The Muggleborn Society

Set in 2015, four girls from around the world are accepted into Hogwarts. However, it doesn’t take them long to realize something isn’t right.

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1. A Brief a Introduction

Sam

Toronto, Canada

June 16, 2016

"Samantha Edgely to the office," a stern voice calls over the intercom. That's a voice I know very well. I hear that voice every day lecturing me about a different rule that I've supposedly 'broken'

I stop midstride, and look around. The halls are empty, and my footsteps echo eerily. Everyone is in class, and I've just earned myself detention. Again. Ah, the joys of boarding school. At the start of the year, I'd dodge the admin, ditch detention, and hide when I was called to the office. Fast forward 9 months, and the detention supervisors get worried if I don't show up at 3:30.

As I reach the office, I push open the door, flashing a grin to the most recent secretary; Mr. Dirk, "welcome to Rosewood! You'll be seeing a lot of me in the office, so let's do introductions," ignoring his confused gape, I stick out my hand, "I'm Sam. Short for Samantha, but nobody calls me that," he awkwardly shakes my outstretched hand as I glance around the room, "Is Kingsley in? By the way, I like what you've done with the place. The last secretary covered the entire room in pink sparkles and cat pictures.

He clears his throat, "Yes, Mrs. Kingsley is here. Her office is straight -

"I know where it is thanks," I cut him off, waving a hand dismissively.

Walking into Mrs. Kingsley's office is basically the only constant in my life. As much as it sucks, the fact that I'm being called into the office is almost reassuring, because no matter how much anything else changes, at least I'll always be a delinquent. Silver linings in cloudy skies, eh?

"Samantha. Sit down," the stern voice says. The owner of said voice is wearing a pink pantsuit, and so much lipliner it put Kylie Jenner to shame.

After I've plonked my butt down in a black cushioned chair, I stare into icy blue eyes silently for a minute. When the Headmistress doesn't say anything, I Break the silence flatly, "so I'm sitting. Do you have something to scold me for, or should I just take a detention slip and leave?"

Mrs. Kingsley purses her lips, "Samantha, we need to discuss your grades. Over this past year, you've become increasingly difficult. Today was the last –

"Straw?" I take the word out of her mouth and sit forward in the seat, "please. Enlighten me. What rule did I break this time?"

"Well, first of all, you aren't in class right now," she begins, sighing tiredly, knowing an argument is building.

"You called me into the office," I say pointedly. You can't get me in trouble for coming.

Mrs. Kingsley blinks forcefully, attempting to gather her thoughts, "Samantha, what I meant to say, is that you were called in because you had left class.

I nod slowly, growing slightly, "not following. Did you get to the part where I Break a rule yet?" I know exactly how much I'm aggravating the headmistress, and I'm revelling in the feeling of having the upper hand.

"Samantha. You ditched class. What is there to not understand?" she huffs, exasperated, smoothing our her blouse as if she could smooth the conversation out with it.

"Ah. See, here's the plot twist. My favourite part," I say grinning as I lean back in the chair casually, "I got permission to leave class."

"Samantha, I think you'll find that no teacher at Rosewood would simply let you leave class."

"And I think you'll find that Mr. Akinson did just that. I said, 'Sir, may I be excused?' He said yes," honestly I'm really getting tired of explaining my every move.

Mrs. Kingsley rolls her eyes, any and all signs of professionalism gone. "Okay. Fine. Whatever. However, the board and I have been speaking, and we've come to a decision." She pauses, and I motion for her to continue, "you won't be coming back to Rosewood next year."

There was a beat of silence before I let out a loud, laugh. "That's my punishment?" my eyes have gone wide, and I'm sure that I look completely insane, "I don't have to come back to this pile of crud next year?!" I blow a raspberry, "boo-hoo I'm so sad!"

"Samantha Caroline Edgely!" Mrs. Kingsley bellows. She's standing now, and so I mirror her action. "Have some respect! A little bit of tact! What would your father say if he saw you now?"

