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Azelma’s sister has a secret.
Now, does Azelma have proof?
Not exactly.
However, Éponine's been acting weird for a while now and Azelma is determined to get to the bottom of it.
Her sister’s been twitchy, flicking her hands in weird movements when she thinks Azelma’s not looking, and recently Azelma’s seen her toting around an oddly polished stick. The way Azelma can tell something fishy is going on is that Éponine knows not to have any sticks in the house after the Great Gavroche Incident of 2011.
So, what’s her solution to the newly-named 2018 Éponine Evidence Expedition?
Enlist her 7-year-old brother to the cause, of course.
***
“Gav?” Azelma calls, treading lightly on the floorboards outside Gavroche’s room. One never knows what one may find near the youngest Thénardier sibling’s domain.
“What?” he yells from behind his door.
“I need to talk to you --” she swings open the door and her mouth pops open -- “about...Éponine?”
Gavroche is hanging from his ceiling by his left ankle, his tongue sticking out from between his lips, and sticking a screwdriver into a wall socket with his right hand while yanking his left hand out of a massive jar of slime. He grins at her with Froot Loop dust caked on his chin and what she hopes is ketchup smeared down his neck and all over his Queer Eye t-shirt.
Azelma finds herself genuinely speechless, which happens rarely in this house.
“Alright, here’s the deal,” she says lowly, crossing the room and pulling the slime off his hand with a disgusting gloop noise. “I don’t tell Ép about any of this, and you don’t tell her that you’re gonna be spying for me. Deal?”
“Deal.” he chirps, and offers her his slime-coated hand.
Unsurprisingly, Azelma doesn’t shake it.
***
Azelma’s reading a book with detailed pictures of gruesome punishments in Greek mythology and scaring herself with how interested she is in it when Gav’s daily report is slipped under her door. She jumps up, remembering at the last minute to creep across the floor since it’s past midnight and she’s not supposed to be up.
Azelma’s a rebel for the sake of reading.
She feels very hardcore.
She wonders for a minute how Gavroche is up without Éponine knowing, and contemplates being a good older sister and forcing him to bed for even less time before burrowing into her blanket nest with his colored pencil-illustrated status report (crayons are ‘too childish’, obviously). According to today’s report, Éponine hasn’t done any dishes even though Azelma clearly remembers there being dishes in the sink before she left and none when she got back. Azelma’s instantly confused at that, since her and Gavroche got banned from anything to do with dishes when they broke a full set of dinner plates in a record 3 seconds.
Azelma still hasn’t told Éponine what happened to the first set of forks.
She probably never will.
Another standout component of Gav’s report is that there were even more birds outside today. His way of noting this was to draw flying eggs in a green sky with bacon streetlamps, but Azelma’s used to decoding his reports after struggling to read them for the last two weeks.
Azelma ponders her intel and studies her Greek book intently for a few minutes before gasping aloud.
She knows what Éponine’s secret is.
***
The next morning, Azelma is ready. She marches into the kitchen and pointedly huffs to announce her presence.
“Hey ’Zelma, what’s up?” Éponine asks over her shoulder, tossing the dishtowel onto the counter and turning around.
“I know your secret,” Azelma says darkly, crossing her arms and popping her hip. She saw a secret agent on the TV do it once, so she thinks it must give you some sort of lie-detecting powers.
Éponine merely raises her eyebrows, but Azelma knows her well enough to recognize that she’s bluffing. “Which is?”
“You’re a secret agent,” Azelma says with finality, a little rush of triumph going through her as Éponine’s eyes widen and she thinks maybe she’s actually beaten her sister --
Until Éponine laughs so hard she doubles over and stubs her toe on the oven. She cusses, so Azelma figures she's back to normal. “What the hell, ‘Zelma?” she cackles. “Why would I be a secret agent?”
“Well, the dishes are always magically done so I thought you’d hired someone since you would be sneaking out in the night to do secret-agent stuff, and we keep having birds attack us when we go outside so I thought maybe you got messages by carrier pigeon or owl or something!”
Éponine seems physically incapable of keeping a straight face. Azelma is starting to feel really stupid.
“No, not quite,” Éponine giggles, face flushed dark and eyes watering. “Although the birds do carry messages, you’re right about that.”
What in the world does that mean?
“What?”
“The birds carry letters. The owls do, anyway.”
“I’m sorry, I’m gonna need a bit more information than that.”
Éponine sighs, but tugs Azelma by the wrist into their cramped living room and nudges her down onto the ratty chaise lounge, plopping herself in front of Azelma on the floor. “Is Gav at home or did you send him out?”
