Chapter One
Quidditch World Cup
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"Remember to sit straight. I don't want to see any of that slouching you've made yourself a habit of, not today. If you want to sit like a spineless house elf at home, so be it, but I will not tolerate it in front of the Minister of Magic. Do you understand?"
Tears prickled behind Amara's eyes as the steaming hot comb tugged harshly at the roots of her hair. She had never been fond of the process behind getting her hair pressed, nor had she ever particularly liked the result. There was something special to her about her curls as they were in their natural, untamed state. They gave her a sensation of strength. Her grandfather had referred to her locks as a crown once. She supposed that could be a reason.
Of course, it didn't really matter what she liked and didn't like, not as long as her mother had an opinion on the matter. As far as Rosalina Scamander was concerned, her curls were nothing but a messy bird's nest, and leaving the house without being rid of them was not an option – apparently not even if the two of them weren't on speaking terms.
Amara supposed she could compare her mother to a hippogriff. Rosalina Scamander was a proud woman. She carried herself in a way that not only earned respect, but demanded it. Disrespectful behaviour was a dangerous territory with her. Sure, she was gorgeous, sculpted like – and at times worshipped as – a Goddess, but her heavenly looks were misleading. Her features had fooled many into thinking she was as pure as a unicorn, but Amara knew better. She knew that crossing her was dangerous. Underneath the makeup and the silk, she was a clever and ruthless beast, willing to bend the rules and do whatever it took to protect what she held dearest: the family name.
It wasn't like Amara didn't love her mother. She did, very dearly in fact, just as she knew her mother loved her. However, due to the catastrophic results of recent events, the young witch did fear that Rosalina would remain angry with her for quite some time. Hence the tense atmosphere and the countless warnings to behave.
"Yes, mother," Amara gave her a short nod.
Rosalina's heels echoed sharply against the cream-coloured marble as she marched back and forth across the floor, elegantly waving her wand every now and then to adjust Amara's blouse or will the enchanted combs to work more efficiently on her dark coils.
"It is a great honour to have been invited to the Minister's Box. I hope you understand this. Very few others have been invited to join us, and they are all very respectable people, so it is important that we are on our best behaviour."
Amara didn't reply. She wondered if her mother believed her to be completely daft. Of course she understood that they weren't attending the event solemnly to be entertained by a match of Quidditch. Her mother never would have set foot in a chaotic establishment such as a stadium unless there was something for her to gain from it. She thrived in the spotlight, and Cornelius Fudge's invitation to the Minister's Box was a perfect opportunity to do just that. Besides, it was evident that Rosalina was itching to restore their family name after Amara had been so kind to drag it through the mud for her.
A surprised yelp escaped her lips as the tie around her neck was tightened suddenly. She felt her cheeks grow warm as she let her eyes trail down her body. Though it was true that certain people – wealthy ones, like herself – would dress up for important Quidditch matches like the one they were about to attend, she knew that she couldn't possibly hide behind that excuse tonight. The plaid skirt she wore just might have worked if it wasn't for the white lace-adorned blouse and the matching blazer. She appeared just as snobby and prim as her mother, which she imagined the actual Quidditch-fans – the ones with paint in their cheeks and matching scarves worn down by sweat, tears, beer and mustard from previous games – would have quite the fun giggling over if any of them were to catch a glimpse of her in the stadium.
Still, Amara didn't utter a word of protest against her mother's dress code. Not only because she knew it would be useless, but also because she already found herself on dangerous grounds with the witch. She would never forget the hours of enraged screaming that had awaited her in the living room when she was sent home from Ilvermorny with a letter in her hand that forbid her from ever returning.
"All done," Rosalina announced shortly. With yet another elegant flick of her wand, the combs that had been swarming around Amara's hair floated swiftly through the air and landed in a bowl of water on the dressing table. "Off you go, now. And be careful, you mustn't wrinkle your clothes."
"Yes, mother," Amara nodded. Without another word, the fourteen year old witch left her dressing room.
The Scamander household was anything but small. It was to Amara's great dismay that her parents had long abandoned her grandparents' rather simple lifestyle. The idea of travelling the world with nothing but a suitcase as ones living quarters sparked thrills within her. She could picture nothing better than to travel from one singular destination to the next, studying and tending to injured beasts, and writing books about all of her discoveries. Of course, she could do without the more... extreme cases her grandparents had been forced to deal with.
Her parents were exactly the opposite. It seemed the purpose of Newt Scamander's journeys – to teach people about the magnificent nature of magical creatures – completely slipped their mind, as the danger of facing the one and only Gellert Grindelwald was far more important to them. It didn't seem to matter to them the great personal loss that her grandfather had suffered. Only the unwanted fame and wealth that had come with it was enough to perk interest within their simple minds.
She had heard countless of times that the apple didn't fall far from the tree. In her father's case, she supposed that couldn't be more incorrect. At times, she wondered if her dad really was her grandfather's son at all, as they contrasted so greatly from one another.
