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Chapter Text

Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons, où la magie rencontre la magnificence et la beauté. C'est un endroit où ceux qui ont un bon cœur et des intentions pures déploient leur magie et leur talent. Un lieu où les contes de fées prennent vie dans nos immenses jardins ornés des plus belles fleurs. Nous sommes réputés pour nos voix éthérées et nos accents fantaisistes, ainsi que pour nos grands bals annuels où tous types d'invités se rejoignent. C'est un lieu où l'art touche l'âme de chacun.

Beauxbatons was ethereal, a living dream. A majestic chateau in the south of France, nestled amidst the picturesque Pyrenees Mountains, where the school grounds unfolded like a canvas painted with vibrant gardens, where colourful flowers danced in the breeze, and melodic birds sang harmonies with the rustling leaves.

Inside the castle's walls, the true essence of French grandeur was revealed. Ornate golden cornices adorned the ceilings, Corinthian columns stood tall and proud, and every corridor boasted paintings and sculptures that spoke of centuries of history and tradition. There was a delicate balance between elegance and nobility within those walls, a testament to the legacy Beauxbatons carried within the wizarding world. Yet, the school was built of much more than just its looks. Education was the core of it all. Through the gorgeous library, where enchanted paintings moved on the ceiling, you would find all types of books, sculptured bookshelves filled with heavy magical tomes, romantic novels, fantasy, and ancient Greek stories, which were only a fragment of all the knowledge embedded inside the walls.

However, through education, paths parted, and the introduction to culture and arts united those students whose beliefs coincided. Those whose shooting arrows sparkled blue belonged to the mysterious Ombrelune, where logic and ambition were pivotal. Yet, behind their coldness and determined thoughts, an affinity for philosophy and poetry lived. Then there was the serene Bellefeuille, where nature was their omen. Loyalty to what they held dear, sensitivity, and compassion were some qualities that distinguished the kids who had their arrows shooting green.

Nevertheless, there was one more. The idealists, humanitarians, and ingenious people belonged to Papillonlisse. They were equipoised individuals, driven by the moment and their unpredictable tendencies. Unlike Hogwarts, they operated differently. There were no houses, no rivalry; they were siblings, born of the same thirst for knowledge. Despite being sorted and separated, they maintained unity. Morals and principles prevented hatred from being unleashed. With boundless access to knowledge, students could pursue any path, from Muggle lessons to the most astonishing magical subjects. The school's curriculum was every child's dream, an endless pool of opportunity where every interest was encouraged.

Nathalie recalls her sorting ceremony vividly, as though it occurred just yesterday. It marked her first time standing in a magnificent room with crystal chandeliers suspended overhead. French grandeur was not unfamiliar to her; she had grown up amidst it. However, the overbearing weight of expectations over what she should accomplish within those walls left her eleven-year-old self feeling apprehensive.

Ahead of her, a long line of students had formed—girls and boys—each distinct from the next. Unlike them, Nathalie felt ill in their company, her nerves agitated as they engaged in small talk while waiting for the small figure in a suit, reminiscent of Philoctetes from Hercules, to call their names. Clutching a roll of parchment twice his size, his voice resonated deeply, its timbre escalating with each name he announced, stoking Nathalie's anxiety. Uncertainty bred questions within her mind: Would she forge friendships? Would others find her peculiar? Would she inadvertently reveal her secrets? These thoughts unleashed tempests in her mind, impeding her ability to focus as time slipped by unnoticed, as it often did.

The room erupted in a kaleidoscope of colours as most children discovered their future home for the next seven years. Nathalie grappled with mounting panic as she witnessed the dwindling line of students. Desperately, she clung to the hem of her skirt, her sweaty palms seeking solace in its familiar texture. Her gaze wandered across the room, eventually settling on the wide table where she presumed the staff sat. At its centre sat an imposing figure, a tall woman with broad shoulders, olive skin, and a stern countenance. With her seemingly austere demeanour, the woman struck fear into Nathalie's heart, prompting her to nervously run her fingers through the few strands of ginger hair peeking out from beneath her hat.

Yet, to Nathalie's astonishment, the woman bestowed upon her a warm smile that radiated genuine affection from her gleaming black eyes. Despite her unconventional height, the woman exuded grace, much like the hundreds of students filling the room. They resembled sculptures, sitting in perfect shape and posture. Upon the arrival of a new child at their table, there were no raucous cheers or boisterous noises, only polite claps and shy smiles. The overflowing elegance of the individuals in the room evoked memories of Nathalie's mother. Like everyone in her family, she had once been a student at Beauxbatons. Generations of Delacours had cultivated their education within these hallowed walls. However, Nathalie harboured a secret: no one knew about her kinship to the Delacour family.

'MADEMOISELLE DELACOUR!' The small man shouted, shattering Nathalie's reverie, drawing her back to the ceremony. Murmuring incoherent words, he gestured for Nathalie to take a few steps forward, her legs trembling with each uncertain stride toward the arrow that would chart her destiny. Despite her nerves, she couldn't help but stifle a giggle at the man's theatrics, reminiscent of a character from one of the few movies she remembers watching as a small kid.

As the man approached her with his chubby fingers outstretched, Nathalie's laughter erupted throughout the room. 'Pourquoi riez-vous?' he questioned, bouncing the pointy arrow up and down.

'Tu ressembles à Philoctète,' Nathalie giggled as she took the arrow from his grasp, wary of any potential mishaps.

'Philoctète? C'est inadmissible!' the man gasped loudly, whirling around with such speed that Nathalie caught a glimpse of his crimson cheeks and what appeared to be smoke billowing from his ears.

Once her laughter subsided, Nathalie's gaze sought out the olive-skinned woman who had previously intimidated her, seeking reassurance before making such a momentous decision. To her relief, the woman met her eyes with the same warm smile and an encouraging nod. Emboldened, the auburn-haired girl took a decisive step forward and released the arrow.

The golden metal soared through the air, slicing through the atmosphere for what felt like the fiftieth time that evening. Soon, purple clouds enveloped the room, and with practised grace, the students of Papillonlisse rose from their seats, elegantly welcoming Nathalie Delacour into their world.

Chapter Text

The sun filtered through the stained glass skylight, mirroring the image of the school’s crest onto the bedroom's wooden floor, a familiar sight Nathalie had observed every morning for the past three years. Her tired eyes swept across the room, taking in the empty beds and the vibrant marks on the calendar. One of her roommates had circled the twelfth of March with pink markers, meaning a test would happen within the next few hours. A sigh left her lips, and she sunk her head on the pillow, letting out a growl. A great sorrow formed in her chest at the thought of the date, reasons beyond the unknown test she hadn’t studied for thronging her brain. The twelfth of March marked exactly a month and one day before Nathalie's birthday.  For as long as Nathalie recalled, birthdays were the most torturous yet pleasant days she’d ever experienced. It meant her parents acknowledged more than her academic achievements. Nathalie found the tiniest amount of comfort within the scribbled letters they’d sent her, no longer believing herself unwanted, like Katherine Orzi would often call her. But for Nathalie, it was far more elaborate than just parental acknowledgement. It was a unique moment she shared with her cousin Louis. 

Twenty-four hours separated their birth. Louis was born in cloudy London on the twelfth of April 2005, whilst Nathalie arrived the next day on a rainy Wednesday afternoon in Gordes, France. Nathalie dreaded the distance between her and her family, yet the thirty-one days separating her from her short-lived dream seemed even more unbearable as the daily morning chaos swarmed through her dorm room.

‘POURQUOI ÊTES-VOUS ENCORE AU LIT?’ Elise shouted, throwing Nathalie’s uniform on her, ‘SE RÉVEILLER!’

Elise Fortier was Nathalie’s roommate and best friend. They met on their first day when the raven-haired girl offered Nathalie the seat next to hers at the Papillonlisse table, taking pity on her wobbly knees as the redhead recovered from the initial shock of the sorting. However, it wasn’t the girl’s kindness that struck Nathalie. Elise’s eyes, which at the time hid behind layers of freckles and a fringe, were the most beautiful pair of irides, a colour so unique that Nathalie would often say it would cause jealousy in the ancient Greeks. They were grey like a storm, and the silver flecks that danced through their expanse were lightning bolts. The usual eagerness in her eyes represented her bravery and willpower. She was the only person who could meddle with Nathalie’s craziness.

‘Good morning to you, too,’ Nathalie mumbled, throwing the blankets off her body.

She hastily made work of her clothes, discarding the Liverpool jersey she’d been sleeping in for the past few days. Now, she adorned the ironed Beauxbatons’ royal blue uniform, which fitted her like a glove. The pleated skirt swung around her hips, its waistband rolled up to make it at least 2 inches shorter, whilst the white blouse covered the petite frame of her torso with a purple ribbon tied around the collar. It was one of her favourite uniforms out of the eight students wore throughout the year. Its simplicity lessened the amount of attention drawn towards her. Her hair, however, was distinct and easily recognisable amongst the pupils and staff. The long ginger waves that went up to her waist were her signature feature since the day she was born, marking her aversion to the typical Delacour features her family possessed. Unlike her parents and brother, there was not a tint of blue or grey in her eyes, only shades of russet brown. Albeit different from her family, she was like them regarding beauty, which the Delacours possessed an abnormal amount of. After all, it filled every strand of their DNA. The genetic code for endless grace was courtesy of her Veela ancestries, which tied both sides of the family. Despite that, she was not Katherine Orzi. The girl with dark brown skin and jet-black eyes, the kind you can’t tell the difference between pupil and iris, her brown hair, which was always dutifully styled into long braids, and her smile that could make Nathalie’s so-called charm fade into simplicity. Despite their clashing and opposing beauties, whose unity could turn into a heartbreaking streak, they argued, shouting words full of venom at each other at every minor inconvenience. Their arguments happened daily, maybe in minutes or a few hours, but like the hundred-year war, it seemed endless.