Every bit of logic flies out the window at that comment. "Do not. Talk. About my father. You can expel me, fine. Send me to freaking military school, I don't care. But do not bring my father into this!" I realize I'm shouting , my voice ringing in my ears. Mrs Kingsley sits back down, realizing her mistake.

"Sam. You will pack your bags tonight. You will be brought home tomorrow. You will attend Whiteoaks elementary school. Am I making myself clear?" she rubs her temples, clearly exhausted. I tend to have that effect on people.

"Crystal," I'm still seething, but by the time the adrenaline wears off, I feel myself getting tired as well. I don't like this place, and to be honest, I don't really care where I go, so long as it's not here. I stand and run a hand through my red hair, "whatever you say, Mom," I say as I walk out of the office.

"Samantha!" She calls after me, and I pause, "Happy Birthday," is all she says.

I sit on my four poster bed, mentally debating myself. I hate her, one side was screaming. She hasn't actually done anything wrong, the other fires back. As much I hate to admit it, the latter is correct. Mrs. Kingsley – or Ella, as I call her – has taken care of me pretty well, even letting me come to her school – however snooty my classmates may be. She's fed me, clothed me, put up with my attitude- she deserves a trophy for that one – and yet, I still hate her.

My roommates walk in right on cue. Just a little too blonde and peppy for me, but they're okay at the end of the day. Close on their heels, is my stepbrother Jason. Yep, stepbrother. Ella is my stepmom. She married my dad, who took off last year when he got a huge promotion. As disappointing as it was, I had thought he'd at least take me with him. Nope. He left me with Ella and Jason, and I haven't seen him since. Can you say cliché?

"What do you want?" I groan, not bothering to look up at him.

Jason throws a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended, "what, a guy can't come visit his little sister, without being accused of having an ulterior motive?"

I glance up at him, noticing how his eyes were blue like his mom, but while her eyes are icy and cold, his are clear skies, and cotton candy. "Okay. Why are you actually here?"

I can feel the bed dip with his weight as he sits down next to me, "mom might have asked me to help you pack," I feel my anger flare up at the mention of Ella, but I stay silent as he holds up a hand, signaling that he wasn't done talking, "I know it's been hard on you since your dad .. well, you know. And I know it must be hard for everything to be changing so quickly. So, I want you to know..." he trails off, suddenly sheepish.

"What?" I demand, giddy that he's flustered, since he's usually so sure of himself.

Jason groans and lies back on the bed, "are you really gonna make me say it? You know what I mean!"

"Yes," I say laying on the bed with him, "this is not something I will pass up. Spit it out."

He huffs in annoyance, "you, are the most infuriating fifth grader I have ever met in my life, you know that?" I nod, a grin still on my face, "fine. I'm here for you, if you ever need to talk about anything."

I sit up giggling, "see, that wasn't so hard, now was it? And while we're on the topic of talking, I finished The Maze Runner series."

Jason pushes himself off the bed, "how about I make you a deal. I'll answer any questions you have if you start to pack up all this crap you have lying around," he picks up a box and begins throwing clothes in as if to emphasize.

I follow his lead, pulling my hair into a ponytail and opening a box. "deal."

_______________________________

Layla

Chicago, USA

June 16th, 2015

"Miss Ahmad? Pay attention please. It may be the end of the year, but you're still in my class. If you don't want to be here, please leave my class," My teacher, Mrs. Delutis said to me in that sugary tone of hers that was sweet I wanted to puke.

"I don't want to be here. It's the law," is what I wanted to say to her, but instead I bit my tongue and nodded, my eyes never leaving hers.

"Do you have any idea what I'm teaching, Miss Ahmad? Or are you so immersed in those doodles of yours that you forgot what class this is?" I opened my mouth to respond, I know exactly what she's teaching, but I'm cut off, "just so you know, art really won't get you anywhere. If you want to do something with your life, I suggest listening to the important subjects,"

I blinked forcefully. Leave it. Leave it. Leave it. I tell myself repeatedly, but I can't. I can't just sit there and take a mocking teacher say that to me.

