring into her it seemed. Deep into her.
After what felt like several minutes, he broke her gaze and shuffled off into his back room, mumbling to himself, incoherently.
He didn't return for almost ten minutes, in which Rochelle an her mother had gotten comfortable on the sofa perched in his shop window.
"Well, not what I had in mind at first, but I've got a few for you to try. If we've got nothing here in these, I'll dig a little deeper for what I really was thinking of." He pushed three boxes on the counter top for Rochelle to "try", whatever that meant.
She opened the first box, and Oswald said "pine, twelve inches, unicorn hair."
"And…?" Rochelle said, with a puzzled look on her face.
Oswald let out a small laugh. "Just give it a wave, and you'll see." He smiled.
She waved the wand. And waited.
Nothing.
Second box, which Oswald narrated as "elm, eleven point seventy-five inches, mermaid scale."
Wave. Wait. Nothing.
Third box. "Pine again, eleven inches, and griffin feather core."
Wave. Long wait. Nothing.
Rochelle replaced the third wand and Oswald returned to the back storeroom with more furious muttering under his breath. She could hear him angrily sifting through dozens of boxes before he came back shouting, "I've got it! It's perfect, I just know it!"
The box looked old, and it wasn't white like the first three. Instead it was a faded powder blue box, with a different label on the cover.
"This one survived from my great-uncle's store in the U.K. This is what I originally had in mind for you. Go ahead, open it!"
Rochelle lifted the lid, and inside was the wand. Staring at it, she waited for him to describe it. She looked up at him and surveyed the look on his face. A mixture of sadness, fondness… and maybe even awe.
"This one I made with my great uncle. Well, I helped him make. I was just a little boy. Just before he died." Oswald smiled. He looked as if he was trying to keep himself together. "Solid oak. A ripe old oak at that. And twelve wonderful inches of it. And the core… man… You wouldn't believe it even if I told you…" he trailed off.
"What is it?" Rochelle looked at him, completely intrigued.
"How well do you know the Harry Potter tale?" he asked, his aqueous blue eyes sparkling with the fondness of memories kept.
"Pretty darn well. As well as any other kid," Rochelle replied, her eagerness to try out the wand mounting.
"Well, if you recall, in the stories, Harry met many creatures in battle, or as tests of character, strength, will or all three. In one of the tales, Harry encountered a certain dragon during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. My great-uncle was given a gift after that dragon had mysteriously passed away that very next year. Not only was my grandfather given pints and pints of this dragon's blood, which let me tell you, is so incredibly priceless, but also its entire heart, and four scales. Now I can't tell you why, but my grandfather cut that heart into four pieces and together we made four wands, each of a different wood, and used the four scales and four dragon's heart pieces. I learned the secret of making wands that month I spent working with my great uncle, and this is the last of those four unique and special wands."
Rochelle peered into the box again. Oak. Dragon scale and dragon heart. How interesting. The wand was a dark mahogany color, and a slight bit thicker than the first three she had tried.
"Go on, try it," Oswald said, beaming. He must've been as anxious to see her try it as she was.
Rochelle picked up the wand, which instantly felt warm in her hands. Looking at the beautiful creation in her hands, a sense washing over her of familiarity and comfort.
She slowly lifted her arm, and brought it down in a smooth, fluid motion. Erupting from the tip of the wand was a tiny trail of crackling, silvery stars, similar-looking to snowflakes. The silver stars floated down, moving slower than a delicate feather falling and disappeared after a few moments.
Rochelle smiled, her face overcome with happiness. Oswald grinned at her and Mr. Goodfellow had let out a small shriek of glee. With many thanks and a quick, awkward hug good-bye, Rochelle left Oswald Ollivander's wand shop with her very own, very unique wand. She really was a witch.
It seemed like she was ready to start school. Now all she had to do was get through the coming summer.
All Rochelle could think about was starting school. Her birthday, April the 12th, passed by with a small family party, and small gifts for an ordinary witch living in the Wizarding world. The time was quickly approaching for Rochelle to not be so plain anymore.
Summer came and went, and the only thing good of it was the peaches, swelling on the branches of the tree outside of Rochelle's bedroom window. On the afternoon of August the 31st, Rochelle gathered a basketful of peaches, with the intentions of giving them to Oswald as a goodbye and thank-you gift.
With basket in hand, she headed to his shop, which oddly, was closed. In the middle of the day?
Rochelle left the basket, and a quick note so that he would know who was leaving it, on the doorstep to the backside of the shop, and returned home, to pack her things for her trip in the morning.
When she turned in that night, she couldn't help but wonder why any store would be closed in the middle of the day, especially on such a wonderful summer day. Her eyelids fell heavy, and soon she was sound asleep, dreaming of the glorious Wolfbane Academy and what it might be like. Sleep stole her away, and she peacefully surrendered. One night and soon plain ole Rochelle would soon be transforming into whoever she wanted to be. Somebody great. Somebody remembered. Anything but dull, and plain, and average. Everything that she was not, she was going to be. It would all start come tomorrow. So sleep took her, and guided her down into her dreams, which were filled with the innocence of childhood's naiveté. But she knew, she just knew it. Her life was going to change. She was going to be somebody. Somebody.
And no one could stop her.
AN: Well, I hope you like it! Remember there was a prequel to this, if you didn't catch it, its authored by me, Freebird.Freehand, of course. And it's called From the UK to the US: A Prequel. Feel free to read that one. And by all means, leave a review. Constructive criticism is the best friend of any writer! Thanks for stopping by to read, hopefully you'll return back for some more soon!
- Freebird.Freehand