Nevertheless, one person was left to brighten the room with her laughter and warm cheeks. Adelle Antunez reminded Nathalie of spring. Sweet and sour, like berries, determined as bees and calming like lavender. Some had the heart of a lion, yet hers was like a bear’s. Perhaps it was her love for porridge and silky golden hair, but Adelle reminded her of Goldilocks. She reminded Nathalie of the sun as if Helios had kissed her cheeks and gifted her the light, and his successor, Apollo, spread such light through her eyes, making them as rich as gold or amber as the mundane called.

‘If I miss Madame Gouin’s porridge again because of Nathalie,’ Adelle threatened as she brushed her luscious golden locks. ‘I am- I will be very mad at you, Nat.’ she stuttered mid-phrase once Nathalie playfully swung her wand, knowing that her powers scared the girl.

'Don't worry, Goldilocks.' Nathalie mocked, 'I'll get you all the porridge in the castle, and I won't even bring the hungry bears.'

Adelle chuckled as she walked past Nathalie, who couldn't help but watch the girl's delicacy as she placed the green ribbon around her neck.

'Quit admiring Addy,' Elise commanded. 'We have a test today, don't you remember?'

The raven-haired girl rushed them out of the room, bossing them around for the rest of the morning.

That day, lunch arrived promptly. The sweet melodies played by the enchanted piano ignited a pleasant atmosphere in the room, filled with teenagers gossiping. It astounded Nathalie how much gossip people produced in half a school day, from ridiculous rumours to ones full of credibility. Most of them revolved around older students, how someone's boyfriend had cheated on them or girls fighting over boys, yet the winds of change blessed students' altruistic demeanour a week ago, and the spotlight was on Nathalie since then. She was used to being overlooked, merely a target of people's comments, nothing but her looks acknowledged. It was never about how her performance during the last quidditch game was pivotal or how smart she was. Her name was only summoned within conversations when boys wanted to flatter her looks, pointing out to their mates how nice her legs looked, or when girls compared themselves to her, whispering mean comments as she walked around the castle. They deemed Nathalie vain, yet she was the shiniest trophy a boy could have in Beauxbatons. That was why she settled. Nathalie of Gordes picked Nicholas Arquette among many suitors like Helen of Troy chose Menelaus. And in her direction, he walked. Two years her senior, with his blue eyes glinting under the sunlight provided by spring, his black hair sitting atop his head, quidditch jersey hanging around his neck and a beaming smile. Nicholas placed a gentle yet tender kiss on Natalie's cheeks once he sat down, giving an acknowledging nod to the three other girls sitting with her.

'Nathalie,' Nicholas whispered, his arm encircling her waist and drawing her close. She leaned into his touch, a faint smile tugging at her lips. 'You look tired,' he said, concern creasing his brow.

'I'm tired of being pretty,' Nathalie replied softly. She glanced up at him, her cheeks warming under his gaze. There was innocence in her eyes mixed with a hint of mischief, a bashful aura enveloping them.

Their kisses were delicate, his demeanour sweet, which surprised Nathalie, who thought dating an older boy would be much more challenging. During the past three weeks, Nicholas never rushed into anything. They never shared more than kisses that threatened to grow into something more, but they always stopped. It eased the girl to know she could trust him. Although the concept of love remained far from her heart, whatever Nathalie felt for him was enough to leave her surrounded by a blue mist, which fogged her comprehension. She reckoned herself to be too young to be in a relationship, her morals fearing the various outcomes of teenage romance. All her knowledge about feelings and life derived from books, where love was an unreachable myth that Nathalie was willing to debunk every time she stared into the cerulean eyes owned by Nicholas Arquette.

'Professeure Alerie mentioned your test today,' Nicholas said, brushing a strand of red hair from Nathalie's face. 'Do you need help with Transfiguration?'

'No,' Nathalie said, reaching for the last blue macaron on the table. 'But we could spend my free period together.'

Elise, overhearing, interjected with a mock sigh. 'I hope you don't plan on doing that in our room. I am revising there, remember?'

Nathalie pouted, leaning into Nicholas's shoulder. 'You don't love me anymore if you won't let your best friend spend her free period with her boyfriend.'

Elise rolled her eyes, but a faint smile played on her lips. Nathalie seized the opportunity.

'Please, Eli, we promise not to disturb you.'

'Fine,' Elise relented, folding a pastry into a napkin.

Nathalie jumped up, stumbling slightly as she rushed to hug her friend.

'Je t'aime,' she whispered, peppering Elise's cheeks with kisses. 'I love you, te amo, Ich liebe dich—'

'I got it, Miss Polyglot,' Elise laughed. 'But if you interrupt me with your antics, I'm kicking you out.'

'Aye, captain!' Nathalie saluted playfully, grabbing Nicholas's hand to lead him away.

They walked through the bustling halls until they reached the third-year girls' wing. Nathalie's heart raced; she'd never brought Nicholas to her dorm. Would everything go smoothly? She worried about him learning too much about her, about what she might inadvertently reveal in conversation.

'Welcome,' Nathalie said nervously, opening her dorm room door.

As they entered, Nathalie scanned the room anxiously, hoping it wasn't too messy or embarrassing. Nicholas stood beside her, his surprise evident as he hummed, 'Tidy!'

'Not thanks to Nathalie,' Elise remarked dryly, settling down with her book.

'What?' Nathalie said. 'I'm super organised.'

'Guess which one is her bed?' Elise asked, pointing at the messiest bed in the room.

'I didn't have time to make it this morning. Don't be a twat,' Nathalie pouted, waving her wand to perform a quick spell. The sheets and pillows snapped into place, the mess vanishing in seconds.

'You got yourself a new broom?' Nicholas asked, his finger tracing the paper wrapping around the sleek Starswapper XV lying on Nathalie's bed. 'Not fair, Nat. You'll be invincible if you get on the pitch with one of those.'

Nathalie froze, eyes widening at the sight of the broom. It wasn't hers. It was a gift for her cousin Louis. Every year, they exchanged meaningful gifts on their birthdays to bridge the distance between them. The broom was a carefully chosen present, currently the best Quidditch broom on the market. Nathalie had saved every penny of her allowance to buy it for him. She had hidden it under her bed for weeks, but clearly, the spell meant to tidy up had backfired.

'It's not for me,' she replied hastily, hoping to cut the conversation short. She couldn't admit it was hers, or Nicholas would wonder why she wasn't using it in the next game over the weekend.

'If it's not for you, then it must be for your favourite person ever!' Nicholas teased, pretending to rip the brown paper off the broom. He took a small peek inside, careful not to ruin the wrapping. 'Lucky Theodora!'

'No, I'd never give Theodora anything unless it was a one-way ticket to Azkaban,' Nathalie snarled;

Elise shot her a disapproving look, the hundredth motherly glance of the day. Everyone at school believed that Nathalie and Theodora were cousins. In reality, they weren't related, not even distantly. They didn't share a single drop of blood. But for safety reasons, Madame Maxime had meddled with reality, 'making' them cousins.

It all started with rumours during Nathalie's first year. Some sixth-year girls had noticed she was part of Veela a few months in. It was true, but the revelation sparked even more curiosity about her background, especially since she was allegedly Muggle-born. To stifle the gossip, Madame Maxime had picked Theodora Saint-Anne, a true Muggle-born girl, to be Nathalie's faux cousin. Only Nathalie knew the truth, and those who did had their memories altered. Theodora, under the influence of enchantment, believed in their kinship and, like Katherine, harboured the same jealousy-fueled disdain for Nathalie.

'Anyway, it's a gift for an acquaintance of mine,' Nathalie said, feeling slightly better about telling only half a lie. 'He lives in England, so I'm sending it there soon.'

'So you're giving him a bloody broom?' Nicholas asked in a terrible British accent.

'We—They don't talk like that,' Nathalie stuttered, caught off guard.

'Yes, they do,' Elise called from her desk.

'That's rubbish,' Nathalie huffed, rolling her eyes.

'D'you reckon I can finish this bloody thing by the end of this ridiculous discussion?' Elise mimicked Nathalie's accent.

'Laugh, and I'll revoke your speaking privileges, French boy,' Nathalie warned Nicholas, who struggled to suppress his laughter as she tried to process how Elise had mastered the accent so well.

Nathalie rarely spoke English at school. Madame Maxime had advised her to avoid classes and extracurriculars conducted in English. She believed Nathalie's presence was already intriguing enough; adding a native British accent would only stir more trouble.

'In my defence, I think it sounds cute,' Nicholas said. 'I was surprised when I first heard you talk, but I like it.'

'More like a fifty-year-old banker, but sure,' Elise teased.

'For your information, I talk just like my father, so if you have any complaints, I suggest you send a letter to Cassius Rosier, Auror Headquarters, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Level Two, Ministry of Magic, London, England, Great Britain,' Nathalie rambled. 'And if he doesn't reply within two to four business days, you can try reaching Mr. Potter, who will most likely keep my father from replying to his mail because of chess.'

