Chapter 6

                                    

                                          
Evie's POV:
Beauxbatons had never felt like home, but this year... it was worse. The cold grandeur of the marble halls, the shimmering chandeliers were  a cruel mockery of the isolation I felt within these walls. Everywhere I turned, whispers followed. Cold stares from the girls who had always looked down on me. They had never accepted me, not when I first arrived years ago and certainly not now.
I was different, they said. Too different.
It wasn't just my accent or the fact that I had spent summers in England. It wasn't just my unkempt hair that was a struggle to tame into the sleek, perfect styles they all flaunted. It was deeper than that. There was something in me that would never fit the Beauxbatons mould, something wild, unrefined and fun, and they hated me for it.
And when they hexed me, when their taunts turned to jinxes and curses, no one seemed to notice. Not the professors, not the headmistress. No one cared.
It had started out with small things—my bag disappearing or my quill snapping in half at the worst possible moment. But it escalated quickly. I would be walking down the hall when suddenly, my legs would buckle beneath me as a hex took hold, sending me sprawling onto the polished floor. Laughter always followed. Or worse, the invisible slashing of a sharp spell would leave my robes tattered and torn, though never enough to draw real blood.
I had retaliated most times. I tried keeping my head down, but that never worked. It only made me more of a target. And when the teachers did nothing—when they turned a blind eye, their own disdain for my difference was clear in every sidelong glance—I realised I was on my own.
If they were going to make my life hell, then I was going to give them a taste of their own medicine. Nothing dangerous—no, I was smarter than that. Just practical jokes. Small, clever spells that would give them something to think about. A hex on their hair, turning their perfect blonde locks into hideous shades of green. A charm to make their voices squeak uncontrollably. I enchanted their shoes to stick to the floor or made their textbooks emit foul smells when they opened them.
The satisfaction I felt watching them squirm was a bright spot in an otherwise miserable existence. Each prank was a small victory, a moment where I felt in control.
But it didn't last.
By Christmas, the professors had had enough. Or rather, I had become too much of a nuisance for them to ignore. One by one, they began to pull me aside after lessons, their expressions severe, their voices cold. 
"Evie, your behaviour is unacceptable," they would say. "You are acting like a common hooligan."
It was laughable, really, considering they had done nothing when I was the one being tormented. But that didn't matter to them. What mattered was that I had disrupted the flawless, poised atmosphere of Beauxbatons.
The headmistress had me in her office just a few weeks before the Christmas break, her blue eyes steely as she issued her final warning.
"If this behaviour continues, young lady," she said, her voice clipped, "you will never return to Hogwarts. You will be forced to remain here at Beauxbatons. Do you understand me?"
I nodded, too stunned to speak. The idea of not returning to Hogwarts, of not seeing George again, hit me harder than I could have anticipated. But it was her next words that sealed my fate.
"Clearly, nothing else seems to get the message through to you," she said, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. "So a beating it shall be."
My blood ran cold at her words. She had said it so casually, as if it were just another routine punishment, no different than detention or lines. I stared at her, waiting for her to laugh, waiting for her to take it back. But she didn't.
And that night, I learned what she meant.
They were careful, of course. Always careful. The beatings came in private, behind closed doors. Headmistress Madame Maxime and Professor Carraway took turns, though it was always the same routine. They never struck my face or hands—nothing that could be seen by the other students. Instead, they targeted my ribs, my back, the tops of my legs. Places that could be hidden beneath my robes. "A beating until you get in line and act like a lady," they had said. "We don't like to do this to you Miss Potter but you have left us with no other alternative,"
It didn't matter whether or not I had broken a rule. Some days, I was beaten simply because a professor had heard about a prank from weeks ago, or because they suspected I had done something wrong, whether I had or not. The message was clear: I was the problem. I was always the problem here.
The worst came a week before Christmas. I had been caught retaliating after one of the girls hexed me in the courtyard, and they took me straight to the headmistress. I barely remember what she said—her voice was just a distant hum, drowned out by the roaring anger and fear that filled my head.
That night, the beating was worse than it had ever been before. Each blow sent fire coursing through my veins, and by the time they were done, I could barely stand, let alone walk. I crawled back to my dormitory, every movement agony. My skin burned, bruises blooming across my body in places no one would ever see.
I didn't leave my bed for days after that. I couldn't. My body refused to move, each breath a reminder of what had happened. And as I lay there, staring at the ceiling of my small, lonely room, I knew I couldn't keep going like this. 
I was supposed to join George and the Weasleys for Christmas, but there was no way I could make the trip in this condition. There was no way I could let them see me like this.
With trembling hands, I wrote George a letter, lying through my teeth as I explained that I was ill and wouldn't be able to come. It broke my heart to write it. But what else could I do?
I folded the letter, called for Gallahad who had perched on my windowsill and sent it off with a shaky breath, knowing it would reach him soon. Knowing it would hurt him, but also knowing it was for the best. 
That was when I realised I had no choice. If I wanted to survive, I had to stop fighting the way I had been fighting up until this moment. No more pranks, no more standing up for myself. I had to become exactly what they wanted me to be—silent, obedient, invisible. 
I threw myself into my studies with a determination I had never felt before. I memorised every spell, every charm, every potion. I spent hours in the dance hall, forcing my body to move with the grace and poise that Beauxbatons demanded of its students, even though each movement sent sharp pains through my bruised ribs.
I had to make my remaining years here bearable. I had to survive. 
Because one day, I would leave Beauxbatons behind. One day,  I would be able to enter Hogwarts again with my friends and actually enjoy school like I used to. 
But until then, I had to play their game. I had to endure.
I had no other choice.