Amelie Fontaine

Name: Amelie Fontaine School: Ilvermorny Year: Third Year House: Wampus Blood Status: Pure Blood ___________✩✩✩___________

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Appearance

Amelie is entirely average. Her mousy brown hair fails midway down her back, framing her pale face and slightly rounded cheeks. She’s of average height and size, small enough to blend in with the crowd without going noticed. She’d never been fond of her pale blue eyes – not bright enough to be considered striking. The one thing that makes her stand out from the crowd is the one thing she wishes more than anything to change about herself. A childhood accident with her older brother had left her with a long scar along her face, running below her eye and vertically down to her jaw.

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Height: 5 foot 1
Weight: 80 pounds
Eyes: Pale blue, bordering on grey
Hair: Long with a slight wave, mousy brown in colour
Scars: A long scar, running across her right cheekbone and nose, stretching down towards her jawline.

Personality

Amelie has always been a quiet girl who worked best alone. Her scarred face often acting as a deterrent to new friends, or as something for her to be bullied about. Because of this, she spent the majority of her young years trying her hardest to slip by unnoticed, focusing on schoolwork and her art. Her mother once told her she had a kind soul, one which anyone would be blessed to befriend; but it was a mother’s word against the world. A world which had made clear that it wouldn’t be kind to Amelie. But her once meek persona, which stopped her from standing up for herself or telling people just what to do with their opinions, came back anew after the summer after she’d turned twelve. She’d vowed to herself, no more being walked on, no more standing idly in the shadows too scared to make a sound. They say “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” and Amelie has nothing to lose.

Self-destructive

Stubborn

Misunderstood

Chaotic

Selfish

Lonely

Sarcastic

History

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The first time Amelie witnessed death she was six. Her brother had been there for her again, holding her hand at their grandfathers funeral. He’d told her everything wold be okay as long as they had each other.

The first time Amelie used magic she was seven. Her brother had been throwing little pieces of paper at her as they both sat out in the garden and pretended to be listening to their aunt’s story about how a no-maj had almost walked into the wizarding office she worked in. Dean hadn’t been caught by their parents yet, but they’d both given her warning looks. It annoyed her that Dean hadn’t been caught, and as fast as the thought had crossed her mind, the pitcher of water in front of him was tumbling off the table and soaking his chest and legs.

The first time Amelie had a crush, she was eight. Her brother had snuck up behind her and read from her diary over her shoulder. He’d told her she wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend until she was at least thirty-six.

The first time Amelie was heart-broken she was eight and three months. Her brother had offered to come with her to class so he could shout at the younger boy for giving Sophia Parilla a valentines day card instead of Amelie.

The first time Dean couldn’t come to Amelie’s rescue she was nine.

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She was nine when the incident happened. It hadn’t been a particularly memorable day; the sky was cloudy and there was a distinct scent of petrichor which Amelie had once loved. It was early spring, the grass damp with morning dew. It hadn’t deterred the pair of Fontaines from running outside the moment they’d finished breakfast, determined to continue making the tree house they’d started the weekend prior. Their father had called to them that he’d be out soon and not to go too close to the stacks of wood and tools her father had favoured over magic for this particular project. Of course, Amelie and Dean hadn’t heeded his warning, the pair climbing atop timbre like a wrestling arena without a care in the world. It was common for the pair to wrestle, Dean often letting Amelie win just to see the prideful look which flooded her face when she did. they fought, pushing and pulling and tickling, until they were both short of breath. They’d both sank backwards to lay atop the pile of timbre, chests rising and falling in tandem.

Amelie had grinned at her brother wickedly, poking him in the side a final time and whispering the words which had started their impromptu wrestling match that day. “Show me, please.” He was older than here, almost fourteen, and with that meant he’d learnt more than a spell or two. She knew, of course, that he was not supposed to do magic at home, but it was no more than how they were not supposed to fight and clamber and climb.

And it seemed his resolve had finally worn thin, whether it was to finally shut up his little sister and stop her from pestering him, or because he just liked seeing the glint in her eyes when she saw her brother use magic. “Okay, fine. Our secret,” He had whispered, both climbing down from their perch and moving slightly further into the tree-line behind them.