'I'll be sure to keep that in mind the next time I feel like snitching on your pranks to your parents. They've been very dismissive of my attempts to contact them for the past three years.' Elise laughed, assuming this was yet another one of Nathalie's jokes about being an orphan.

'I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I'm lost,' Nicholas said, looking genuinely puzzled. 'Your father is an Auror, and he knows Harry Potter? I thought you didn't know your parents-.'

'It gets better,' Nathalie whispered conspiratorially. 'My aunt is Fleur Delacour, my mother and the Minister of Magic have lunch every Tuesday, and I share cousins with the Potters.'

'I can't believe I thought you were serious.' Nick scoffed, shaking his head.

'Just because I come from a pureblood family and am my parents' least favourite child, you can't assume I'm a falsely convicted murderer who spent twelve years in Azkaban,' Nathalie said, her tone dripping with mock solemnity.

'What?' Nicholas's confusion deepened, his brows knitting together.

Nathalie let out a loud laugh. It was always amusing, putting people in these situations. She loved to weave truths into her statements, speaking facts that sounded too fantastical to believe. It was the beauty of it all: how poorly crafted lies, mixed with snippets of her reality, shaped everyone's perception of her. No matter how many details she included in her 'lies,' no one took her seriously. She would forever be the muggle-born orphan from a small town in France, with nothing to her name, no family, and very few friends.

Chapter Text

The twelfth had arrived, along with pouring rain and bottled feelings. Anguish corrupted every cell in Nathalie's body, and every muscle ached with pain. At breakfast, she didn't eat, too tired from the late-night hours spent crying under the covers; lunchtime was the same, nothing but pitiful looks shared by those who watched her lifeless frame. Meticulously packed, Nathalie shipped Louis' gift at night, when only she and the wandering gargoyles were awake. Jigsaw, her brother's owl, who had flown from Scotland earlier that day, sat in the ancient and abandoned owlery. Unused by the Beauxbatons students and staff. The redhead attached a long letter to the owl's feet. In the last few lines, she wrote a request: ''Promise me you won't forget me when I'm no longer allowed to come back?'' A knot formed in her throat as she remembered the words written on the parchment. Outside her torturous mind, her pain didn't cease; the walls caged her inside the classroom, where Madame Alarie's screeching voice only added to her suffering. Tears threatened to escape as she watched the colourful garden outside the window. Those who walked past the petal-filled grounds paid little attention to the hues beneath their feet, yet they looked happy. Smiles were glued to their faces, whilst Nathalie struggled to keep her composure amidst her internal chaos.

'Delacour,' a female voice rose, surprising Nathalie. 'I've told you before that if you do not make at least a minimal effort in my class, you shall leave.'

Nathalie had plenty of chances to leave in the past, but she begged to stay amidst whines filled with unfulfilled promises. Nathalie sought her materials, grabbing her unopened book and scattered pens. Madame Alarie didn't frighten her. Au contraire. Nathalie viewed her as one of the most comical elements in school. It was entertaining to see a 40-year-old woman feeling undermined by teenagers.

'WHERE ARE YOU GOING?' shouted the teacher as Nathalie walked past her.

'You told me I could leave...'

The professor's bony hand grabbed Nathalie's arm with ardour, nails sinking in the flesh of her pale skin.'I will not tolerate such behaviour inside my classroom,' patronised the woman.

'That's why I'm leaving-' said Nathalie, glaring at the woman from above her glasses. 

'NO, YOU ARE NOT.' Alarie shouted again.

'Make up your mind then.'

Nathalie fought the urge to cover her mouth in shock. It was unlike her to retaliate, at least not directly; her acts of revenge always remaining secretive. In her opinion, it was both cowardice and a waste of talent, but her mother's words stuck with her. '' To them, you are not a Delacour, but that doesn't mean you can dishonour the family name.'' She couldn't let go of the lecture she had been given years ago, a reminder of how fragile her relationship with her mother was and the strict boundaries she kept solely to please her.

'I MADE UP MY MIND,' the old hag shouted, ' THREE YEARS AGO WHEN YOU WALKED INTO THIS SCHOOL ACTING AS IF YOU WERE BETTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE BECAUSE OF YOUR FAMILY!'

'You don't know shit about my life,' said Nathalie, who now felt fearless.

Alarie's pointy head cocked to the side, studying Nathalie's features. Perhaps she searched for a quivering lip, struggling to keep the tears from spilling or the smallest sign of weakness coming from the girl, yet Nathalie was smart enough not to display any signs of fear. It was stupid to do so since her father had taught her that displaying physical signs of weakness could be deadly. Of course, he was an auror and needed to keep that in mind to survive whilst Nathalie argued with her teacher. It was still a valuable lesson, Nathalie thought, considering her professor was worse than any Death Eater her father might've ever encountered. 

'Special day tomorrow, isn't it?' mocked the woman. 'Are mummy and daddy coming over to celebrate?'

'Fuck you.' said the girl. The words left Nathalie's lips with such boldness that she didn't feel the impact of the woman's fingers on her face. Alarie had delivered a harsh slap on her left cheek, and although her cheek stung terribly, Nathalie still hadn't processed the words she had said moments prior. Nor had she processed what the woman had just said.

'I don't want to see you in my classroom ever again,' hissed Alarie.

Nathalie nodded, bending to grab her bag, which had fallen on the floor amidst the argument. She didn't bother saying a word, not even an apology, as she walked towards the door with her head held high. The golden knob that adorned the wooden door of the classroom ghosted her fingers before it cracked open, revealing a familiar gargoyle.

'Excusez-moi- Oh, I'm looking for you, Delacour,' exclaimed Urko. 'Madame Maxime wants you in her office.'

'Guess she had a hunch,' Nathalie muttered, 'd'reckon she fancies going to a casino with me. Bet she'd make a fortune with that sixth sense of hers.'

'OUT!' shouted Alarie.

'Ouch!' blurted Nathalie, faking disappointment. 'I was going to invite you to our Monaco trip. I guess I'll have to find someone else.' Before she heard the woman's reply, magic pushed her out of the classroom, a loud thud echoing as the door closed behind her.

'What have you done?' the gargoyle questioned in horror.

'It earned me a slap across the face. That's what you get to know.' Nathalie chuckled.

The Gargoyle flew closer to her face, his stone-covered features settling into a frown. Legend had it that gargoyles were heartless and unable to care for others, but Urko was different. They assigned him as Nathalie's vigilante on her first week, and in exchange, she named him after a character from Planet of the Apes. In their friendship, Urko constantly scolded the redhead for her pranks, whilst she fooled him into helping with her next plan.

'Madame Maxime won't let her go unpunished for this,' said Urko.

'S'okay,' she whispered, grabbing her wand to cover the handprint on her cheek. 'She doesn't have to know. Now, why am I being summoned?'

'Je ne sais pas,' he replied. 'Maybe she found out who dyed Baltimore's mane green.'

'Despicable action,' Nathalie played dumb, walking in the opposite direction from Madame Maxime's office. 'Good luck finding who did it.'

The pair chatted through the never-ending corridors. With every turn Nathalie and Urko took, a different conversation began. Nathalie knew that although Urko was a friend, he had duties to perform; their conversations, albeit pleasant, served as a way for her dear friend to snoop into her life. His mission, assigned to him the moment she set foot on the school grounds, was to protect her.  He carried that burden heavily and dutifully during the past three years. Urko knew of Nathalie's escapades, stunts and gloomy days. He was the one who reminded her to take her bi-weekly set of potions and sought her whenever something odd happened within the castle's walls.  However, this time, Nathalie noticed something unusual happening to her confidant. Urko was stern- more stern than possible since he was made of stone. His eyelids seemed heavy, and his breathing would become deeper whenever she spoke. The girl tried to lighten up the mood by pretending she was running away from him, taking unexpected turns, but that didn't help. 

After some time, they arrived at Madame Maxime's office. The sight of the tall and golden door of the Headmistress's office wasn't foreign to the girl. Nathalie was there almost as much as the Headmistress herself… Or perhaps, Maxime was there because of her. The answer to that may never be known. Yet, this time, Nathalie felt uneasy upon opening the grand door. 

'Tell me, Urko, what has taken you so long?' Madame Maxime questioned as the door to her office opened.

Urko sent Nathalie a glare, to which she replied with a small smile. Their lateness was her fault since she tried to run away from Urko more than once as he patiently guided them through the chateau, but his small rock wings were faster than she'd imagined. The motive for her summoning remained a mystery, making Nathalie's brain go into a pre-crisis setting, furthering their tardiness. Nathalie kept questioning the gargoyle on every possibility, listing any pranks that were still a secret. There was, of course, today's incident, but it was unlikely news had reached the tall woman's ears. Nevertheless, the unsettling feeling Nathalie felt when reaching the office kept brewing inside of her.

'Je suis désolé, Madame,' he apologised, flapping his wings to the side so Nathalie could enter the room.

'It was my fault, Madame.' Nathalie spoke, moving towards the headteacher's table. 'I kept Urko with my talking.'

Madame Maxime acknowledged Nathalie's excuse with a nod. Subtly, she fixed her posture on the chair, signalling the girl to do the same. Upon noticing this, Nathalie straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and fixed her skirt, earning an approving look from the woman.