"You were teaching cross multiplication. You line up the numbers, A over B, and C over D. Then you multiply them diagonally," I said this politely but forcefully, proving a point. Proving her wrong.

Mrs. Delutis stares pointedly at me for a minute, before turning swiftly and saying sharply, "detention for a week Miss Ahmad."

My eyes pop out of my head, what had I done to earn myself a detention?! Answer the damn question?! I groan internally, barely caring anymore. This is my first - and hopefully last - year at this school, and all year Mrs. Delutis gave me a hard time, failing me on tests I should've gotten right, giving detentions for absolutely no reason. I'm just happy there's only 10 more days before summer vacation. I expected some racism coming from other students, but not from my math teacher! I couldn't care less about bullies, none of them know what they're talking about anyway. But a teacher is a different story. She decides whether or not I pass, and I really don't  want to go to summer school. At least this is after this I have art, and then I get to go home. Speaking of next period, I glance up at the clock. 1 minute.

Mrs. Delutis drones on. My classmates snicker at me. I doodle.

30 seconds. Kids start packing their bags. Mrs. Delutis drops the whiteboard marker.

10 seconds. Homework is assigned.

"And Miss Ahmad-

The bell rings.

"Sorry, Mrs. Delutis, I have a 'useless' class to get to. I'll be here for detention," I say coldly, walking out of that hellhole called math class.

As I walk through the crowded hallways, somebody taps me on the shoulder. I roll my eyes, knowing who it is.

"Hey Chlöe. Yes, math sucked. No, I don't have any food. I got another detention, so I can't walk home with you today," I turn around to face my best friend, but instead of a short blonde girl, I find a tall dark haired boy, who looks like he's in grade eight.

"What do you want?" I ask bluntly.

He chuckles, obviously thrown off by my approach, "you're Layla, right?"

"Yes."

He rubs the back of his neck, nervous from how cold my attitude is, "I'm uh-I'm supposed to take you to Hollowitz."

Hollowitz is the grade eight art teacher. I'm in grade five. What does he want with me?

"Lead the way," I hear myself say.

He starts walking towards the senior art studio, and I stop in my tracks, "wait," I call out, and he spins around to face me.

I walk towards him, and jab a finger in his chest, "if  this is another sick joke, I swear, I will personally, kick your nuts so far up your butt that you'll be pissing out of your ears."

He nods slowly, before turning back around and walking down the hall. I follow wordlessly.

"So, Layla, what do you like to do in your free time?"

I shrug, "why do you want to know?"

"Jeez for a ten year old you sure know how to make a guy uncomfortable," he says looking at me.

"Eleven," I correct him, "today is my birthday."

"My bad," we walk in silence for a couple of minutes, "By the way, I'm Adam. Sorry, I should've introduced myself earlier."

I nod, "nice  to meet you Adam. And I don't mean to ruin your moment where you reveal that you're Muslim too and all that crap, but Hollowitz's room is right here,"  I push open the door, ignoring Adam's gaping expression and drop my messenger bag on the floor.

"Mr. Hollowitz?" Adam calls, looking for the teacher in the empty studio. He turns to look at me, "by the way, how'd you know I'm Muslim? Adam can be a white name too."

I roll my eyes, "later," I walk around the studio looking for Mr. Hollowitz, when suddenly I hear a booming warm voice, "Layla! I wasn't sure Adam could persuade you to come!"

I spin on my heel to see an tall man - Mr. Hollowitz.

"Hello sir," I wave politely not knowing what to say, "uhm, I don't mean to bel rude sir, but why exactly did you call me here? You teach grade eight, and I'm in grade five."

His face breaks into an even bigger smile, "right, right!" he gestures to a couple of chairs, "sit, sit! You too Adam!”

I sit down, incredibly uncomfortable, and before I can say anything, Mr. Hollowitz begins to speak, "so. Layla I've been eyeing your artwork all year, and I have a couple of offers for you,"  I nod slowly , not sure what to expect, "firstly, next year, instead of your grade six art class, I'd like you to join mine."