“Come on, Dean, do something interesting,” Amelie whined, lips pouting and eyes going wide in the way they often did when she wanted to get something done her way. Dean said it was unfair when she used it on him, unable to say no to his little sister whenever she caught him with those wide puppy dog eyes. And this time was no different. He took the bait and with a roll of his eyes lifted took his wand out from his jacket pocket.

“Okay, but you asked for it,” He grinned, almost taunted as he called out, “Rictusempra.” The effect was instantaneous, and Amelie was almost doubled over on the floor in laughter. Her giggles were infectious, and Dean found himself smiling at her fondly. Through breaths and laughter, she managed to shout out “stop,” multiple times over. Eventually, he’d concede and let the spell end, Amelie taking two steps backwards.

“That was mean,” She sulked, though the gleam in her eyes was still there, telling him she wasn’t mad. It was almost testing, as if she was daring him to just try and repeat something like that. He raised his wand again and she bolted, weaving between trees with her brother hot on her tail. She found one with particularly thick branches and was quick to start her climb, not that she got more than a few feet off the ground by the time Dean was looking up at her. “No, don’t, please,” she shouted, climbing another foot into the air when she saw that Dean’s wand was still pointed at her.

He opened his mouth, lips forming around the spell when she stepped on a loose branch and slipped, the collar of her shirt getting stuck on the rough bark and holding her captive as she tried to free herself. “Dean, help, I’m stuck, I’m gonna die,” She hurried out, though they were both fully aware that even if she did happen to fall, she could manage the five foot drop. And then they were both laughing again, Dean at her unfortunate situation, and Amelie just because it was what she always did. “Please, De,” she repeated eventually, arms too short to properly reach behind her and free her caught shirt.

And in hindsight, maybe he should have just climbed up after her and released her by hand. And in hindsight, maybe they shouldn’t have been in the trees playing at all. And in hindsight, maybe there were reasons why minors weren’t supposed to be doing magic alone with their little sisters.

He’d been laughing, entirely too distracted to attempt a spell which required so much focus, he should have been paying attention. His guard was down- he’d performed one spell, surely another wouldn’t hurt. But hindsight was just that, and so between bouts of laughter, Dean had raised his wand, pointed it at the collar of her shirt which had been caught by the branch, and called out “Diffindo”.

Time had paused for a moment, Dean’s wand falling to he dirt and Amelie’s eyes widening, before she let out a blood-curdling scream. She jerked her hands up to her face, the action dislodging her caught shirt as if she’d never been stuck in the first place. Or maybe she’d torn it, she didn’t know, it wasn’t the priority. Through his laughter, Dean had missed, striking his sister’s face and leaving a large gash down the entire right side. The last thing Amelie could remember from that day was being lifted into the air to the sound of her brother’s panicked shouts. And then she woke up in a too-hard bed in a too-bright room. They hadn’t wrestled or fought again for almost a year after the accident, and he’d promised not to use magic outside of school again, Dean too scared he’d injure his sister again.

At home, Amelie and her family were extremely close. Her brother was her best friend, and when he’d finally managed to shed the guilt for what he’d done, they’d become impossibly closer than before. Amelie’s mother, a kindly woman who worked with magical creatures, could often be found tending the flowers in the family back garden. Amelie’s father was a chef at a well-renowned no-maj restaurant in the city and when time allowed, would cook lavish meals for the family. Despite their blood lineage, Amelie had always been taught about the importance of respect, having been integrated into the world of the non-magical from the very start.

At elementary school, she’d been ostracised, left alone by many of the other children because she looked different. There’d be rumours as to how her face had been scarred, ranging from a hippogriff attack or a fight with a no-maj, to an unfortunate trip down a stairwell. She’d been nine, the rumours were all obvious nonsense, but children could be cruel, and no one wished to associate themselves with the girl with the strange face. Then she’d started Ilvermorny, and she’d been overcome with excitement at the thought of making new friends; she’d been left disappointed and longing for her earlier years when all children would do was run away when she walked to the playground. Here, with kids much older than her and more children in her entire year than had been at her small primary school, she wished to be left alone. The bullying got worse and her care-free, resilient front she’d managed to build up over the years was continuously chipped away at. Until one day, in the summer before she returned for her second year, she grew bitter and spiteful, and fed up with being treated how she was.

