Young Writers Society

Beatrice was a first year at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She had been sorted into Gryffindor, but the young redhead had no idea why. She wasn’t like any of the other first years; they’d all hit it off quickly, and Beatrice was still without a friend. Sure, there were kids she sat next to in classes, but no one ever came up to her in the common room for an impromptu game of Exploding Snap, or to ask if she wanted to study together.

Beatrice had always been a bit of a loner, quiet and shy, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be alone. She just didn’t know how to approach people, and people were not approaching her. To overcome this feeling of loneliness, she spent a lot of time writing home to her parents and younger siblings. They often congratulated her on her good grades so far; studying was another way to occupy her free time. But something else Beatrice enjoyed doing was strolling around the castle. There was just so much to explore!

It so happened that Beatrice was meandering up the staircase to Gryffindor tower, trying to look like she had a purpose, when she heard a whisper in her ear. Literally; the tiny hint of a girlish voice came from right beside her head, on the wall.

“Hello, little Gryffindor.” Beatrice swung around to see who was talking, and came face to face with the painting of a little girl. She couldn’t see what painting the girl was in because she had her whole face pressed up against the canvas. The girl looked about Beatrice’s age, but not from her era. She was certainly Victorian, with beautifully braided hair in a bow, and a violet buttoned-up dress, sporting a ruffled collar. Her smile was highlighted by clusters of freckles.

“Hello,” Beatrice said, a blush forming on her cheeks.. She’d only ever spoken to a painting once before, and that was when the first years had trekked to Gryffindor tower on sorting night. And ‘hello’ was as far as the conversation had gotten.

“I’m Ethel. What’s your name?”

“Beatrice.”

“Is that all?” Ethel asked curiously.

“Umm. Beatrice Ann Clairvoy.” The girl’s face brightened at that, her eyes sparkling with childish delight.

“Ooh! Does that mean you’re a fortune teller?”

“No…” Beatrice had no idea what the portrait was talking about, and she shuffled uncomfortably on the stone landing. “I’m just a student.”

‘Well, I knew that!” This remark made the Gryffindor blush, and Ethel bit her lip as if she regretted her quick tongue. “I’m sorry Beatrice, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“That’s okay.” She sheepishly smiled, and looked around her to check that no one else was watching. There were more portraits watching, of course, without a doubt they always were. But the only other living people were far up the staircase by now. Beatrice realised it must be getting late, she’d have to hurry to the common room before a teacher told her off for ignoring curfew.

“I should probably go.”

“Oh no! Please stay!” Ethel stepped backwards, her youthful face no longer pressed against the canvas, so that Beatrice could see what painting she inhabited. It was a fairground, with a massive carousel in the background. Miniscule brushstrokes formed the outlines of horses and old-fashioned cars, twirling around in circles. Beatrice edged just a little bit closer to the canvas, and thought she could faintly hear children laughing and the bubbly tunes of the amusement ride. Ethel held out a pale hand and said, “Do come inside, Beatrice, we could have so much fun!”

The Gryffindor adopted a quizzical look; she knew that the ghosts could come out of their paintings, but no one had told her that the living could go in. “I can go inside?” She asked quietly, taking one last look for watching eyes.

“Of course! Just take my hand.”

“Umm…” Beatrice weighed up her options. She could go back to the safety of the common room right now and not get in trouble, or have to talk to any Victorian strangers. Or, she could jump inside a world of paint and experience a whole other era, and potentially make a new friend. The latter option was ridiculously frightening, and as Beatrice’s heart began thumping in her chest, she almost made a dive for the stairs. But her house had a reputation for being brave, so she decided to try and be the model Gryffindor and go for it. “Okay.”

“Excellent!” Ethel beamed, extending her hand even further. Beatrice reached towards the painting, and for a second her hand touched canvas. Then the barrier between the worlds disappeared, and her hand was inside the painting! In fact, her hand looked like a painting! She kept reaching, and finally felt human flesh. Ethel’s hand clasped onto Beatrice, and then the portrait pulled. Hard. Beatrice was astounded by the little girl’s strength and yelped as her body plunged forward into the canvas.

“Welcome to the carnival, Beatrice,” she said proudly, already leading Beatrice towards the carousel. Everything about the painting amazed her; it was a whole new world, a completely different experience. The air smelt… musty, like an artist’s box of paints. Yet the scent of fairy-floss and buttered popcorn also lingered in the air. And everything was painted. Beatrice could make out the brush strokes in the blue sky, on the fairground tents, on the horse’s wooden manes, even Ethel’s skin. Looking down at her own robes, the Gryffindor saw that she was painted too. Beatrice wondered what a passerby would think if they looked into the frame and saw a modern Hogwarts student in a Victorian painting!

