Betty was most likely the only witch in all of the United Kingdom to not receive her Hogwarts acceptance letter, and that was entirely the fault of her having gone to another wizarding school for the past 2 years. Mrs. Bertrand called her over to the kitchen table one sunny morning where she explained her schooling situation. The smell of blueberry pancakes wafted around the room as Betty took a seat across from her mother.
Sitting in the back of her father's beat up Chrysler watching her beloved city of Paris fade from view was not Betty's ideal way of spending her Saturday morning. Actually, it was far from it.
First of all, there was the Chrysler. From the outside the car appeared normal. It was white with a few dents from past incidents, more often than not involving her father and heavy traffic. The inside was an entirely different story. Betty sat with her arms wrapped around her knees on a wobbly stool, her feet occasionally brushing up against the keys of their old grand piano. The Chrysler was enchanted to be a bit larger on the inside, big enough to carry all their belongings from their flat in Paris to their new home in middle-of-nowhere England. Mrs. Bertrand hadn't been specific about the exact location.
Next chapter of When We Were Golden will be all about Betty! I’ll be retouching & finishing this illustration by the next update. This is how I imagined her during her third year :’)
Betty, Fran, and Oli were inseparable their 5th year at Hogwarts, but before they became friends they were simply trying to get through the school year one day at a time. Growing up in the wake of the wizarding war isn't easy, but it was a little more tolerable knowing they had each other.
A random drabble (because I keep delaying this fic):
She walked alone towards the Quidditch pitch. The afternoon sun illuminated the sky, making her view of the three hoops so much more fantastic. What would it be like to be up there? This was never something Betty considered. She was not focused on Quidditch. In fact, she never thought she would ever be. But her anger got the better of her one too many times already, and nothing says anger management like Quidditch. So what the hell?
She had borrowed a broomstick from Marlene, though noticed the girl gave it to her reluctantly. She tried to clear her mind of them. Marlene and the group of girls. Now it was just her and the pitch. And of course trying to actually ride a broom.
Though Beauxbatons was a superb school on so many levels, it was nowhere near as invested in Quidditch as Hogwarts was. Flying wasn’t even a requirement there, and Betty had opted to taking a different class in its place. Now of course she regretted that decision. How could she have not wanted to learn how to fly a broom? Swallowing a breath full of air she mounted her broom and closed her eyes and then ... nothing happened.
Betty opened her right eye before quickly closing it, concentrating harder. As foolish as it sounded, she considered uttering a magic word before the broom took off?
“Er... come on broom!” she whispered, and when nothing happened she added a ‘please.’
She must have known how ridiculous she looked, mouting a broom in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, by herself, and totally and completely on the ground instead of in the air.
It was when she decided to dismount the broom, after five whole minutes of waiting, and let out a huff of frustration that it made any movement at all. It awkwardly bounced around on the ground. Betty picked up the broom, mouting it, and placing her hands on it, staring hard.
“Why won’t you go up?” she asked it. As the sentence left her mouth the broomstick reacted by shooting straight into the air, with Betty holding on to it for dear life.
She was screaming. She was most definitely screaming. And the broom? Well it was twirling and gliding as if it had a mind of its own. Betty reckoned it did at that point. The broom wizzed through the air and rose higher and higher, until she was level with the three hoops, no longer so tall from her point of view.
Gripping the broom tightly, Betty tried to steer it to the right, to avoid colliding with the nearest post. The broom turned, and Betty just barely grazed the metal ring of the right hoop.
“Ok. OK. OK!” she panicked, struggling to stay atop the broom, “slow down please! PLEASE!” she yelled across the wind that was beating against her face.
Out of all the dumb things that Betty had done in her life, this definitely made the list as one of the dumbest. She had no training, very minimal knowledge of flying, and no one to help her if she crashed into the Whomping Willow. Betty played the scene over in her head and winced, suddenly realizing that she didn’t even have the slightest idea on how to get out of the air now that she was soaring through it.
After about five minutes and to her surprise, the broom started slowing down. Placing a hand to feel her beating heart, Betty let out a breath of relief. She was flying. She was actually flying. A wide grin spread across her face and she tentatively let go of the broomstick and threw her fists into the air in victory. A whoop of triumph escaped her lips, but the broomstick swayed and in the next second Betty was grabbing hold of it again.
Laughing like a loon she soared through the air, feeling the broom move against any shifting of her weight. It was such an odd feeling, to have nothing beneath her feet, and yet it was the absolute best one. She felt as if all her worries had left her, and she was left with a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach. The wind felt good against her face and she let herself close her eyes, enjoying the feeling while it lasted.
