Eleanor Lestrange - the Divergent
written by Dora Scamander
Two girls. Two friends. With two big secrets. This book starts with Eleanor Lestrange. She has always lived at home because her family thinks it a disgrace that she even exists. A squib in the line of purebloods? Finally Eleanor's elder brother, Alban, takes pity on her... Then, at chapter twelve, we go into Lottie Greygrove's mind, Lottie, who has just started Hogwarts, despairing of how she will ever fit in... how can she, with the terrible secret she keeps inside? BOOK IN PROGRESS - if a part stops suddenly, its because I'm in the middle of writing it. NOTE: if you liked this book, please message me. I'd love to know who enjoys my work :)
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
14
Reads
477
Chapter One
Chapter 1
Eleanor lay on her stomach on her musty bed, her nose very nearly an inch away from a book she was reading. Her large dark eyes flew back and forth, left to right, left to right, and her long dark hair was messy, as if she had shifted her position many times.
The room was clearly a bedroom - though a rather depressing one at that - a dresser with a cracked mirror and large black wardrobe was pushed against one wall, a small window looked out into the evening sky, and a rather weary looking ray of light shone across the dusty floor, onto the bed, and onto the pages of Eleanor's book.
Speaking of the book, it appeared that the story was coming to an end. Eleanor mouthed the last few sentences and it was evident from her longing expression that she wished the book could have gone on longer. Slowly she closed the two covers and sat up, looking around as if just remembering where she was. A miserable expression came over her face and the light in her eyes died. After a moment she stood up and walked to the window. She was wearing a black dress which reached her knees and it was patched in several places. The sleeves were too high in the wrist, and it was clear the dress was getting small for her.
The street outside was not one that would cheer someone up, indeed, dank was a good word to describe it. The houses were all similar: two storey and made of bricks coloured dark by the grime which had covered them over the years. The street was deserted apart from a stray cat slinking in and out of the shadows at the side of the road.
There was the creak of the bedroom door opening and Eleanor turned to see her mother, tall and rather sharp looking, standing in the doorway.
"Dinner." She said stiffly, and left the room as quickly as she had come.
Eleanor felt the tight knot of shame tighten in her stomach. She was a squib. That was why her mother was acting like this, had always acted like this towards her. She was unequal to the rest of the family. A disgrace to the Lestrange line. Even going down to dinner was a trial.
But Eleanor shook her head, held her head high, and left her bedroom, and also her books, the pages of them being the only consolation she had.
The room was clearly a bedroom - though a rather depressing one at that - a dresser with a cracked mirror and large black wardrobe was pushed against one wall, a small window looked out into the evening sky, and a rather weary looking ray of light shone across the dusty floor, onto the bed, and onto the pages of Eleanor's book.
Speaking of the book, it appeared that the story was coming to an end. Eleanor mouthed the last few sentences and it was evident from her longing expression that she wished the book could have gone on longer. Slowly she closed the two covers and sat up, looking around as if just remembering where she was. A miserable expression came over her face and the light in her eyes died. After a moment she stood up and walked to the window. She was wearing a black dress which reached her knees and it was patched in several places. The sleeves were too high in the wrist, and it was clear the dress was getting small for her.
The street outside was not one that would cheer someone up, indeed, dank was a good word to describe it. The houses were all similar: two storey and made of bricks coloured dark by the grime which had covered them over the years. The street was deserted apart from a stray cat slinking in and out of the shadows at the side of the road.
There was the creak of the bedroom door opening and Eleanor turned to see her mother, tall and rather sharp looking, standing in the doorway.
"Dinner." She said stiffly, and left the room as quickly as she had come.
Eleanor felt the tight knot of shame tighten in her stomach. She was a squib. That was why her mother was acting like this, had always acted like this towards her. She was unequal to the rest of the family. A disgrace to the Lestrange line. Even going down to dinner was a trial.
But Eleanor shook her head, held her head high, and left her bedroom, and also her books, the pages of them being the only consolation she had.