“Do you like carousels?” Ethel asked, pulling her, by the hand, closer and closer to the ride. The children on it were waving to their friends and parents, gothic looking figures standing around the perimeter, and there was already a line of kids waiting to hop on.

“I’ve only been on one.” She could remember all those years ago when her parents had taken her to a muggle themepark. With Beatrice’s lack of wizard friends, they’d hoped she’d take to some muggle children. But the shy girl had clung onto her mother’s clothes all day. They’d even ended up sharing a horse on the carousel, because Beatrice refused to leave her mother’s side. “Years ago.”

“I ride it all the time,” Ethel giggled, “seeing as I live here.”

“Isn’t it odd?”

“Living at a carnival?” Beatrice nodded, and the little girl continued, “Why, of course it’s odd. But it’s awfully fun!”

“Don’t you ever leave and explore the castle?”

“Only for deathday parties, otherwise I’m too preoccupied with all these splendid rides.”

“And the people?” Beatrice asked. For a second she pondered whether Ethel was lonely like her. That idea was quickly crushed.

“Oh, yes! The other ghosts visit every now and then, but the painted children are just as friendly.”

“They seem it…” As the two girls joined the carousel line -Ethel in her violet, rufffled dress, and Beatrice in her black school robes- a boy in a sailor’s outfit appeared in front of them. He was holding a stick of bright pink fairy floss, much of which was stuck around his mouth.

“Hey Ethel,” he said, “Who’s this?”

“Beatrice Ann Clairvoy.”

“Clairvoyant, eh?” He held out a sticky hand, which Beatrice politely took with a very loose grip. “I’m Elliot, but I suppose you already knew that.” He winked.

“No…”

“Elliot comes from the beach painting in the fourth floor study room,” Ethel explained, stealing a lump of fairy-floss. He offered the stick to Beatrice, but she shook her head. If any teachers found her, she didn’t want them to think she’d raided the kitchens on top of being out after curfew.

“No thank you, I’ve already had dinner.”

“Suit yourself, but it’s always sweet time here.” He emphasised this by shoving the remainder of the candy all in at once, moaning as he swished the sugar round his mouth.

“Tell Beatrice about the sandcastles in your painting,” Ethel prompted. “They come to life, it’s absolutely marvelous!”“Well, the castles don’t come to life, silly,” Elliot’s eyes widened, “but that’s a clever idea.” He turned to the Gryffindor. “Sometimes a wizard will hop into my painting, and he’ll wave a wand at my sandcastles.”

“Oh?” Beatrice listened intently, feeling the weight of her own wand within her robe. She was growing to like the delightful world of canvas and paint, a whole other realm right inside the castle walls. Well, right on the castle walls.

“And then little knights and maidens and peasants-”

“Peasants isn’t a nice word, Elliot,” Ethel interrupted.

“Sorry. Knights and maidens and the royal household will climb out of the sand and run about the castle. Sometimes an enemy army will come too, and bring it crashing to the ground.”

“But only if they win the battle.”

“That’s right. If the enemy is defeated, the little people will celebrate and dress up the castle with seaweed and shells.”

“It’s splendid!” Ethel clapped her hands together with delight, “I’ve seen it twice!”

“It sounds wonderful,” Beatrice said.

“You can come see one day,” Elliot offered, “if you like.”

“I will-”

Suddenly the carousel music stopped, and the children’s voices hushed with anticipation for their turn on the ride. All was silent for a moment, only the distant sounds of the fairground echoed in the painting as the carousel slowed to a stop.

“It’s our turn now!” Ethel beamed. “Come on Beatrice!”

“Out of my way!” Elliot abandoned the pair, running and shoving past children to reach the front of the line. “I get the grey car!”

“He always wants the grey car,” she groaned.

“What should I pick?” Beatrice knew it was an odd thing to ask; she could pick whichever horse or vehicle was available. But she wanted to keep up the conversation with Ethel because, for the first time since she’d arrived at Hogwarts, she didn’t feel that shy anymore. She was enjoying spending time inside a painting with a Victorian ghost. That would sound really weird when she wrote to her parents about it, but weirder things frequently happened at the school, if the Daily Prophet was anything to go by.

“You should take a horse, horses are much better than cars. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about… cars just smell!”

“Have you ever seen a modern car, Ethel?” Beatrice asked as the line grew shorter and the girls got closer to the massive carousel.