'That's a Beauxbatons's looking posture,' someone, whom she soon realised was not Madame Maxime, spoke.

The voice was familiar, too familiar for Nathalie to ignore it. She knew to whom it belonged, but Gabrielle Evangeline Delacour had never left London to see her daughter. Sooner than she expected, lilac-scented perfume filled the air surrounding her. Her mother's perfume was unmistakable, her signature smell since Nathalie had registered it as an infant. Her nostrils caught the familiar scent in the air and signalled  'DANGER' to her brain, which refused to act. Nathalie remained stagnant, full of fear and denial, whilst the woman she once called mother appeared in her life. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the woman. Despite being apart for three years, she remembered her mother's most prominent features. During their last encounter, her luscious blonde hair had reached her waist, its length only alluding to an even taller stature. She was just as tall as her older sister, Fleur, and they shared the same delicate but bony nose, yet their eyes were different. Her mother shared the colour of her irides with Nathalie's older brother, Nathaniel. Their eyes were the richest shade of cerulean blue she had ever seen. There were freckles through the expense of Gabrielle's cheeks, hidden under the light makeup that covered her skin. Nathalie remembers trying to draw them on herself as a child, a silly attempt to look more like her family members.

 She knew it was wrong not to acknowledge the woman who, despite everything, gave birth to her. Nathalie couldn't help but notice how ethereal her mother looked. Gabrielle was a woman who bore delicacy and youth. Nathalie had always looked up to her mother's beauty, craving from an early age to resemble her. However, the gods weren't in her favour, and she was born with nothing to identify her as a Delacour or a Rosier. However, it wasn't just Gabrielle's beauty that astounded the girl. Everything about her mother made her inner child giggle in excitement. She looked like a real-life Barbie. The Barbie that Nathalie always wanted but could never have. 

'What are you doing here?' Nathalie blurted out, immediately regretting the sharpness in her tone.

'Well, it's nice to see you too, Nathalie,' her mother replied. Sarcasm bled through Gabrielle's lips, sending chills down Nathalie's back. 

Nathalie sighed and looked at her mother apologetically. ' I'm sorry. I just... wasn't expecting anyone,' she mumbled, shifting her weight awkwardly.

'Your father thought I should send a letter first,' Gabrielle said with a small shrug, 'but I thought you'd appreciate a surprise.'

'You know I'm a person, right?' Nathalie's voice wavered as she spoke. Her legs trembled, and coldness washed over her, making her skin prickle. Her brown eyes met Gabrielle's familiar blue ones, and suddenly, an intense yearning to be held by her mother flooded her senses.

She could feel her heart pounding with a mix of anger and sorrow, emotions she thought she had buried long ago. The rage inside her clashed with the aching sense of abandonment, a painful reminder of old wounds that had never fully healed. Nathalie wanted to believe this was some kind of prank, a cruel joke orchestrated by Edward Remus Lupin, who had finally lost his mind and broken into the school just to torment her on her birthday.

'I am aware of who you are, Nathalie,' Gabrielle said softly, taking a step closer to her daughter. 'We haven't seen you in so long, and we thought a surprise visit for your birthday would be nice.'

'A while? You call three years a while?' Nathalie shot back, her voice rising with each word.

Gabrielle's gaze dropped to the floor, her voice faltering. 'We were... busy—'

'Busy? I don't think anyone can be so busy they forget their child,' Nathalie said, her voice thick with anger and desperation. Her lips trembled as she tried to hold back her tears. 'Did you pick Nate up for his birthday too? Or was being with him every day for eleven years enough for you?'

'Nate has nothing to do with this,' Gabrielle whispered, her voice barely audible.

Nathalie rolled her eyes, feeling the urge to end this pointless conversation. She turned sharply on her heel, heading for the door.

'Nathalie, please,' her mother pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears. 'I know this is difficult, but we have an entire surprise planned for you. All we want is for you to come with me to London, just for the weekend. If you don't want to go, I won't force you. But your dad misses you so much. He wants to see his little girl before you grow too old for him to call you that.'

Nathalie stopped in her tracks, disbelief washing over her. Was her mother using guilt to manipulate her? She felt a fresh wave of anger rise as if Gabrielle had sunk to a new low. 'You've been away for most of my life, and now you think you can fix everything in two days?' she snarled, her voice thick with resentment.

Gabrielle sighed, her shoulders sagging in defeat. 'No, of course not. I know we can't fix everything right away. But let me take you home, and I promise we'll start making things right, one small step at a time.'

'Where's home, Maman?' Nathalie cried, her voice breaking. 'Because the only home I know is Gordes. That's where you left me, remember? That's my home. Not England, and not with you and Papa.'

Gabrielle's eyes welled up again, and she wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. 'Let me take you home, Nathalie. Just give me a chance to show you, please.'

Nathalie looked into her mother's tear-filled eyes and saw the pain there. It was real, just like her own. But even as she recognised Gabrielle's hurt, the anger and betrayal she felt were too strong to ignore. Part of her wanted to turn away, to leave them behind just as they had left her.

It wasn't easy growing up in a house without parents. Nathalie's memories of them faded with each passing year, leaving only the sharp sting of their absence. They had left when she was five, placing her under the care of a house-elf, Doris. Doris cooked and cleaned, but a House Elf couldn't provide the warmth or comfort a parent could. Nathalie had learned how to tend to her wounds, wondering why the kidsinn stories had their parents put a band-aid on their scraped knees. Her days were lonely, and her thoughts often spiralled as she tried to piece together the puzzle of her life, searching for a reason behind her parents' abandonment. Now, Nathalie watched her mother standing there, begging for a chance to make things right, cutting Nathalie to the bone. It was like opening an old wound. A wound that had never fully healed from years of neglect. Her mother's pain was undeniable, but so was her own. Despite everything, she was still that little girl longing for love—the kind of love only a parent could give. Whatever game her parents had been playing all those years, Nathalie knew she couldn't escape the hurt overnight. A part of her wanted to shut them out, to make them feel the loneliness she had endured.

But another part of her, deep down, still craved their love. Even now, after all the broken promises and years of silence, there was a tiny flicker of hope that things could change.

Nathalie's eyes locked with her mother's, her mind spinning with a whirlwind of thoughts. Should she stay, or should she go? There wasn't much time to decide, and she didn't want to drag this out any longer. Her heart pounded in her chest, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out of her mouth, uncertain and hesitant. 'I have nothing packed, so I'd have to go to my dorm first,' she blurted out, immediately regretting her spontaneous response.

'Is that okay, Madame?' Gabrielle asked, her gaze flickering towards Maxime, who was standing quietly in the background.

'Yes, you may go, my dear,' Maxime responded, offering Nathalie a warm, reassuring smile. 'Don't worry about informing anyone. I'll take care of notifying your roommates and Mr. Arquette.'

Nathalie gave a terse nod, murmuring a distracted 'Merci' before turning to leave. As she walked to her dorm, her mind raced with a thousand questions, each layered with complexity and uncertainty. An intense, simmering rage churned within her as if her essence was boiling with unresolved emotions and magic. But she pushed those feelings aside for the moment.

She moved quickly, gathering her belongings into a small bag, her movements almost mechanical. With a deep breath, she set out for the Headmistress's office, her heart heavy with apprehension and resolve.

Chapter Text

Nathalie struggled to catch her breath as she tightened her grip on her mother's arm. Her vision had gone dark moments earlier while she was still at Madame Maxime's office, and she was certain her eardrums had been jarred. The sensation wasn't painful, but it did nothing to quell the gnawing ache in her stomach, which was a mixture of fear and anxiety. Now, as she stood before the redbrick mansion—a grand example of 19th-century architecture—she couldn't shake the feeling of being an outsider. Her parents had chosen this opulent home in Virginia Water in Surrey, just outside London. It radiated luxury and warmth. Nathalie was acutely aware that her presence here didn't automatically grant her a place within this family. It was, however, a poignant reminder of how their lives went ahead without her around.

Gabrielle led her towards the door, their hands still intertwined. Nathalie's heart pounded faster than anticipated as the door creaked open, revealing the house's lavish interior. It was everything she had read about in books—elegant family pictures framed on the walls and sentimental ornaments that spoke of a life carefully curated.

'Your father finally got around to tidying up,' Gabrielle remarked, dropping Nathalie's bag on the floor with a tired sigh. Nathalie gazed around, her awe barely contained.

'Right,' Nathalie responded, almost breathless.

The sound of a distant door swinging open and footsteps approaching filled the air, each echo growing louder and more insistent. It shattered the silence, sending a shiver of anticipation down Nathalie's spine. Nathalie braced herself for the encounter; her shyness and apprehension were palpable. She wrapped her arms around herself, clinging to her form and shielding herself against the unknown.  Her vulnerability was overwhelming, and her heart raced in time with the approaching footsteps, each a reminder of the emotional storm she was about to face.

Slowly, a tall figure emerged from the dimly lit hallway, his silhouette growing clearer with each step. It was her father. His presence filled the space, and though he hadn't changed dramatically, the subtle signs of ageing were evident. The youthful vigour of his twenties had faded, replaced by the marks of nearly forty years of life. Flecks of grey now streaked through his hair, and the lines etched into his face told a story of countless smiles, worries, and experiences of family life like theirs.