Her father had traded the suitcase for a villa the size of a castle, with far too many rooms for a family of four to fill. Amara supposed she should be grateful, as this has lead to her grandparents moving into the top floor. She couldn't imagine how dull and grey her childhood would have been, hadn't it been for her grandparents' apartment constantly being filled with exciting magical objects and the most fascinating of beasts. It was a miracle Rosalina hadn't kicked them out yet, with the amount of times one of them broke loose and went to wreak havoc in the rest of the mansion.
The young witch slowed her pace as she reached the massive staircase that lead down to the ballroom. Her father stood on the bottom of it, engulfed in a conversation with her brother, Rolf.
Rolf was a year older than her. He had inherited their father's lean figure, though that seemed to be it, appearance-wise. Just like Amara herself, Rolf was cursed with that coiled hair their mother hated so much. But pressing ones hair wasn't acceptable amongst the men, and so he was forced to cut his hair every six months in order to keep it under control.
Her father, on the contrary, was a pale man with a golden mane he refused to embrace. To Amara'a great dismay, he always wore it slicked back. Apparently, it made him look more professional.
Fortunately, Creed Scamander's shell was far from as hard and cold as Rosalina's. He actually allowed it to crack when was at home, allowing his love and compassion to shine through the slits.
"Sorry if we kept you waiting," a sharp voice announced from behind Amara. Amara has to keep herself from frowning at the formality of her tone. After all, it was her husband and child she addressed, not the Minister himself.
Her father and Rolf both turned at the sound of Rosalina, who had already started walking down the stairs. Amara remained quiet as she followed.
"I think we can agree that it was worth it," Creed joked fondly, a smile on his lips, "You both look beautiful."
He locked eyes with Amara for a moment, and she gave him a small smile as thanks, not daring to part her lips as she feared they would let slip a complaint about the difficulty she was having to breathe.
"Yes," Rolf quickly recovered from his relaxed state at the sight of his mother approaching, pulling his hands out of his pockets and straightening his back. Amara watched as her brother faked a smile. "Beautiful."
It took all her strength not to roll her eyes. Though he had definitely been the designated golden child as of late, she could at least pat herself on the shoulder for being a better actor than him.
"Are we all set, then?" Rosalina said, not acknowledging the compliments. She didn't give her family a chance to respond before she spoke again. "Good. Rolf, you'll apparate with your father, Amara with me."
It was as if her cold voice filled up all the cracks her father had let his warmth flood from. Wordlessly, he held his arm out for his son to take, and the two spun into disappearance. Amara swore she saw a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes. Rosalina certainly didn't make it easy for him to love her. Still, he did. She respected that.
Her mother's hand gripped around her forearm without warning or patience. Amara winced at as her nails dug into her skin, but didn't say a thing. Just like the pair before them, the witches apparated, leaving five simple words spoken by Rosalina Scamander to remain lingering in the large room.
"Don't mess up your hair."
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The last few rays of sunlight licked the ground when Amara's feet landed on the damp grass outside the gigantic stadium, the sound of a thousand people chanting greeting her ears.
She let out a yelp, not expecting the soft underlay. Beside her, her mother brushed off her dress as she recovered from the apparation. She let out a disappointed huff as she watched Amara awkwardly struggling to regain her balance. Unlike her daughter, Rosalina had perfected the art of treading gracefully in high heels to a point where the sudden change of foundation didn't bother her the slightest.
"Now, now," Creed looked at his wife and daughter pointedly, the change in setting causing the authority to shift between the parents, "Let's keep the bickering to a minimum tonight."
At home, Rosalina would have snapped his neck off. But when in public, that simply wasn't their way. It was an unspoken rule between the two that Rosalina was the boss at home, and Creed elsewhere. Amara would have loved to say that it was due to the Scamander name belonging to Creed, but she knew the truth: her parents simply wanted to seem as though they fit into their roles.
Amara had to bite back her own snap. Her father knew very well that bickering wasn't the word for it, as what he was referring to consisted in Rosalina barking at her for no reason. But she said nothing.
Though the stadium was undoubtedly one of the largest constructions Amara had ever seen, witches and wizards from all over the world still managed to fill it up completely. The family of four had to squeeze together amongst the thick crowd of people pooling into the arena. The sound of chants still buzzed in her ears, now accompanied by the countless conversations between the people surrounding her. She was incapable of telling them apart, or making out a word of what anyone were saying. All she gathered was that every person that opened their mouth yelled louder than the last, all trying to wash out the rest of the sounds.
She almost felt claustrophobic as she pushed through the messy atmosphere, her tie suddenly way too tight around her neck and heat crawling up her cheeks as the collar of her blouse grew more irritating by the second. She felt like a caged beast.
It was almost a relief to reach the Minister's Box, where she could finally inhale a proper breath of that sweet air she craved so desperately.
The moment they stepped into the box, her mother's arm locked around her own. To an outsider, the gesture might have resembled motherly love, but Amara knew better than to think it was. Rosalina wasn't one to perform any indicators of love. Not unless she had an audience, anyway. Locked in her mother's grip, Amara knew what she meant to say: "Behave."
