The Cursed Child (Original Plot)

Chapter 2 - Brother

Demarcus Hart and Isabelle Cassidy had been friends since before they could walk properly, since when she was a newborn and he was three months old. As neighbours, the second window in Isabelle's bedroom overlooked his balcony, and more often than not, they entertained themselves by talking that way. After being dwarfed by him by more than a head, she found being high up particularly amusing, and he had the sense not to rob her of this pleasure.

Photos of their growth were recorded in the Harts' living room and none in the Cassidys'. One of them showed her knocking Demarcus over when he finally managed to stand, though her younger self had stated unclearly that she tried to stand up as well; her hand resting on his shoulder in the image was enough evidence of what happened. As her older self commented when they toured the memories, Demarcus should not show off standing in front of her unless he was not going to topple over so easily.

For all she could remember, she spent more time in the Harts' garden than she did in hers. Their garden, like hers, had tamed grass and neat little bushes. But unlike hers, the flowerbeds were full of daisies and chrysanthemums and roses and more. They were the first smell that caught her every breath long before now, they were the first thing to her that smelled like home even when she didn't know what home was.

But since her seventh birthday after the confusing turn of events, including that name, that bird, and the fire burning her notebook, she knew. Home meant someone who valued her. Home meant someone who believed her as she recounted what happened and did not run away. Home meant her best friend, her comfort. Home meant Demarcus.

He was named in Latin as the son of Marcus, though in some ways, it meant being gentle and chivalrous, the way his mother wanted him to be. And really, he outdid her expectations.

Since he celebrated his seventh birthday in January, strange things erupted out of him too, though not as wild as firebirds and burned notebooks. Small things happened. Once before an exam, he was revising and somehow his rubber splintered into pieces two inches away. Or when his mother chided him for not washing his socks, they disappeared and were found again lying among the flowerbeds. He was unable to understand himself the way Isabelle couldn't control herself, and it was good to find out that she wasn't alone in all this.

'Belle?'

That was how he always called her, Belle, not Isa, or Issy, or any common nicknames to think of. But then the Demarcus she knew had never been the common type, because he, just like her, knew there was no fun being the same.

The exact same reason she called him Marc.

'Mmm hmm.'

'Can you show me?'

'Show you what?'

And that day they were sitting beside the same flower bed Demarcus's sock was found in, two seven-year-olds at peace with everything in this world except themselves.

'What you told me the other day.'

She knew he would ask this of her ever since she told him about it all, even wished he would ask. But now he said it and the ice that sheltered her cracked, she was as vulnerable as ever.

Ever since last week, the miracles that worked for her became stronger and more frequent. Like Marc, they exploded out of her like sprouts of fireworks. Unlike Marc, her brain, her will and her approval controlled it, not her emotions.

It was spring, the flowers were still blooming, not quite a bud but not a full-grown flower either, as it would soon come to be. Isabelle was born in spring, but she was far from spring's peacefulness. So she matched summer instead. Heated temper, but not unreasonable; stubborn, defiant and unyielding, but with a change of heart that no one except herself could cause; not flawless, not perfect, but still loveable in her own special ways. Summer was what she had in mind as she wrapped her fingers around a daisy's frail, half-closed pedals. When her palm opened, it was not a barely opened bud anymore, but a daisy in full bloom, as if summer had come early for it but only for it.

'I hope I can do that soon as well. This...' He halted as he searched for the right word. 'Blessing in you is quite powerful, far more powerful than mine, and I'm older than you.'

'Only three months,' She reminded him, 'You are only three months older than me.'

'Whatever,'

'And this doesn't feel like a blessing, more like a curse to me.'

'What? Making flowers bloom and melting some snow for you to walk through?'

They sound so innocent and harmless. But still, Marc didn't feel her skin burning when she willed the thick blanket of snow to cut a path for her. Didn't see how it all melted at her touch like she was fire itself. Didn't know the snow transformed into boiling water, dissipating in the air. Didn't notice the unnatural air that surrounded the space in her fist that made the flower bloom. The thing was, he, who knew her and everything about her since she was born, now knew nothing of her at all, or at least, her power and her capabilities were a stranger to him.

So ironic when the simple friendship between them could be anything but irony.

So instead she retaliated, 'Like burning books and birds, you mean.'

Marc opened his mouth for a useless counter-argument, at least to her, as usual, but Isabelle was not in the mood of being involved in a tongue fight without biting someone's head off. The shadow of annoyance must have passed on her face when, to her surprise, he swallowed whatever words he was about to utter and laughed.

'Well? Bite me.'

'Tempt me.'

'You don't need much convincing on your part,'

If she were older, she would have rolled her eyes.

'Alright. Hold your teeth. What were we talking about?'

'Leave it.'

'Oh! That power thingy and you-.'

'I said leave it.'

'Okay, Belle. Hey! Wait.'

Too bad. She was already on her heels, wearing her usual ego of a heated temper, storming away while fireworks exploded out of her...

By now she knew that feeling better than anyone.

Back in the garden, there was a scream of fear, and surprise, but not agony, not yet.

A strangled noise escaped her throat and she ran back, smoke entering her lungs. For someone her height, she had to tip-toe to reach the unchained lock above the handle to open the gate. Inside, the temperature change was imminent, and for a moment she was afraid she set the house on fire, but the cosy brick and concrete house, three times the size of a cottage, seemed unharmed, with Marc leaning against one of its walls. It wasn't until she approached did she notice how pale he was, how wide his eyes were as they stared in horror at something in the garden. Isabelle turned to face whatever Marc was so afraid of, and that was when she saw it.

The flowerbed they sat beside earlier was on fire, and as the embers died down, inside the neat little pot was but a blanket of ashes. The sweet scent of daisies still lingered near it, although this was the only flowerbed that grew them. But when she approached and looked into it, she understood why.

Inside there was one daisy, not a half-open bud as it should be in spring, but a full-grown one in summer. Under the usual layer of soil on it, there was a clean spot where her finger once brushed the stem.