Yet, despite these changes, his grey eyes retained their piercing kindness and comforting warmth. As Nathalie watched, her father's face broke into a broad, radiant smile that seemed to light up the entire room. He approached her with a gentle authority, the kind only a father could wield. His hands reached out and rested on her shoulders, a gesture that was both reassuring and steeped in nostalgia. To her surprise, she did not feel uncomfortable with the contact. It brough a sense of comfort and connection that she had been missing. Nathalie was always closer to him. It was her father that she sought during sleepless nights. Although he was not physically there, the mere imagination of his presence, standing watch over her, was enough to ease her heart and calm her fears.

'Are you even real?' Cassius whispered, running his fingers through Nathalie's cheek.

'I believe so,' she replied meekly. 'I mean, I'm pretty sure this is not a dream. Therefore, it must be real.'

'Sorry,' he whispered, gently wiping the tears from his eyes. 'It's just- last time I saw you, you were 10 and had a missing tooth. You've grown quite a lot since.'

'That's rubbish, Dad,' a foreign voice spoke from above.

It wasn't Merlin, nor was it God, and once she turned around, she saw her brother, Nathaniel, standing atop the stairs. The sight of him brought a rush of conflicting emotions. They had a complicated relationship woven with threads of fond memories and lingering resentments. Nathaniel was 18 months older than Nathalie and bore an uncanny resemblance to their mother, often making Nathalie feel like she was standing in the shadow of his golden halo. His blond hair fell in soft waves, and his piercing blue eyes mirrored the exact shade of cerulean their mother was known for.

As she looked at him, Nathalie couldn't help but notice the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, a subtle feature he had also inherited from their Mother. With its slight, noble curve, his nose mimicked their father's strong profile and their mother's delicate grace. Nathaniel was the epitome of their family's legacy, a mixture of their parents' best attributes, both in looks and demeanour. Unlike him, Nathalie had often felt like an oddity, a misfit puzzle piece in the grand picture of their family heritage. Her only discernible familial feature was the dimple on her right cheek, a mirror image of the one on Nathaniel's face, a small yet poignant reminder of their shared blood. 

A wave of resentment washed over her as she stood there, taking in the sight of her brother. Their relationship was far from perfect. As children, they had spent barely three weeks a year together, often during the holidays or family gatherings. Yet, in those fleeting moments, they had formed an unbreakable bond. They were inseparable during those times, creating shared secrets and laughter, a sanctuary where they were just Nathaniel and Nathalie. When their cousins joined them, which happened once in a blue moon, the bond extended to include a gang of mischievous adventurers, always up to something, always together. It was a time of innocent camaraderie, a rare respite from her solitary childhood.

However, as the years passed, the innocence of their bond was eroded by the reality of growing up. Nathaniel and their cousins went to Hogwarts, the magical castle that seemed like a world apart from Nathalie's life. She had stayed behind, feeling the sting of being left alone. The promise he had made, to write to her every week, became a bitter memory as the letters never arrived. Each passing week without a letter deepened the wound of betrayal. The occasional news she got about him came through their cousins, Dominque and Louis, who, despite their busy lives, still reached out to her. Their letters, though sporadic, were a lifeline, a tenuous connection to the family she felt slipping away.

Nathalie also heard rumours from third parties, whispers and tales that painted a picture of Nathaniel's life at Hogwarts. Girls at Beauxbatons, where Nathalie attended school, often fawned over her brother, oblivious to their kinship. They spoke of him in hushed, admiring tones, describing him as one of the most 'Eligible Bachelors,' a term that seemed absurd and painful to Nathalie. It was surreal to hear his name mentioned in such contexts, to see him elevated to a status of almost mythic proportions, a far cry from the brother who had once promised to keep in touch.

Nathaniel's laughter echoed down the staircase, a familiar and foreign sound to Nathalie's ears. 'Cat got your tongue, Natty?' he teased, loosening his tie further. 

Nathalie mustered a smile, though it felt as brittle as an autumn-dried leaf. 'Au contraire,' she replied, trying to inject cheerfulness into her voice. 'I was just thinking how my weekend plans have taken a turn for the... unexpected.' She tried to keep her tone light, but the weight of unspoken words pressed down on her.

Nathaniel's grin widened, seemingly oblivious to her inner turmoil. 'I have to admit, I had plans for the weekend too. But thanks to you, I've got an escape from a very boring Potions lesson. Professor Slughorn's lectures have been putting even the cauldrons to sleep.'

Nathalie laughed, a hollow sound that didn't quite manage to be trustworthy. 'I'm glad my suffering is of aid to you,' she said, rolling her eyes playfully. 

As Nathaniel descended the stairs, the house that once felt like a sanctuary now seemed to echo with unfamiliarity. It was a place filled with memories, yet each room and corner seemed to mock her with reminders of the time lost and the bonds weakened. She took a deep breath, trying to brace herself for the evening ahead. Nathalie had returned to her alleged home, hoping to find some semblance of the family connection she yearned for. She sat at the same table as her family at dinner for the first time in years. She felt like an outsider watching strangers nonchalantly share about their lives. The names mentioned were unknown, the meaning behind their shared laughter unbeknownst. Yet, she tried to embrace the journey with bravery.

She listened rather attentively to the long story her brother was telling, trying to find threads that could link her back to the family tapestry she felt excluded from. Nathaniel, animated and engrossed in his tale, seemed oblivious to her struggle.

'Minnie needs to stop pampering you and Potter. You two are a menace.' Cassius remarked with a hint of exasperation after listening to Nathaniel's latest escapade.

Nathaniel chuckled, leaning back in his chair. 'Hey, it wasn't just James and me. Louis and Fred were right there with us. We were just trying to help Fred with his... romantic ventures.'

'So you ended up blowing up Madam Puddifoot's?' Gabrielle exclaimed, her eyes wide with disbelief. 'Honestly, it's no surprise James has been stuck on the same girl for years. None of you seem to know anything when it comes to women.'

Nathalie, surrounded by the animated chatter, felt as if she were adrift in a sea of unfamiliarity. She spoke a few languages fluently, but English felt like a foreign tongue whenever Nathalie tried to understand their conversation. The conversation swirled around her, filled with names and places she barely recognised. She remained silent, her appetite suppressed by a mix of anxiety and detachment. Their voices gradually became a distant murmur, and Nathalie's thoughts wandered. She questioned her place at the table in this family that felt so alien to her.

'Nathalie?' her father's voice broke through her reverie. 'You've been quiet. Is everything alright?'

Nathalie nodded, swallowing a small, tasteless bite of her food. The question struck her as absurd, highlighting how detached they were from her reality. She mustered a response, her voice barely concealing her frustration. 'I don't have much to add. I don't understand what you're talking about.'

Silence filled the room for once that evening. Nathalie's parents exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Cassius took a long sip of his wine while her mother, Gabrielle, fidgeted with her fingers, a look of concern etched on her face. Nathalie watched them, feeling like a stranger intruding on a private moment, unsure if her words had offended or merely saddened them.

'So, how's Beauxbatons?' Gabrielle asked, breaking the silence. 'Is Theodora still causing you trouble?

The unexpected question caught Nathalie off guard, but she decided to respond. 'She tries,' Nathalie said with a small, defiant smile. 'But I don't let her get away with it.'

'Does that mean Madame Maxime has been informed?' Gabrielle pressed, her tone edging towards disapproval.

'Of course!' Nathalie laughed lightly. 'She's the one who signs my detention slips.'

Gabrielle's sharp intake of breath filled the room, her reaction was immediate and intense—so different from her earlier, almost indifferent response to Nathaniel's antics. 'Mon Dieu!' Gabrielle cried, throwing her hands up. 'I'm raising two delinquents. One can't go more than a day without Minnie sending me a letter about his latest stunts, and the other tarnishes our family's name by flouting the rules at every opportunity.'

There it is! Nathalie thought to herself, a mixture of relief and frustration swirling within her. Her mother's true nature was beginning to surface. Gabrielle's obsession with senseless rules forced Nathalie into a web of lies about her life. She told people she was Muggle-born, weaving a story about her fake kinship to Theodora's Muggle family. No one could know that she was the daughter of Gabrielle Delacour and Cassius Rosier. The weight of her mother's patronising demeanour irked Nathalie.

'Gabrielle... We've been through this,' Cassius said, reaching for his wife's arm. 'Please, keep yourself calm.'

It astounded Nathalie how quickly her mother processed her emotions. One moment, Gabrielle was merry; the next, she was angry and pale, the rosy hue of her cheeks fading as she gripped the edge of the table. Cassius stood up rapidly to aid his wife, reaching for his wand and muttering a spell under his breath. Meanwhile, Nathaniel seemed minimally concerned. His eyes flicked toward the scene, but Nathaniel kept devouring his food as if nothing were amiss.

'Is she alright?' Nathalie whispered to her brother.

'I reckon,' he replied, putting his fork down. 'Mum does that often.'

After her mother's episode at dinner, Nathalie and her brother were sent to their rooms. The problem was that Nathalie had no idea where her room was. Discreetly, she followed Nathaniel up the stairs, her head hanging low, doing her best to avoid drawing attention. On the other hand, Nathaniel seemed completely unfazed by the evening's events. He cast one last glance at his sister before disappearing into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.

As Nathalie stood in the dimly lit hallway, she noticed the door to the next room was slightly ajar. She hesitated before peeking inside, finding her bags neatly arranged by the bed. The room was large, the walls were a soft white with delicate lilacs curling around the corners. The furniture and decorations felt oddly personal, as if the room had been waiting for her for years.

