Isobel was never close to her grandparents on her father’s side. They were even colder and more distant than her parents – if that was even possible. It gave her a lot of insight into how her father became the man he was today. She associated their name with a quickly signed tag on a Christmas gift every year, and that was about it.
On the other hand, she was endlessly fond of her mother’s parents. They were French through and through and had attended Beauxbatons in their youth. They had tried to convince Isobel to attend as well, and she had almost been convinced. They were stuffy and posh and Isobel loved them to bits for it. She eagerly awaited their trips to Southern France every summer just so she could see them. She had wonderful memories of wandering the peach orchards with her grandfather or snatching batter from her grandmother as she cooked pastries.
While they still had a certain degree of class and elegance that was expected of those coming from high society, they retained a humour that their daughter, Clemence, lacked. It was them that taught Isobel her humility, her passion. Without them she feared she would have ended up just like her mother. However, they – along with the rest of Isobel’s French relatives – stayed carefully out of the conflict and Britain during the time of Voldemort. Isobel regrets that she hasn’t seen them since the peaceful days of her youth.
PARA
The dull thump of feet and the sharp tinkling of giggles echoed through the yard as a 6 year old Isobel went tearing through the trees. Her bare toes squelched in the dirt as she wove in between old and twisted trunks. Above her, the leaves swayed in the warm summer breeze, plump peaches glistening in the afternoon sun.
She was running as fast as her stubby little legs could carry her, blonde hair flying behind her. Close behind, an old man with a wrinkled and sun-kissed face bearing a large smile was trotting after Isobel. “Ma petite chérie, vous ne pouvez pas courir éternellement!” he called out.
Giggling in response, Isobel only ran faster. Exploding from the tree line, she made a dash towards the large house where she could spot a figure in the doorway. “Grand-mère, aidez-moi!” she shrieked in mirth. But it was no sooner than she called out that Isobel tripped on a stray root, sending her tumbling.
“Isabella! Ça va?” Her grandmother called out in worry.
Before Isobel could do anything, even cry, her grandfather had caught up and was scooping her up into his arms. “Pas besoin de s'inquiéter, ma femme. Mon Isobel est fort.” He tossed her up in the air, laughing at as she shrieked in delight. “Devrions-nous aller pour déjeuner?”
With a loving look to his wife, Isobel’s grandfather started to bring the two inside the spacious manor. Isobel played with the curled grey hair at his temple as they walked.
From high up in a second floor window, Clemence looked on with a disapproving frown. As the group headed inside, she briskly snapped the shutters closed.
Translations for the less french inclined
“My little darling, you can’t run forever.”
“Grandmother, help me!
“Isabella! Are you ok!”
“No need to worry, my wife. My Isobel is a strong one.”
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