“He’s out harassing Courfeyrac about ‘Ferre.”
“Good. He’s not quite ready yet.”
Azelma’s starting to get legitimately freaked out. “Ready for what?” She gasps. “Are you a drug dealer?”
“No, ‘Zel, chill out. Now, you gotta promise you’ll listen--”
“Of course!”
“-- without interrupting.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Good.” Éponine pauses, tugging at one of her sweater-paws, and reaches up to rest her elbows on Azelma’s crossed knees. “It’s about time we talked about this anyway since you’re almost 11 and all that stuff’s coming up--”
“Just tell me, Ép!”
Éponine sucks in a deep breath.
“We’re witches.”
Azelma feels light-headed. She didn’t know that being told you were a witch had the side effect of making your vision go away, but to be fair she doesn’t have much knowledge about what’s supposed to happen in this specific situation.
***
Azelma now knows the reason chaise lounges are called fainting couches. She wakes up to Éponine hovering over her, oddly enough holding an empty cup.
“Did you use your witchy witchcraft on me?” Azelma squeaks.
“Yeah, if you call dumping a glass of water on your face witchcraft,” Éponine deadpans.
“Oh.”
Azelma’s face is sopping wet.
“Look, ‘Zel, I’m still your same annoyingly cool older sister.”
“You’re not cool.”
“Stop crushing my dreams.”
“Whatever.”
Éponine gnaws on her lip and sinks back onto her heels. She’s picking at the holes in her jeans.
“I guess you’re not different,” Azelma admits. “You’re still my sister. You were still my sister when I thought you were a spy, so I suppose it's not any different if you’re a witch,” she concedes. “What is different, though, is that I’m a witch?”
“About that...” Éponine trails off.
“What?”
“You...might not be?”
“What?”
***
So apparently witches (and wizards) have really weird names for stuff, considering their most prestigious school is named after a wart on an old pig. Azelma now feels much better about being a French transfer student with a weird name if she goes to Hogwarts.
If she goes.
Azelma’s no stranger to not being quite enough; she was never quite good enough to be picked first for sports in school but never bad enough to be last, never quite smart enough to be in advanced classes but just smart enough to be bored with regular classes. The concept of not being magic enough, though, stings. What especially hurts is how excited Éponine seems about teaching her magic when Azelma doesn’t even know if she can do any of it yet or will ever be able to.
The difference this time, though, is that Azelma cares.
She didn’t care much for sports, and she doesn’t care about studying just yet. Magic, though?
She wants magic.
Now, Azelma’s pretty good at scheming. Her schemes usually go off well, minus a few minor glitches, but this scheme is going to be perfect.
After all, she’s magic, right?
***
Plan A: Trigger your magic by levitating your kid brother.
On second thought, that sounds too simple.
Revised and glitter-fied Plan A: Trigger your magic by levitating your kid brother above a tub of Ooblek that’s one part slime and five parts glitter.
***
Thénardier sibs note: Éponine does not like glitter. Glitter = NO. 10-year glitter ban now in effect.
NO GLITTER.
(“Unless...” Gavroche trails off.
“Unless?”
“Unless it’s contraband glitter.”
Azelma smirks. She knew her walkie-talkie network with Courfeyrac would come in handy.)
***
Alright, alright. Maybe, just maybe kidnapping your police officer neighbor’s police dog and trying to turn its fur yellow by glaring at it in your closet for hours and feeding it buttercups isn’t the best idea. Azelma’s alibi is that she was exercising and didn’t know Officer Javert even had a dog.
Éponine knows Azelma hasn’t exercised since kindergarten yoga.
Not to worry; Azelma’s always got a Plan C.
***
Note to self: magic cannot be triggered by holding a ritual under the yew tree in the backyard where your brother chants Google-Translated Latin at you while you sit in the middle of a washable grass paint summoning circle with Bath and Body Works Cake-Frosting-scented candles.
***
Time for Plan E.
(E for fire Extinguisher.
Azelma forgets important items a lot.
This plan is no exception.)
***
Azelma loses track of her lettering system somewhere between Plans G and L (G for glasswork, L for liquid).
Still no results, but she’s not done yet.
***
Azelma’s done.
She managed to make it all the way to Plan N (and managed to set the grass in the left corner of the backyard on fire temporarily) before Éponine caught on and banned any further ‘shenanigans, plans, and schemes of any type and magnitude’. Azelma also got a fabulously lengthy lecture about endangering herself and her brother to go along with her big piping-hot (dumpster-fire-hot) serving of uselessness and guilt. She knows that’s not Éponine’s goal and that she just wants Azelma and Gavroche safe, but Azelma still feels bad, and she resolves that she’ll just have to make do with the magic (or lack thereof) that she has.