She wandered around, opening drawers and misplacing objects, her fingers grazing over surfaces in search of something. Something that might feel familiar. A token of affection, perhaps, or some sign that this space belonged to her. But besides the obvious—the bed, the wardrobe, the carefully placed bags—there was nothing. Nothing truly connected her to this room. It felt curated, like a stage set for someone she did not recognise. It made sense. She was a performer. A character with multiple facets, carefully curated to please whomever she spoke to.  

The girl sat at the edge of her bed, her fingers tracing the embroidered patterns on the quilt absentmindedly. The room, though beautiful, felt suffocating, like a museum exhibit she wasn't supposed to touch. She gazed at the delicate lilacs painted on the walls, the fine lines curling as if attempting to weave themselves into something more meaningful, more familiar. But it was all a facade. The room might as well have belonged to a stranger, someone who fits perfectly into this gilded world of her parents' making. Nathalie felt like an intruder, as though at any moment the real occupant would walk in and demand she leave. The longer she sat, the more the distance between herself and her family widened, an invisible chasm she feared would never close.  Just as she was about to let out a sigh, a soft knock on the door broke the silence. Nathalie's heart skipped a beat, her body tensing instinctively. The door creaks open, and Nathaniel's face appears in the dim light of the hallway. He hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, his expression unreadable.

She felt very confused at the sight of him. Wasn't she supposed to be there? Anxiety rushed through Nathalie as she feared being apprehended for being inside the room. Yet, Nathaniel didn't say anything as he walked inside. He glanced around, his blue eyes scanning every inch of the room with intense curiosity. He lingered by the dresser, his fingers brushing lightly against the surface as if searching for something. Nathalie's heart pounded, and she clutched the edge of the bed, feeling as though she was intruding into a space that wasn't hers. But Nathaniel's expression softened, and instead of a reprimand, he simply let out a small sigh.

'Feels strange, doesn't it?' he said, his voice low and contemplative. 'I've never been inside this room. It has always been yours, and it has always been locked.'

Nathalie blinked, caught off guard by his words. She had expected a lecture or a snide remark, but his tone was different—gentler as if he understood the unease she felt. For a moment, she didn't know how to respond. She looked at her brother, really looked at him, and realised that the curiosity in his eyes wasn't judgment but rather something else—sympathy, maybe.

'It's like I'm an impostor in my own life,' she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Nathaniel nodded, his gaze finally meeting hers. 'I get it,' he said, taking a seat on the chair by the window. 'I felt the same way when I first arrived this morning. Everything feels a bit... off.'

Nathalie's grip on the quilt loosened slightly, though the knot in her stomach remained. She watched as Nate leaned back in the chair, his gaze shifting to the window where the dim light of the street lamps cast long shadows across the room.

'I didn't expect you to come in,' she admitted, her voice still cautious.

He offered a small, rueful smile. 'I figured you'd want some space after dinner. But... I also thought you might want someone to talk to.' His eyes softened, and for a moment, the teasing older brother she remembered seemed to fade, replaced by someone almost unfamiliar—someone who might understand her loneliness.

Nathalie felt a wave of conflicting emotions rise in her chest. Part of her wanted to push him away, to shield herself from disappointment, but another part of her yearned for the connection they once shared. She hesitated, unsure of which side to listen to. 

'You didn't have to come,' she said, her tone wavering between guarded and hopeful.

Nathaniel shrugged. 'I know. But you're here now, and... I guess I just wanted to see if you were okay. Things over here can get a little heated.' He paused, running a hand through his hair. 'I know things have been strange between us, but I want you to know it was not my fault. I'm sorry for leaving you alone.'

His apology caught her off guard. She had imagined this moment many times—what she might say if he ever acknowledged the distance between them—but now that it was happening, she felt unprepared. Her throat tightened, and she looked away, blinking back tears that threatened to surface.

'Why now?' she whispered, her voice cracking. 'Why does everyone seem to suddenly care for me?'

Nathaniel paused, his expression thoughtful as he considered her question. 'I don't know,' he admitted. 'Maybe we've all been too caught up in our own lives. But that doesn't mean we forgot about you.' He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 'I know it feels like we did, though.'

Nathalie looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting the fabric of the quilt. 'I felt like I was invisible for so long. Like you and everyone else moved on, and I was left behind. It's not just about Mom and Dad. The only one that made a real effort to stay in touch was Louis.'

He reached out, his hand hovering over hers before finally settling, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. 'I wish I could say it wasn't true. But you're right, in a way.' His voice was soft, tinged with regret. 'I got wrapped up in everything—School, friends, Quidditch—and I didn't think about what it was like for you.'

Nathalie felt a lump forming in her throat. 'I wrote to you, you know. Even after the letters stopped coming. I thought maybe one day you'd write back.'

“Mum said it was better that way,” Nathaniel whispered. “She said you had to stay away, that it was for your safety. But sometimes I think- I think maybe she was lying.”

The girl studied her brother's face, searching for any hint of insincerity. For years, she had clung to the idea that he had abandoned her like everyone else, and it was easier that way. But seeing how his eyes softened, his remorse made it harder to hold on to her resentment.

Nathaniel’s expression darkened, his eyes flicking away. “It’s complicated with Mum,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair. “She has her reasons. Reasons she won’t always share. But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

Nathalie crossed her arms, a barrier between herself and the truth she wasn’t ready to confront. “It doesn’t feel that way,” she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. “She left me alone, Nate. She only cared about keeping me hidden and didn’t explain why.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Mom’s always been like that—guarded, secretive. It’s like... she’s afraid of something.”

The weight of his words settled between them, and Nathalie felt a shiver run down her spine. “Of what?” she pressed, leaning forward.

Nathaniel’s eyes met hers, and for the first time, Nathalie saw fear. “I don’t know. I don't see any reason for fear or secrets in our lives. Everything is perfect apart from the fact that we cannot talk about you. It feels like she's protecting you, but she’s protecting herself, too. She’s different now—more distant, more intense.”

Nathalie looked at Nathaniel, her expression guarded. The silence between them felt heavy, like an unspoken history they both refused to confront. For a moment, neither spoke, and the only sound in the room was the soft rustle of the curtains swaying in the breeze. She felt sceptical about what she had just heard. Everything is perfect apart from the fact that we cannot talk about you. Nathalie couldn't help but question why they couldn't acknowledge her, at least amongst themselves. She felt hurt, as if her existence was a burden to this perfect family she seemingly tried to shatter by simply existing. 

Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I know it’s hard being back here,” he began cautiously. “I mean, for both of us.”

Nathalie raised an eyebrow, her scepticism clear. “Is it hard for you, though? You’ve been living with them for years. You know them in ways I never will.”

 He let out a sigh, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It’s not like that, Nat. Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I get them either. Especially Mom.”

“Mom.” Nathalie’s voice was bitter, almost mocking. “It’s like she’s two different people—one moment she’s laughing, the next, she’s... I don’t know. It’s like she’s angry at me for even existing.”

Her brother looked up, his eyes meeting hers. “I know it feels that way. But as I said, maybe she’s afraid. I don’t know what of, but it’s not about you, Nat. It’s something else.”

Nathalie crossed her arms, leaning back against the headboard. “You say that, but you don’t know. She never tells me anything. She keeps me at a distance like she’s ashamed of me.”

Nathaniel frowned. “I don’t think that’s it. I know I haven’t been around enough to help. I didn’t realise how hard it’s been for you.”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable. “You didn’t realise because you weren’t there. You didn’t bother to check in.”

He flinched, and for a moment, she thought he might argue. But instead, he just nodded. “You’re right. I didn’t.”

They sat quietly for a few seconds, the distance between them almost palpable. Nathalie felt a pang of regret—this wasn’t how she imagined this conversation going. But there was too much history. Many years of silence and resentment are needed for them to bridge the gap so easily. Perhaps her ideal sibling relationship would never be able to outgrow years of distance. They inhabited different worlds and different galaxies. 

“Why did you come here, Nate?” she finally asked.

He shrugged, his expression guarded. “I guess... I thought maybe we could talk. I often catch myself curious about you whenever I hear a hint of your name coming from Louis or Dom.”

Nathalie leaned back, closing her eyes, and she felt a flicker of something—maybe hope, frustration. Maybe both. She wasn’t sure yet if they could ever truly connect. Everything felt very overwhelming. She was taken away from her regular day, at the only semi-peaceful place she knew, to be surrounded by madness, lies and questions. She felt like her brother was another victim of whatever problems their parents had going on. Yet, the hint of hope she felt might also lead to deception. 

Nathaniel clapped his hands together, snapping Nathalie back to reality. 'Change of topic. Merlin forbids I want to spend my precious time analysing every mysterious choice Mum makes,' said Nataniel rather cheerfully. 'So, I heard you have a boyfriend?"

Nathalie’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of her so-called "boyfriend." She felt a surge of embarrassment, quickly replaced by annoyance. “You mean Nicholas?” she scoffed, crossing her arms.“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? Because Louis mentioned that you two were practically glued together during the last Quidditch match you attended.”

“Louis needs to mind his own business,” Nathalie muttered, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. “We’re just friends. It’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Nathaniel smirked. “Merlin forbid you to meet James. You don't want to learn what being not serious means.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s complicated, okay? I gave him a chance, I'm still seeing how that will unfold. It's not like I have a lot of people to talk to there. It’s not like Hogwarts, where you have a whole squad and... well, everything.”

