The Seven Husbands of Helene Zabini

Chapter Four - Early Years

"So that is when you decided you wanted to become a Journalist?" I meet her piercing brown eyes as I lift my quill from the parchment. I've already covered two pages, front to back in endless drabbles... what she said, my thoughts– it all blurs together in small black scrawls and the occasional ink blotch where my quill ran.

"I think a small part of me was always destined to be a writer," She rests her head in one of her hands, tilting it slightly so that the warmth of the fire hits the left side of her face, "Partially aided by the fact that my father encouraged my curiosity from a young age. You know– why did you want to become a Journalist?"

This catches me off guard slightly.

"Me?" my cheeks flush pink, a warm burning sensation shooting through my veins as I scramble to find a decent answer. What do you tell a woman who is responsible for some of the greatest Journalism feats of her time... how do you prevent yourself from looking like a complete and utter fool?

"Yes you."

"Well– my brother liked to take photos."

"Forgive me– I can't quite see the connection," a small smile plays on her lips as if I have amused her. Well, that's something. People like funny people. Right?

"His name was Colin. And... just before he went off to Hogwarts my dad gave him my grandpa's old camera and told him to take a picture any time he felt happy. When he came back home... he had filled so many rolls of film and... and it was beautiful."

"Touching... but that's still your brother... not you."

"I always looked up to my brother. I was devastated when he died in the war, and so I told myself I'd be more like him... and try to preserve the beauty of happiness."

"That's the kind of sappy story you would tell someone who's interviewing you," she rolls her eyes, yawning slightly, "Don't bother trying to impress me– remember, I have already chosen you to publish the only official record of my life."

"Why did you choose me?" The words escape my lips before I can think better of it. Helene looks up at me, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Why do you think I chose you?"

"I don't know."

"At the end, when I am finished telling you about my life, I will ask you those two questions again. I hope you have a better answer for both of them."

"Oh–"

"Now leave me," She shakes her head, "I am tired and I must rest."

"Should I..." I take a deep breath, rolling up my scroll of notes and sliding my quill into my leather work bag, "Should I come back tomorrow."

"Yes," she nods, quite decidedly, "Come back tomorrow at the same time– and bring me something to drink. Something strong."

"I–"

"Just ask the bartender for Helene's usual and he'll know what I mean," she waves her hand, dismissing me, "I have spent hours and likely thousands of galleons at that pub. I'll be damned if they can't remember my order."

I flop down on my bed, staring at the small cracks in the plaster ceiling. My flat is not pretty, nor is it particularly warm in the winter months– but it just so happens to be the only thing I have enough money to afford.

Helene Zabini.

Helene Zabini.

Helene Zabini.

Helene Kama?

Why did she choose me.

She acts as if I am supposed to know... but frankly, I have not a single bloody clue what I'm going to say when she asks me again. And I have no idea how on God's green Earth I'm supposed to write an entire bloody novel in two months– and–

And... nothing makes sense any more.

Why do I want to be a journalist?

And who is Helene Zabini– or Helene Kama, or whatever her real name may be, because I somehow have listened to the soft drawl of her voice for hours and yet I feel as if I know nothing about her. The real her. 

Did she kill her husbands?

Is this some elaborate plot to kill me?

No.

She's a dying woman. She just wants her story to be told.

But why should her story be told– when so many people's never will. It just doesn't... seem fair to me. That hundreds of witches and wizards died in the war, and for some reason we're all fixated on a woman who potentially ruined the lives of others.

Then you meet her. And nothing else but her matters. Her words are the only ones that make sense to your ears, everything skimmed off, dismissed as unimportant gibberish in my brain.

As I drift off into a shallow restless sleep her face taints my dreams, smiling in the way she does. The face that will likely haunt me for the next two bloody months. Good Lord. What have I done to myself?