Her return for second year had been dramatic, a few months changing her from a doormat who was walked over, to a sarcastic firecracker ready to go off at anyone who even looked at her funny.

Family

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Mother: Cosette Fontaine
- Cares for Magical Creatures
- Moved from France for university when she was 18
- Kindly woman with a knowing smile

Father: Barrett Fontaine
- Chef at a no-maj restaurant
- Moved from France to follow his childhood sweetheart, Cosette
- Strong willed and opinionated man with a warm heart which cares too much

Brother: Dean Fontaine
- Amelie's whole world
- Four years older than Amelie so in his seventh year
- Overly protective of his little sister, still guilty about ever hurting her

Threads

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Welcome to Augurey Cabin - viewtopic.php?f=238&t=17211&p=273078#p273078

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Statistics
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STAMINA 8 | EVASION 9 | STRENGTH 4 | WISDOM 8
ARC POWER 7 | ACCURACY 9

Abilities
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FIRST YEAR

Terrible Presence

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People always seemed on edge around Amelie, nervous that something bad might happen if they took their eyes off of her for a second. To the girl, it felt like it had been happening all of her life - people avoiding talking to her if at all possible unless it was to thrown an insult or to mock her. But if she was honest with herself, she knew it had started when she was nine. That was when everything seemed to have started. That was when people who had been her friends for her entire life decided that they didn’t want to be around her anymore. That was when family, loving as they were, always seemed to be walking on eggshells around her. That was when Amelie learned what it truly felt like to be alone.

She was feared by some, the nasty scar on her face an apparent life sentence to horrified looks for peers and dubious glances from parents who were quick to cross the road with their toddlers hands tightly clasped in their own. She was hated by others, the ‘deformity’ seemingly giving them a free pass to insult and taunt and attack whenever they had the opportunity. Of course it was never when they were alone, she’d never been targeted by just one person, always a group, always enough that if Amelie had decided to retaliate, she would be outnumbered.

It was a confusing paradox to be the centre of: too frightening to be protected, but too easy a target to not take advantage of. She sometimes wondered if it was fear itself which drove people to dislike her so much, rather than the innate hatred she always assumed she provoked from people. Or perhaps it was the case that attacking first, knocking her down before she had the chance to start the fight was just the easier thing to do. Either way, she’d learned early on that people were always and would likely always be uneasy around her.

She had hoped that moving to a new school would help. New people, who didn’t know her past, where her name wasn’t synonymous with strange and scary. But there had still been the tormentors, even if they were fewer and there were people who looked at her with pity instead of hatred (though the glint of fear persisted). And then she’d decided to simply embrace it. If they thought she was this big, hideous beast, like one parents used to scare their children into behaving, then she might as well act the part. So she’d come back, stronger in self and darker in soul as someone who would no longer take the punishment she got from simply looking different. She’d become the tormenter, no longer the tormented. And her name would come to mean trouble. And she’d give them all something to fear.

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SECOND YEAR

Fearless

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Amelie wasn’t one to scare easily. Perhaps it was innate, growing up with an older brother who pushed her to do things she would have otherwise steered clear of if not to prove herself more than anything. Or maybe it was a result of years spent building walls around herself, shutting out those who shunned and berated her. Most likely, it was a combination of both, that the seed had been planted growing up, trying desperately to keep up with her brother, and sprouted the first time she was spited. Whatever had caused the shoot to grow and the roots to dive deeper, whatever had engrained the notion of being unafraid and head-strong and untouchable, had finally caused flowers to bloom on the forest which now surrounded – protected – her mind.

It had grown with every taunt, every jibe or push would chip away at her, trying desperately to make her crumble. But with each insult, she grew numb to it, having heard it all before. Scarface. Mistake. Abomination. Children could be cruel and inventive, and for a time she loathed the fact that there was always something new, a new word yet to be thrown at her. Until there wasn’t anymore. Until every word had been used up. Until each slight just acted as another brick to add to the wall around her heart.

It was easy to be afraid of the things that go bump in the night when you’d never truly met a monster. A ghost or a ghoul or a creature was always more terrifying if it’s been built up in your head. It was never as bad as one might thing, purely because they weren’t the real monsters. No. The real monsters are hidden amongst us, walking around wearing faces which look like your own and disguising themselves beneath perfect smiles and pretty faces. Amelie knew who the real monsters were. But she wasn’t even afraid of those anymore for once you’ve faced your fears – for every day of every week of years of your life – they just don’t seem quite so scary anymore.