My eyes widen. That was not my expectation at all, "uhh- I - I don't really- I don't know, sir," his smile disappears for a second, but he covers it up quickly, "its not that I don't want to, sir, it's just that I may not be here next year," I say hastily, noticing his reaction.

"Oh,"  Says Mr. Hollowitz, "well, my next offer; There's an art program this summer that I think would be in your best interests to join. Now, it is in England, so I'm not sure what your parents might say, but many of my students are going, there is plenty of supervision, and I just think it's a great opportunity for you," he finishes with a smile on his face.

England? England. England. England as in Doctor Who, Sherlock, every piece of classic literature ever! I could spend my summer in England! I sheepishly rub my neck, because like Mr. Hollowitz, I have no idea what my parents will say.

"Layla?" I hear Adam saying, jolting me back to reality, "You catch any of that?"

No. "Yeah, that sounds great!" I lie smoothly

"So you don't mind sharing a room with strangers?"  Adam asks curiously.

Of course I do! "No not at all, I just need to check with my parents!" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

"Great! Get your parents to talk to me if there are any details to work out!" Mr. Hollowitz says enthusiastically handing me a booklet the size of a SAT, "all the info is on there, and Adam can take you back to your class!"

I thank him and begin to walk out the door when Adam pops into view, "you  know I can get to class on my own, right?"

He stares at me for a second before answering, "Hollowitz is worried someone's going to bully you and apparently they won't if I'm with you."

I chuckle. Of course that's what this is about, "lies. People will bug me even if Taylor Swift is standing next to me."  I wave a hand dismissively just as a voice calls from behind me.

"Hey Layla, you hiding bombs in that bag!?", I know the voice without turning around. Rowena McGrath. If Chilton Elementary school has a queen bee, it's her.

"No bombs today, however I can offer you quite a few textbooks, which can be used to hit people upside the head quite effectively,"  I say spinning on my heel to face her.

Rowena's jet black hair was curled and cascading down her back, contrasting with her fair skin. Her shocking green eyes flash with anger, "do you know who my father is? I can make sure you don't even get to high school you freak."

I pretend to consider her threat, "you know what, I'm not really scared, considering I'm 11 and you're 14. Aren't you a little young to be acting like a college student in a –

I'm cut off my someone grabbing my arm and yanking me into a hallway. Ready to yell at someone I whirl around and see Adam, "what the hell do you think you're doing? That's Rowena McGrath!"

"Why is everyone so scared of her? This is Middle School! What's she gonna do, sabotage your volunteer hours?" I ask incredulously

Adam huffs in exasperation, "just – don't mess around with her. She's a 14 girl who thinks she's 21. That's a dangerous combination."

I press my lips together, sceptical. "Whatever you say, Adam," and then I twist out of his grasp and walk down the hall to my art class.

_______________________________

April

Dublin, Ireland

June 16th, 2015

One foot after the other. Keep running. If I stop, I won't stop. One foot after another. The only sound other than my blood rushing in my ears is my feet hitting the cement, perfectly in time with my heartbeat.

Inhale. Exhale. Almost there. I can see the pylon marking the end of two kilometres . Just keep running. The snack of my running shoes on the pavement is almost therapeutic, because of how often I hear it. As routine as breathing, every day after school, I would go for a run around the neighbourhood. Good distraction from everything at home. In October, Ms. Spears noticed me running, and asked me to join the track team. Needless to say, I said yes.

I push myself to the limit and run as hard and fast as I can to the end mark. My breathing laboured, I jog over to Ms. Spears – or, Coach Spears, considering she's not a teacher during track practice.

"How was that?" I ask. If I want to make a competitive team next year, I need to get down from 12 minutes down to 10.

She checks her stopwatch and smiles encouragingly, "ten seconds less than your personal best. Keep it up all summer and tryouts will be a breeze."

I smile and nod, happy with my progress so far. I start to walk back to the court to stretch with my team, when I hear my phone ringing loudly. Yes, phone. Let's just say, my mom got it in case of a ... family emergency.