She did as she was told.
To her great dismay, the sharp nails digging threateningly into her forearm and the sweet smile she'd plastered onto her face couldn't change the fact that Cornelius Fudge was undoubtedly the most boring wizard she had ever met. Upon being introduced to one another, the Minister promised stories filled with excitement and wonder. He neither met nor exceeded the expectations he built up. His stories from the Ministry thus far had been as dull as... well, she didn't really have anything to compare it to. Anything was more exciting than the words tumbling out of that man's mouth.
Still, she kept her smile on, and nodded encouragingly at him every now and then, growing more cautious of her mother's forceful grip by the second. She wondered if her mother found his stories as unbearably boring as she did. It was impossible to tell, really. After all, the word that best described the Scamanders was fake.
Amara was at last released when fireworks cut off the Minister's voice and stole his attention away from whatever story he was telling. By then, her cheeks had grown stiff, and ached from the exaggerated smiling. In addition to being dull, the Minister had to be absolutely daft in order not to notice her clear disinterest in everything he had been saying.
"Hi," she greeted as she at last was able to join her brother.
He immediately scrunched his nose, "Merlin, your breath reeks. And your tongue is all brown, what on earth have you been licking?"
Amara rolled her eyes and gave him a light shove, "Oh, shut up. You know I have no choice. Besides —"
Her voice was cut off abruptly has her brother broke out in applause along with the rest of the stadium. The Bulgarians had entered the field.
"Krum! Krum! Krum! Krum!"
Amara watched with amusement as Rolf enthusiastically joined the thousands of wizards chanting the player's name. His eyes followed the young wizard like a snallygaster's would follow its prey, with what could only resemble hunger.
"Oh, would you look at that, it's the love of your life!" she teased, only to be granted a sharp elbow in her ribs.
"Shut up," Rolf dismissed, though the faintest tint of red had started to paint his cheeks. She watched as he struggled to contain himself, eyes almost bulging out of his head when the Bulgarian player waved at the crowd.
The announcer's voice boomed through the stadium, "Good evening! It gives me great pleasure to welcome each and every one of you to the final of the 422nd Quidditch World Cup..."
"Wouldn't that be something for mother to milk," Amara continued loudly to drown out the cheers that erupted around her, "I can already see Rita Skeeter's headlines. Scamander Heir Weds Bulgarian Qudditch Star Ricky Krum."
"It's Viktor."
"She really would be so proud. Especially if you could convince him to take our name."
Rolf scoffed. "Alright. First of all, that headline was way too basic to be Rita's. She's juicier than that, come on. Second of all, if any of us stands a chance with him, it'll have to be you. That man's as straight as mother's wand."
Amara stifled a laugh at the comparison, and grimaced at her brother. "You don't know that."
"Sure I do," he insisted, eyes glued on the match as it unfolded in front of them. "Harry Potter understands snakes, and I understand gays. It's a gift."
Amara blinked, tilting her head. "Harry Potter understands snakes?"
Rolf nodded. "Oh, yeah. Draco Malfoy just told me a story about how he tried to talk a snake into killing some poor kid two years ago. Say what you will about the boy who lived, I say he's a bit of a loony."
Rolf pointed his thumb to the front of the box, and surely enough, she could spot the signature white hair of the Malfoy heir on the front row. He was standing next to his father, Lucius, who seemed to be more interested in talking to the Minister than the actual game. Amara snorter ungraciously upon discovering her mother doing exactly the same.
"I didn't know the Malfoys were here," she commented, crossing her arms over her chest as she amusedly watched Rosalina and Lucius battle for the Minister's attention. He, of course, didn't really seem interested in either of them. She could understand that for several reasons. First of all, there was an actual World Cup happening before their eyes, and second of all, they were both unbelievably uninteresting. Almost as uninteresting as Cornelius himself.
"Really?" Rolf chuckled amusedly, "Haven't you noticed how it reeks of freshly polished Death Eater?"
The snarky comment made Amara's heart skip a beat as her jaw dropped slightly. She glanced around them, glad to realise that everyone were far too focused on the match to have heard him.
"Rolf," her voice dropped, "Don't say that."
"Why not? Lucius can say what he wants, but nobody with a capable head will believe him, ey?" Rolf threw a look around him. "I swear there's something odd about that family. That poor Draco guy probably has more daddy issues than you have mummy issues. Doesn't make him less of an arse, though."
Heat crept up Amara's cheeks. She felt a sudden itch to snap the stupid tie off her neck.
"I don't have mummy issues," she denied, crossing her arms over her chest as she shrunk under Rolf's stare.
"Yeah," he scoffed. "And I'm not gay."
A sudden roar of applaud boomed through the stadium, finally releasing the excited tension that had been building in the people around them. The roar cut their conversation short, and Amara turned away. She could see her mother putting on an ecstatic smile for the Minister, pretending to be thrilled by the score.
Amara had to pinch herself in order not to scowl. She certainly was in for a long night.