Nathaniel’s smile faded a little, and for once, he seemed to consider her words. “I get that,” he said, a bit softer this time. “It’s different there, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.” Nathalie looked down at her hands again, feeling the weight of her loneliness settle in. “It’s not like Hogwarts. There, I’m just another student. Not ‘Nathalie Rosier,’ not some mystery to be solved.”

Nathaniel nodded slowly. “I suppose that’s part of why they sent you there. A fresh start, maybe.”

Nathalie didn’t respond right away. Instead, she glanced out the window, watching the shadows dance on the walls. “Or maybe it was easier to forget about me when I wasn’t around.”

Nathaniel’s gaze sharpened, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he let out a sigh. “It’s not about forgetting you, Nat. It’s more... avoiding talking about you. They want to pretend everything is normal when you’re not here.”

“Yeah, well, that’s comforting,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nice to know my absence is what keeps the peace.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, “But I like not being an only child. Maybe we don’t have to figure it all out right now. Let's forget about Mum and Dad for a moment. Maybe we can just start with small things. ”

Nathalie looked at him, uncertainty still clouding her expression. “Like what?”

“Well,” Nathaniel grinned, “you could start by telling me what it’s like having a ‘friend’ like Nicholas around.”

She couldn’t help but let out a reluctant laugh, and the sound felt foreign. “Fine,” she said, shaking her head. “But only if you tell me about Quidditch. And I don’t want boring strategies—just the good stuff.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Nathalie awoke to the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the lace curtains. For a moment, she forgot where she was—the familiar scent of lavender and the warmth of her quilt almost tricked her into thinking she was back in her dormitory at Beauxbatons. But as she blinked the sleep from her eyes, the reality of the unfamiliar room, with its lilac-coloured walls and polished wooden furniture, settled in.

She sat up, her mind still heavy with last night’s conversation. The quiet truce she’d shared with Nathaniel felt fragile, like it could shatter with the slightest shift. Having Nathaniel as an ally, even if it was just for the weekend, comforted the girl. Although she had her friends to rely on back at Beauxbatons, they didn’t know the truth. Elise and Adelle were unaware of her abandonment or the real identity of her family. Nathalie herself was unsure if she had the answer to those questions. However, there was some comfort in the knowledge that Nathaniel was also lost. 

When she chose to follow her mother back to England, it felt like a fever dream. A decision made out of desperation. She had no expectations of mending broken relationships or forcing her way into the family. All she wanted were answers. She was determined to return to France with at least some explanation. Nathalie had convinced herself that entertaining her mother's theatrics for the weekend would unveil the truth. But as she moved to the window, pulling back the lace curtain, a pang of uncertainty settled in her chest. The closer Nathalie got to any answer, the more fearsome she became. England might feel colder and heavier than the gentle, sunlit mornings she was used to. Yet, there was a beauty to the sight before her—the sprawling gardens of their estate stood proud against the backdrop of early spring blooms. The mansion radiated luxury and warmth, with its large bay windows framing views of natural beauty. It felt like a home.

 In Gordes, the small French commune she grew up in, the stone walls of her family's estate felt more like a fortress than a sanctuary. The isolation of the mansion, nestled in the hills and surrounded by olive groves and lavender fields, was palpable. The air was different—dry and fragrant, carrying the earthy scent of the Provençal countryside. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also lonely. The large, shuttered windows of the old stone mansion seemed to watch over her, their shadows stretching long across the garden paths as if to remind her of the loneliness that accompanied her. Nathalie was not allowed to set foot outside the perimeters of the house. Besides Doris, the house elf, and the few governesses who came and went before she was old enough to attend school, Nathalie didn't see a soul. 

Though she had grown accustomed to the solitude, she longed for the freedom her cousins seemed to enjoy. A pang of envy struck her as she thought of them, living lives untouched by the shadows that shaped her own. They had what she wanted: a sense of belonging. 

As she stepped back from the window, Nathalie caught her reflection in the glass, momentarily startled by the unfamiliarity of her image. In this house, she felt like an outsider, a visitor in a world that belonged to someone else. This life belonged to Gabrielle and Cassius's daughter that never came to be. The hypothetical existence of this child haunted her. Nathalie would never be the daughter they wanted and longed for. She would never be like her cousins and have the life she was supposed to have. 

A part of her had learned to accept the distance, the gap between her and the world she wished she could be in. Birthdays would always be distant, celebrated only in the silence of her thoughts, through letters that spoke of things she could never fully touch. Nathalie had long since reconciled herself to the fact that she would never stand next to Louis, candles flickering in the same light. She would never shop with Dominique, the thrill of a study section with Victoire.  The simplest of pleasures were always just out of reach.

The quiet knock at the door sliced through the stillness, pulling her back to the present. She froze, unsure of the weight of the world she was holding in her hands. With a sigh, she whispered, ‘Come in.’

The door creaks open, and Nathaniel steps into the room. He looked more relaxed than the night before, but his eyes were still guarded. ‘Breakfast is ready downstairs,’ he said, his voice low, as if not to disturb the stillness of the morning.

Nathalie offered a small nod, forcing a polite smile. ‘Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.'

He lingered in the doorway, his eyes briefly scanning the room before settling on her. There was a moment of silence, almost awkward, as if neither of them knew what to say next. Finally, he cleared his throat. ‘Happy birthday, Nat.’

For a split second, Nathalie’s heart stopped. ‘Birthday?’ she echoed, the word tasting foreign. Then it hit her—April 13th. She had completely forgotten.

Nathaniel’s expression softened, a hint of sympathy crossing his features. ‘Yeah. Didn’t you remember?’ He paused, considering whether to say more. ‘I thought that was the whole reason we were here… We are waiting for you downstairs.’

She blinked, the realisation sinking in like a slow, cold wave. ‘Thank you,’ she managed, the words feeling hollow. ‘I suppose I had other things taking up my mind.’

Nathaniel gave her a nod, his hand resting on the doorknob. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’ And with that, he left, closing the door softly behind him.

Nathalie remained motionless for a brief moment, as if time had stalled. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t care about things like this anymore. She'd promised herself that birthdays would be spent with those who valued her existence. To her friends in Beauxbatons, she lied. Nathalie told them her birthday was sometime during the summer holidays, so they wouldn't question it. For the past 4 years, her birthday had turned into a fading memory. She yearned to train her mind to ignore the sadness that crept in whenever she thought about the absence of family. But as she stared at the freshly closed door, she couldn’t help but feel the sting of how much she had lost. She missed fourteen celebrations. Fourteen years that the 13th of April meant everything to her and very little to others. 

Nathalie let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of her birthday settle heavily on her shoulders. She opened her bag and pulled out a sweater and jeans—simple, familiar. She’d never gone shopping or picked out her clothes; her mother sent them twice a year in neat packages. They were practical and plain, a quiet reminder of the life she led, one of caution and secrecy. As she slipped the sweater over her head, its soft warmth felt grounding, a comfort she could count on. As she straightened the hem, she caught her reflection again in the mirror—the same pale, brown-eyed girl staring back, but there was something different now, a subtle change in her expression. Her gaze lingered on her face for a moment longer.

She tried to swallow the emotion rising in her chest, but it stayed, thick and heavy like a lump in her throat. Fourteen birthdays were spent in silence. For fourteen years, she waited for something to make her feel like she belonged. Nathalie had grown so used to keeping her feelings locked away that she didn’t know how to handle them now. But here she was, with a family that had never been hers, about to face a day she had long ago stopped celebrating.

She hesitated to leave the room, scared of what might be waiting for her downstairs. The smell of fresh pastries and freshly brewed tea filled the air as she left her room, mingling with the soft floral scent of the morning. It all felt nauseating. Her legs trembled on her way to the kitchen, where she could hear a conversation. Gabrielle had put thought into every detail. The room was decorated with light, pastel banners and lilacs arranged in a delicate vase at the centre of the table—a sharp contrast to the stark simplicity Nathalie was used to. Standing at the far end, her mother turned towards her with a wide, practised smile, her eyes bright with anticipation. She stood in the doorway, letting herself absorb the scene. A soft warmth bloomed within Nathalie—a tentative feeling she hadn’t allowed herself to entertain in years. She felt a delicate, unfamiliar sense of belonging for the first time. A part of her had healed, stitching together a wound she hadn’t realised was still open.

 For a split second, she forgot how many lies and tears it had taken for her to be acknowledged by her family. It was bittersweet to stand there, admiring a scene that was supposed to be heartfelt, being tainted by poisoned memories. Noticing her daughter’s hesitation, Gabrielle took a step forward, her smile growing softer, more genuine. Without a word, she opened

her arms, inviting Nathalie into an embrace that was as warm as it was unfamiliar. Nathalie moved into her mother’s hug, her cheek pressed gently against Gabrielle’s shoulder, feeling a rush of emotions—both comforting and sorrowful.

Gabrielle’s hand smoothed over Nathalie’s hair in a soothing gesture. Meanwhile, Nathalie was transported back to when she was a kid in Gordes. 

As a child, Nathalie spent most of her time alone in her room, weaving elaborate stories with her dolls scattered across the floor. Her favourite, Emma, had blonde hair and blue eyes like Gabrielle’s, and Nathalie often pretended to be her, longing to share her imagined worlds with her mother. As shadows crept across the stone walls each evening, she hoped for her family to open the door and join her, but it remained closed. Doris, the house-elf, took care of the household but never truly cared for Nathalie. When Nathalie once asked why her parents were never around, Doris gave gentle but evasive answers about "important matters." After that, Nathalie stopped asking.