Sure enough, the screen lit up with my mother's contact info. Sighing, I answered the phone, knowing that my mom never calls my cell number unless something is very, very wrong.

"Hello?" I say into the speaker, halting in the field.

There's a few seconds of shaky breathing before my moms voice comes through, "April? Are you there?"

My brow furrows in concern. Something must not be okay. "Yes mom. I'm here? Is everyone okay?"

"No. Well your dad and I are , we're fine. It's just –

I cut her off urgently, "is it Faith? Is she okay? Where are you? Where is she?"

"We're at the hospital. Dad is gonna come pick you up, okay sweetie? You're just going to take it easy at home. You'll see Faith later, I promise."

Nope. Not happening. "Tell dad not to bother. I'll see you in 20 minutes." This cannot be happening. Again. I run over to Ms. Spears, words coming out of my mouth without a filter, "coach, I really need to go, it's an emergency and I just have to leave right now I'm sorry is that okay?"

Ms. Spears blinks rapidly, obviously having a hard time processing the steam of words that had come out of my mouth. I don't blame her, I wasn't  sure I had even said something comprehensible. After a moment she simply says, "yeah, uhm- go ahead," I'm already grabbing my duffel and running towards the bus stop when she calls after me, "that's an extra suicide next practice April!"

"Wouldn't expect anything less!" I holler back over my shoulder, and then I keep running. The bus comes in one minute. I can make it.

As I'm running, I see the bus round the corner towards the stop. Full speed now, I sprint towards the stop, skidding on the pavement just as the doors open.

"Pass?" The driver, Gus , asks in the same bored voice that he always talks in. I flash my bus pass and sit in a seat, letting my heart rate go down.

Inhale. Count up to seven. Hold. Count to four. Exhale. Count to eight. Repeat. After about a minute, my breathing is regulated, and I allow myself to focus on the situation at hand.

Dear God, please let her be okay, I thought to myself. Jesus, I'm only in year five, why am I dealing with all this heavy crap? I gaze out the window, contemplating what the heck I would do if she wasn't okay.

My phone starts ringing again, and I answer it without even checking the ID, hoping that it was Mom with news about Faith.

"Mom? Is Faith okay?"

The only response I get is an automated voice saying, "congratulations! You have the chance to win a brand new iPhone if you call the –

I hang up before the message finishes and rub my tired eyes with the heels of my hands. "Victoria hospital," the bus driver calls. In a split second, I'm out of my seat, running out of the bus and towards the entrance of the hospital.

Pushing the doors open, I hurry towards the front desk, and ask the receptionist urgently, "I'm looking for Faith Elizabeth Lee. What room is she?!"

The woman's brow furrows. "What is your relationship with the patient? I can't let you in unless –

I slam my hand down on the desk, and many heads turn at the tiny fifth grader who' s demanding entry, "I'm her damn sister. And so help me God, if you don't let me in, I'll be a lot more troublesome than an annoying 11 year old."

She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow and huffs loudly. "Alright kid. You can calm down. Your sister is in ICU, room 65. Happy?"

I nod, already pushing off the desk and sprinting to the nearest elevator. Having been here more times than I'd like to acknowledge, I know exactly which room the lady at the desk was talking about. I skid to a stop  in front of the shiny elevator, ignoring the weird looks I got from other people.

Tapping my foot impatiently, I mutter quietly, "come on, come on, open up," and as if it could hear me, the elevator dings and slides open. I rush in , only one boy there already, and punch floor ten. The door slides shut again, and I'm left in agonizing silence, save the cheesy elevator music this hospital insists on playing. Suddenly the elevator thuds to a stop.

I freeze, praying that wasn't what I think it is. When the door fails to open after a minute, I groan. "No! No, no, no! This can not be happening! Not now!"

I slam my hand against the stainless steel, as if that would help. "Open up, you useless machine!"

"I don't think it can hear you," the boy says next to me offers. I whip around and get a better look at him. He looks to be about 15, or so, though his long limbs might add to the illusion that he's taller – and therefore older – than he really is. Midnight dark hair hangs over his eye that twinkles  with mischief.

