Belle Ame

Coup de Foudre

 London was always bustling. That is something that Marthe Woertman had learned when she was quite young. She had grown up without any parents, though perhaps it was better that way. Marthe did what she wanted whenever she wanted, the orphanage staff never missed her when she was out wandering the damp, wretched alleyways of the city nor did any of the other children. Then again, the other children were not friends of hers, not in the slightest. She had always been a bit different, far-off from where other kids were. For as long as she could remember, she had sat alone in the yard while the others laughed and danced around each other, she would just pick grass and braid it into the tiniest braids and loops and she would do so for hours until they were called in for supper and then she would pick at her food and wait, and wait, and wait. For what she waited, she wasn't sure yet. Once she was old enough, though few would consider ten years old to be old enough, she wandered London on her own instead. She never felt in any danger, for she had a secret of sorts. She had shown Miss Presbyterissa, the owner of the orphanage, once and only once her secret, that which she held closest to her heart. It was soon after she had first arrived at the orphanage, not long after her parents had perished at the hands of Lord Voldemort, himself when Marthe was just six. They had always told her never to speak his name, that much she remembered, but she figured now that they were gone anyways there was no point in foolishly denying the existence of "he-who-shall-not-be-named". It hadn't saved her parents, and she assumed it wouldn't save herself. Miss Presbyterissa had crouched in front of the little girl whilst she was sat, cross-legged in the grass, and she had tugged the girl's sleeves straight and then said, "Marthe, why don't you go play with the other children? I know making friends is hard, but I think you'll find you have a lot in common".

She had given the child a warm smile, though she received only a sullen pout in return, "They can't do what I do, they can't play the game".

The kindly old woman frowned then and sat on the grass fully, facing towards Marthe now, "I'm sure that they could, why don't you show me your game and maybe I can show them how to play, hm?". Marthe nodded reluctantly at that and dug her fingers into the dirt, pawing around until her fingernails were filthy and then she procured what she had been searching for, holding the tiny spider just in the equally small palm of her hand. She smiled at it and stroked it fondly and then suddenly the spider was multiplying until there were tens if not hundreds of arachnids scurrying across Marthe's hands and arms and Miss Presbyterissa shrieked at that, scrambling upwards as fast as she had sat down, backing away from the little girl hurriedly, "You...you have the devil in you, child. You must never do such things again or you'll be damned, damned to hell. You'll get what you deserve". She spared Marthe not one more glance before she was halfway across the yard. She hadn't met Marthe's eyes, nor spoken to her more than sparingly since.

She had learned to make her own way. By nine, she knew the streets of London better than she recalled the faces of her late mother and father. By the age of ten, she had memorized the trains and it is for that reason that she found it quite curious to see people disappearing into walls which definitely were not usually open to visitors on this particular September morning. It had been a family, all of which with shockingly red hair, that had been what had drawn her attention in the first place. Others passed by, seemingly unaware, which was equally curious to her. She moved closer and looked on as each member of the family ran towards, and subsequently vanished into, the wall. First, twins who looked so similar that their differences were nearly imperceptible. They both wore wide, laughing grins on their faces and Marthe thought that they looked like the sort of people she would want to be friends with. Then, a boy of similar height, though he seemed older, more mature. Percy was his name, if her eavesdropping had done her justice. Then a nervous looking boy, about her age, and a dissimilar lad with round glasses and the outline of a scar across his head. That left only what she could assume was the mother, a girl who couldn't be any older than eight, and another girl her own age. They went through together and Marthe was so focused on that, that she didn't notice the presence of somebody else peeking around the same bricked column as she until there was a face right in front of her own, all ruddy cheeks and wild hair, bright eyes and neatly pressed clothes, though she seemed familiar as if this wasn't their first time around, "Are you going to the platform as well?".