Her parents might have worried, if they’d known how desensitised she’d grown. They might have feared, with an irony that the world so often enjoyed, in place of their little girl. But she kept much of it hidden. She never spoke of the trauma she suffered act school from those who were supposed to be her friends. Likewise, she never confided in a professor who’d first thought would be to get her family involved. She didn’t need to. She was strong and independent and no longer afraid. She was fearless.

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THIRD YEAR

Sixth Sense

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After the accident which caused the wretched scar across her face, and the subsequent years of torment she’d received because of it, Amelie had become quite adept at sensing danger. Even the most inconsequential thing seemed to alert the young girl – whether it was a stray quaffle on the quidditch pitch or her next assailant attempting to sneak up on her. It had gotten to the point that those trying to insult or attack her had given up all pretences of stealth and simply elected for more direct and obvious routes of torture. Either that or forming a group large enough that even if she did sense them coming, she’d be unable to evade all of them. The point was, she was observant, more so than most, and it meant she was always noticing things which seemed even the slightest out of place.

“Mom, your shoelace is fraying, would you like me to fix it?” She’d asked one day over the summer when they’d been preparing for the extended family to come over. It had been niggling at her ever since her mother had walked outside with a large bowl of punch in her arms and that delicate smile which the woman always seemed to wear. Her mother had glanced down, eyes slightly widened as she registered that her shoelace was in fact beginning to fray. She’d voiced her surprise at ‘how on earth did you see that Mellie’ as Amelie had knelt at her feet and begun fixing the offending lace.

“I think something is wrong with her,” Amelie pouted as her fingers ran through the shaggy coat of the family dog who other than being slightly lethargic, showed no difference in behaviour than he did any other day. But Amelie felt something when she looked into his dark eyes, something which fixed below her hands where they lay in his fur.

“Here you go again, Psychic Sandra,” Her brother had teased, ruffling her hair in a similar way to how she was petting the dog. Her pout only deepened. Still, her mother took the dog to the no-maj vet, just to see. But there was nothing to find other than an “I told you so.” Her mother working with magical creatures, so even though they’d been given the clear, she looked out for any signs of illness to appear. It was three days later that they realised the dog had accidentally eaten one of the dragon treats Amelie’s mother had brought home from work, resulting in the unfortunate of constant hiccups. Nothing a simple healing potion couldn’t fix.

Despite being Pure Bloods, with both of Amelie’s parents being raised purely around the magical, the Fontaine family liked to partake in many a no-maj ritual. A way to teach the children that those without magic had struggles different to their own and that they had ways around their lack of magic. For example, despite not having access to it in their own home, both Amelie and her brother had been introduced to the internet and no-maj telephones in case they were ever in a situation where they couldn’t use their magic and needed help. Or how they all cooked as a family, homemade recipes which took time and effort with every vegetable chopped by hand and each egg cracked individually. Perhaps one of the most mundane things they did was hanging the washing out to dry without the help of a drying charm or heating spell to speed up the process. Amelie’s mother had once remarked that it left the laundry with a fresher smell – untainted by magic. She’d laughed at the time though perhaps understood it now.

It was on a bright Thursday afternoon after her mother had hung the washing out to dry that Amelie felt a tickle just behind her right ear. Over the years she’d come to know what a few of her strange ticks meant – like how her nose twitching meant she was being watched, an itching palm was good luck, and how a tickled behind your right ear meant a storm was brewing. She’d been quick to tell her mom it was going to rain and had helped her bring in the laundry despite her mother’s hesitance considering the still bright sun in the sky. Not five minutes after they’d finishing packing up did the heavens open.

Things like this just always seemed to happen to Amelie, she just noticed. She had a sense for things, or so her mother often told her. And even though more often than not it was a curse more than a blessing – that she saw faults in everyday life which she herself couldn’t fix or to other seemed too inconsequential to change – she knew that it had also saved her on more than one occasion.

Broom Racer ______Yes______

Quidditch Player ______No______

Duellist ______No______