"You're staring," his voice snaps me back to reality, as I realize that I had, indeed, zoned out while observing him.

I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut in an attempt to shut out the situation. "Sorry," I mutter under my breath. "This is just a really bad time to get stuck in an elevator."

He barks a laugh, "tell me about it. I'm gonna be late for dialysis again. What are you heading to the ICU for? You look pretty okay."

Pressing my lips together, I hesitate. My sister's situation – for lack of a better word – isn' something  I like to broadcast. He must have taken my moment of hesitation as embarrassment because he quickly tried to backpedal, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, but we' re stuck in an elevator and I was trying to make conversation –

I silence him with a look, "what are you apologizing for?" He shrugs, sheepishly.

"Look, I'm fine. I'm just here for my sister, and I am definitely not telling you why she's in ICU, so don't bother asking. I hear him mumble a faint, "okay then," but then we're back in the awkward silence, and our situation suddenly smacks me in the face.

"Hey guy?" I ask the stranger. He looks up and I continue, "is anyone gonna come get us?"

His lips quirk up in a smile, "yeah, this happens all the time. I already alerted them. It usually takes about an hour for them to get here."

I'm sure my eyes just about popped out of my head. An hour?! What the hell was I supposed to do for a whole hour? Panic and worry about my sister? Groaning internally, I slide down the wall and sit on the cool metal floor.

All I can think as I pull out my phone and plug my headphones is a bitter, 'happy birthday to me.'

_______________________________

Trinity

London, England

June 16th, 2015

I hate being blonde. Honestly, everyone just assumes I'm rich, spoiled, stupid – I don't particularly mind being called the other two, considering I am technically rich, but being called stupid is something I cannot handle – and for some reason everyone thinks that I'm obsessed with Frappuccinos from Starbucks – which, by the way, are completely and utterly disgusting – and to be frank, I don't completely get it.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I know I come from a pretty privileged situation, considering I'm white and wealthy, but it's still an extremely annoying thing to deal with, considering I'm only 11.

What caused my sudden rant about the cons of being blonde? The boy sitting behind me in math class, who decided to make a very not funny joke about a blonde who couldn't find the 11 when she needed to dial 911. Which prompted me and about five other girls to scold him about why that was sexist, which prompted a conversation about women's rights in the world, which obviously got quite messy.

And just think, if the 'dumb blonde' wasn't a trope, the boy never would've made the joke, and we wouldn't have had to argue. Though, to be honest, he probably would have made a different joke of the same degree of sexism, and the argument would've still happened.

Another reason I hate being blonde, is because it gives people a chance to say, "oh Trinity! You look so much like your mother!" And believe me, I truly do not want to be compared to my mother.

Why? I'd rather  not get into that right about now, thanks very much.

"Trinity?" Someone says loudly, "Trinity!" They yell into my ear, so loud I'm sure an eardrum had broken. If the goal was to shove me out of my mind palace and into the real world, goal achieved.

I blink a couple of times to focus myself and see that it was my best friend, Maia, who had tried to rob me of my hearing just now.

"Did you hear anything I just said, Trin? At all?" She asks, annoyed. I don' t blame her. I'd be mad at me too if I were her.

I scrunch up my face, "no?" It comes out more of a question than answer. I close my eyes, bracing for an outburst, but it doesn't come. When I open my eyes, I see Maia staring intently at me. Her eyes are a cool gray, hard and calculating when they need to be, but soft and gentle at the same time. Right now they are the latter.

She leans forward and says witch conviction that no one else I know has mastered, "fess up."

I'm taken aback. I was expecting a lengthy speech about not letting my mind wander as much as it does and instead only two words? I can only let out a strangled, "huh?"

Maia nods towards me, her midnight black hair bobbing with her head as she does, "you're going to snap your pen in half if you squeeze it any harder. What the heck is up?"

I look down and notice that my knuckles are indeed white from the pressure of squeezing my pen in my fists. "Just. . . School stuff has me stressed, I guess."