It’s not like not being enough is a new concept to her.
But giving up certainly is.
***
“Why no cake?” Gavroche whines.
“Because, Gav!”
“Because why?”
“Because, I messed up and made Ép flip out. She doesn’t trust me anymore, and if she doesn’t trust me she won’t teach me--”
“Won’t teach you what?”
“Nothing,” Azelma mutters. What could Éponine teach her anyway? She doesn’t have any magic. “No cake or secrets for a bit, Gav. Just give me a little while and we’ll see.”
Gavroche can sense her upset and, for once, decides to let it go.
“Fine. Can I make my own cake?”
Or not.
“No, Gav!” she hisses, whipping around at a clattering noise. Gavroche is clambering on top of the kitchen counter and reaching for the cake mix on the very tip-top shelf. He’s not even supposed to know where it is!
Azelma races over, wrapping her arms around Gavroche’s waist and attempting to yank him down. Gavroche screeches, his hands scrabbling for the cake, and suddenly everything’s pure white.
She and Gavroche fly back and hit the kitchen floor, Gavroche landing on top of her and squishing a huff of air out. She cranes her neck and looks around, eyes widening to saucers as she sees the contents of eight boxes of white cake powder splattered around the kitchen on the floor, counters, cupboards, walls, and ceiling.
“What the heck, Gav--” she starts to screech, but cuts herself off as the kitchen light above them creaks and shifts. It starts to plummet and Azelma throws herself over Gavroche, hands flying out to the sides as she screws her eyes shut.
Odd.
Azelma would’ve thought getting crushed by almost 30 kilograms of metal would’ve hurt more.
She peers up, ignoring Gavroche’s muffled protests, and jerks bolt upright at the scene before her. The glass light fixture is split clean in two with the two halves resting on either side of her and Gavroche, and there’s no broken glass in sight.
Ignoring that for a second, it’s also the first time she’s ever seen Gavroche look shocked.
And then the front door swings open, and she gets to see Gavroche’s terrified face.
It looks just like her own.
“Hey, kiddos!” Éponine ’s voice echoes from the front hall, and she thuds along the hallway. “What’s...up?”
It must be a day for firsts, because Azelma’s never seen Éponine look this surprised either.
“What the hell happened?” she gasps, rushing forward and almost suffocating Azelma and Gavroche in a death hug. The two younger Thénardiers look at each other and burst out talking simultaneously.
“’Zel--”
“Gav--”
“She lasered the light in half like in X-Men--”
“He sprayed cake everywhere like some gremlin--”
“Hold up! ‘Zelma, you cut the light in half?”
“I didn’t mean to--”
“No, no, do you know what that means?”
“That I’m...in deep shit?”
“Watch your language.” Éponine hisses, leveling a glare at her. “No, it means you’ve got magic, ‘Zel!”
Azelma faints again.
***
Honestly, Azelma’s getting quite sick of this whole fainting business.
She wakes up to her brother cleaning, which is a bizarre sight already, and finds her sister levitating a couple feet off the floor to clean the ceiling while their other scrub brushes scrub the walls on their own.
Is this going to be her daily life now?
If so, Azelma’s totally fine with it.
“Oh good, you’re awake!” Éponine exclaims, touching down and sliding across the shiny floor over to Azelma. “I figured you’d had enough trauma today and decided to let you wake up on your own.”
“Thanks,” Azelma drawls.
But then, she remembers what happened before she fainted.
“Am I really magic?” she demands, sitting up.
“I don’t know; do you think splitting a glass and metal light clean in half without touching it is magic?” Éponine deadpans.
“You’re magic!” Gavroche chimes in. “And so am I!”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we figured that making seven extra boxes of cake mix materialize and exploding them all over the kitchen counted as magic too.” Éponine grins. “Congrats, little sis!”
“Do I get to go to Hogwarts now?” Azelma ventures.
“Definitely.”
“By myself?”
“For a bit,” Éponine chuckles. “But Gav’ll be there soon enough.”
Azelma groans.
Gavroche just cackles.
“Let’s get this stuff cleaned up and go get some celebration cake,” Éponine says, ruffling Azelma’s cake-sticky hair and glancing out the window at the setting sun.
“And maybe another kitchen light too,” Azelma giggles.
As Éponine tries to teach her how to make the broom square-dance around the kitchen and Gavroche rides around on her back, she realizes something.
Azelma’s magic.
She’s good – no, the best -- at something.
And best of all?
Azelma has a secret.