“No,” she said simply, “I haven’t been outside since I died.” Beatrice didn’t think it would be polite to ask how she died, but Ethel seemed to read her mind, because she continued, “I died from ‘complications of the fever’, at least that’s what the doctor said when he declared me dead.”

In no time at all it was their turn to climb the steps up to the ride. Ethel lead the way, climbing onto a beautiful wooden horse with a shiny black coat and purple saddle that perfectly matched her dress. Beatrice took the noble steed directly behind; spotted brown with a long blond mane. Beatrice stroked its golden locks and realised that it was realhorse hair. At least, it felt like real hair; she had to remind herself that everything here was paint.

“Here we go!” Ethel declared, as the carousel once more rumbled to life. At first all she could hear was the shifting gears and cogs and the ride began to move, then Beatrice’s ears were filled with the familiar instrumental tune. “Hold tight!” She did as told, placing two hands on the pole protruding from her horse’s neck. Beatrice bopped up and down, faster and faster as the ride gained speed. She breathed in the joyful atmosphere surrounding her; children giggling and waving to their parents, the aroma of freshly-popped corn mixing with the musty scent of paint, the music, the flamboyant dresses, the swirling blue sky… Beatrice could understand why Ethel never left.

“You’re new!” Her attention was grabbed by a girl sitting to her right, within a green car. She was out of place, just like Beatrice, wearing a short sixties style dress and knee-length, white socks. Her hair was done beautifully too, in two pigtails, but her overall outfit was rather immodest for the era of the painting. The Gryffindor was surprised that none of the parents, waving to the carousel riders, were telling her off.

“I’m Beatrice,” she smiled, feeling much more confident in herself.

“I’m Lisa. My painting’s on the second floor, what about yours?”

“I don’t have a painting-” Ethel must have heard them talking, because she craned her neck around and joined the conversation, having to shout so she could be heard over the carousel music.

“Beatrice is a Hogwarts student!” The student in question grabbed onto her school robe to confirm this.

“I see!” Lisa smiled. “So was my sister.”

Suddenly, a rumbling sound thundered throughout the painting. Yeeeeooooowwww! The carousel music stopped in its tracks, and the ride groaned to a stop, the controller gripping onto the mechanism with both his hands. Everyone had come to a stop, in fact. They looked into the horizon with wide, fearful eyes. A few of the riders jumped from their horses and scratched their heads, some younger children jumped down and buried into their mothers’ dresses.

“What was that?” Ethel asked, glancing into the distance. Beatrice decided they must have been looking out of the portrait’s frame, into the stair landing of Hogwarts, but all she could see was smudges of green and yellow paint, forming meadows on the horizon.

“I’ve heard that sound before,” Lisa explained, “it’s a cat.” Beatrice froze when the creature screeched again, its yowls vibrating throughout the fairground like thunder. That wasn’t just any cat, it was Mrs Norris. And if Mrs Norris was outside the painting, then that meant Mr Filch would soon follow. Beatrice jumped down from the horse, no longer feeling like a brave Gryffindor. Being found by a teacher was one thing, but Mr Filch…

“I’ve got to go!” She exclaimed. “Right now!”

“Alright!” Ethel seemed to sense her anxiety. She gracefully climbed off the horse, brushing down her dress, and then took Beatrice’s hand once more. “You’ve just got to run into the horizon. Don’t stop… just run and you’ll get through.” The pair jumped off the carousel platform and began sprinting; past both frightened and amused children, past a woman holding a bunch of balloons, and even past a man who looked suspiciously like Shakespeare. Ethel kept a firm grip on Beatrice’s hand, right up to the edge of the fairground, and then she let go. But Beatrice heeded her advice and kept running alone, noticing that the scent of paint was growing more pungent, and the brush strokes were becoming thicker. In a flash of lightning, Beatrice was on the stair landing. She had to dig her feet in to avoid tumbling off the edge to the floor alone.

Yeow. She saw a curious Mrs Norris glaring at her with big yellow eyes, but thankfully the caretaker hadn’t yet arrived. He wouldn’t be far though, so Beatrice straightened her robes and hurried up the grand staircase, all the way to Gryffindor tower.

It must have been very late, because the common room was practically empty. There was only one other student present; a dark-haired girl who Beatrice recognised as a third year, sitting by the fireplace. After her marvelous adventure in the fairground painting, Beatrice felt brave enough to approach the girl. She thought about the wonderful conversations she’d had with Ethel, and the playful words of Elliot, and her short but sweet meeting with Lisa. She brought all those experiences to mind, and gathered the courage to extend her palm.

“I’m Beatrice,” she smiled, and the third year gripped firmly onto her hand. “Beatrice Ann Clairvoyant. But I’m not a fortune teller.”