Maia raises her eyebrows and slowly and deliberately says, "right. I'm supposed to believe that Trinity Winters, who probably doesn't even know what a 70% looks like , the same Trinity Winters who just got accepted into the genius school –

I interrupt, "it's not a genius school it's just –

Maia holds up a hand to dismiss me, "gifted, genius, whatever. Semantics. Point is, I'm not  buying that school is bugging you, so come on. What's really up with you?"

Somehow Maia always knows when I'm lying. We met in the first grade, and even then, her stunning gray eyes caught my attention, the way they were both cloudy skies during a storm and a gentle mist on an early morning. The way her lips quirked upwards when she knew she was right, all of it. Everything about her grabbed my eye, and as soon as she bounced over and boldly introduced herself, we became friends. And since then, she' shad an uncanny ability to know when I'm telling the truth.

I sigh loudly in resignation, tilting my head back to look avoid looking her in the eye. "Fine. It's my Mom."

Silence. Always silence when the 'M' word was spoken. It was the only time when Maia didn't know what to say or do. No one did.

"Has she been drinking again?" Maia asks softly, as if she thinks I'm a porcelain doll that's going to crack if she utters a word too loudly. I hate that. I hate people waljing on eggshells around me, whether they're talking about my mom, or afraid of offending the white girl when they talk about racism. I hate feeling singled out.

"Yeah. Yeah she has," I try not to let my voice crack. The truth is, she never stopped. She comes home, tells me to stop reading because I don't need school anyway, then downs more beers than most kids my age think possible. I envy their innocence.

Maia squeezes my hand with both of hers and offers me a smile. "Look on the bright side," she says happily, "it's your birthday! Eleven years old, whoo! Now come, on, we need to get you home so that you can get ready for your party."

___________

You know the saying home is where the heart is? If that's true, then the mansion I'm standing in front of, bracing myself to enter, is definitely not home. I may not be an expert, but I am fairly sure that  your heart is not supposed to be beating out of your chest when you think about going back to your house after school

Three seconds, I tell myself. Three seconds, then I'll go inside.

One.

I can do this. All I have to do is walk through the door and put on a smile and play the part of the perfect, obedient, docile daughter. I can do this.

Two.

Breathe. I just have to breathe. Inhale, exhale. When you  breathe deeply it sends a signal to your brain which sends a signal to your body to relax. Breathe.

Three.

Ten feet. Ten feet and seven centimetres is how far the door is. The door that leads into a place that I hate so much for some reason. Ten feet.

I blink hard and force myself to start walking to towards the huge wooden double doors. Stopping on the porch, I brace myself and, grabbing the brass doorknob with a shaky hand, push the door open.

Silence. Complete, and utter silence. That's odd, considering I can usually at least hear whichever maid my Mother has not grown tired of. Dropping my bag on the floor, I pad into the kitchen where the cook; Harry, usually is. As I hear it, I notice the room is dark. I frown. That is odd.

"Hello?" I call into the room, flipping the light switch on. "Harry? Irma? Are you guys here?" Before I can take a step further, Harry, Irma, and the rest of the help jump out from under the counter.

"Happy birthday Trinity!" They chorus. Harry and Irma step forward to hug me, and in my shock I stand there slackly before hugging them back.

"Your mum told us to make ourselves scarce for your party, so we figured we would give you something now," Harry holds out a small cupcake, a single candle burning brightly.

A blush creeps up my neck as I quietly say, "you didn't have to do this for me."

Irma looks horrified at the mere prospect that I would say such a thing, "well of course we didn't! That's just  what family does!"

Family. She called me family.

"Now make a wish and blow out the ruddy candle before it starts dripping all over the frosting," Harry chastises and I hold the cupcake in my hand before making a single wish.

I wish to find a home. Not a house, a home.

And then I blow the candle out, extinguishing it's fiery light.

Authors note -

So this is a fic that I started writing in grade 6 - and I think I barfed when I reread it, so here it is, edited and all. Let me know if you wanna be tagged or anything. It's also available on Tumblr and FanFiction.Net

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