Left to her own devices, Nathalie built her rituals—telling herself bedtime stories, learning to fly on a broom, and soothing her nightmares. She grew up quietly, becoming self-reliant. When her parents did appear, they praised her independence, calling her a “trooper" and admiring her ability to handle everything alone. Unseen beneath their praise, however, was a child who had learned not to ask for love, afraid of becoming a burden to those too distant to notice her loneliness. 

As she grew older, Nathalie stopped waiting by the door. She stopped hoping for surprise visits or invitations to join them in the life beyond her room. Instead, she became more skilled at keeping her thoughts and feelings hidden, wrapping herself in a quiet acceptance that mirrored the stillness of her life. She told herself that needing them less would make her stronger, that if she could be as independent as they believed, she might finally feel whole.

But even as she learned to navigate the silence, there were moments when her loneliness would press tight and heavy on her chest, leaving her struggling for breath. In these moments, she’d slip into small rituals of independence, seeking inner reassurance that she was good enough. 

Now, as Gabrielle’s hand rested on her hair, the years of loneliness felt as sharp as ever. The warmth of her mother’s touch was both soothing and painful, a reminder of all the moments she had been missing. Nathalie wanted to lean into comfort, but an instinct held her back, as if afraid to trust that this closeness would last.

In the quiet of that moment, memories surfaced of the times she had longed for this scene in her imagination. Nathalie fantasised about how she would run to her mother, share her stories, and see Gabrielle’s face light up with pride and love. But now that her mother was here, that longing had twisted into something sharper. The motherly touch that was once Nathalie's birthright became foreign.

‘Are you all right, Mignonette?’ Gabrielle’s voice was soft, breaking the silence.

Nathalie’s chest tightened at the question. Her instinct was to nod, to reassure her mother that she was fine, and to remind herself that she was under control. But the words caught in her throat. For the first time, she wasn’t sure what "fine” even meant anymore. She felt a sudden urge to say something, to ask why they had left her alone all those years, why her independence seemed more important to them than her presence. But the words stayed locked inside her, trapped behind years of practised restraint.

‘Of course,’ she murmured, forcing a small smile. ‘I’m fine.’ She could almost see the relief in Gabrielle’s eyes as if her mother had expected nothing less.

She knew from the moment Gabrielle’s warm gaze lingered that she had given the right answer. As much as she wanted to fight and seek justice, Nathalie and her parents had learned the steps to different dances, and if she wanted to find out the truth she adamantly sought, she had to play along.  At that moment, Nathalie understood something she’d never realised; her family’s admiration for her independence was both a compliment and a convenient excuse. As long as she seemed capable, they could stay distant. They could convince themselves she didn’t need them, that she was happy in her carefully constructed world. They would continue believing that their web of lies and deception had caused her no harm and that they could go along with their lives. 

Gabrielle squeezed her shoulder, her eyes warm but somewhat distant, as though they saw only the daughter they wanted her to be, the "trooper” who never asked for much. ‘I can't believe you are 14 already,’ Gabrielle said softly, almost to herself. ‘You are  such a strong little girl.’

Lingering in the air, the words filled the silence with a heaviness that Nathalie didn’t know how to respond to. She wanted to tell her mother that being strong hadn’t been a choice, that it had been her only option. But she didn’t. Instead, she allowed the silence to settle around them, feeling the weight of it, a boundary they both seemed unwilling to cross. Nonetheless, Nathalie forced a smile, catching sight of her father and Nathaniel seated at the table, their presence grounding her in the moment. Her father, ever composed, looked up from the morning paper and offered her a nod of acknowledgement. Yet, a cheeky grin was plastered on his lips. Meanwhile, Nathaniel, already halfway through a plate of pancakes, barely looked up, too engrossed in his phone to even realise what was happening. Still, he had shown up, which, coming from Nathaniel, was a gesture.

‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,’ her father said, neatly folding the newspaper beside his plate. His voice held a formality that made Nathalie feel almost like a guest in her celebration, but she nodded, acknowledging his effort to break the stark silence in the room.

‘Thanks, Dad,’ she replied, sitting across from him. Gabrielle set a small platter of pastries on the table with a carefully decorated birthday cupcake that she must have made herself. The delicate sprinkle of powdered sugar on top and the swirl of pale frosting looked almost too perfect to eat. Nathalie glanced at her mother gratefully despite the odd tension that still seemed to hang over them. 

Nathaniel finally looked up, though only for a second. ‘These pancakes are fire,’ he said before returning to his phone.

Gabrielle urged everyone to eat, her voice bright with an unusual cheer. ‘Come on, it’s a special day! Try the pain au chocolat, Nathalie—I made it just for you.’ Her mother’s smile was so eager that Nathalie felt herself relax a little, the tension softening as she reached for the pastry. 

Halfway through the breakfast, her father cleared his throat, catching Nathalie’s attention. ‘I have something for you, Nat.’ He stood, leaving the table, and returned holding a long, thin package wrapped in dark blue paper. 

Nathalie’s heart skipped a beat as she realised what it was. She had dreamed about this moment many times as a little girl, imagining herself getting her first broom. Over the past few years, all of the brooms she had ever owned were hand-me-downs from Nathaniel. Her mother had always disliked the idea of her playing Quidditch. Not because she was a girl, but because she believed Nathalie's temper could be a bigger opponent than a bludger. Her father extended the gift to her with a bright smile, the kind he saved for rare occasions. ‘I believe it's time you truly show the world who's the only person who can give Ginny Weasley a run for her money.’

She didn't even acknowledge what he had said; instead, her fingers trembled as she reached out to take it, peeling back the wrapping to reveal the sleek handle and glimmering bristles of a beautiful new broom. Her breath caught at the sight; it was perfect. Coincidentally, Nathaly was gifted a Starswapper XV, the same broom she'd given her Cousin Louis for his birthday. However, hers was different. It had her initials, N.A.D.R, engraved on the handle, and the bristles had streaks of purple. It was a custom-made Starswapper XV. She could feel the craftsmanship in the polished wood, the way the bristles gleamed in the morning light. This was a broom meant for real players. 

‘Dad, this is the most perfect thing I have ever seen,’ she squealed, jumping from her seat.  A broom meant more than a gift, it meant that in some twisted way, her parents kept up with her life enough to know that this would be the perfect gift.

Her father watched her, his expression a touch softer. ‘I heard you are scoring more points than any other kid in school. It was time we gave you the proper tools to do even better. ‘

Gabrielle’s hand brushed Nathalie’s shoulder again, her smile bright. ‘Your father thought it would be the perfect gift. I'm still hesitant about it. Promise me you'll be careful?’

Nathalie gave her mother a small nod, her eyes still fixed on the broom and its beauty. She heard Nathaniel shuffling in his seat. There was a trace of curiosity in his eyes as he eyed the broom. ‘Looks decent,’ he muttered with a smirk. ‘I’ll make sure you don’t crash into any walls.’

Nathalie laughed despite herself, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic tease. 

As Nathalie’s smile softened, Gabrielle took her hand, a new sparkle in her eye. ‘I have another little surprise planned for you later,’ she said, her voice warm with excitement.  ‘I want you to be ready. Lunchtime, okay?’

Nathalie’s brows lifted in mild shock. Another surprise? She nodded, a hint of curiosity mixing with cautious anticipation. Despite the girl wanting to dive in headfirst, a bitter taste left longing on her tongue. The sudden displays of affection and knowledge about her life and personality threatened her. Nathalie feared that it was another plan to cast her further away from them. She was unsure of what she wanted. A part of her craved to stand proudly by her original plan. The girl wished for answers, craving to flee as soon as possible, returning to her twisted yet normal life in France. However, the once-abandoned child wanted to soak in all this attention. Nathalie felt herself getting overwhelmed, her head dizzy with thoughts. Quickly, Nathalie excused herself and made her way back upstairs to her room. Her heart was still racing, filled with the emotions she had suppressed all morning. When she entered her room, she noticed something new on her bed—three elegantly wrapped pink boxes with delicate bows and beside them, a letter.

The letter bore her mother’s familiar handwriting, but once she picked it up, Nathalie noticed a second, lighter writing next to it. Her aunt Fleur’s, she immediately recognised. She unfolded the letter carefully and began to read:

Dear Nathalie,

Joyeux anniversaire, ma chère.

Fourteen years ago, the world became a little brighter when you arrived. From the moment we first held you, we knew there was something extraordinary about you—though perhaps that’s no surprise. After all, the magic running through your veins is older and deeper than most can imagine.

Our family has always cherished its traditions; today, we pass a few of those to you. Inside these boxes, you’ll find three gifts, each carrying a piece of your story:

• A dress your mother wore on her fourteenth birthday, just before life led her down paths she never expected.
• A ring from your Grand-Mère Apolline, a symbol of strength, beauty, and the legacy of the women who came before you.
• And finally, the hair clips Fleur wore when she first set foot in Hogwarts in 1994—small though they may seem, they carry memories of courage, hope, and new beginnings.

These aren’t just heirlooms; they’re reminders of who you are, where you come from, and the strength within you—whether it whispers or shines for all to see.

We hope these gifts make today even more special. We would be delighted if you would give us the pleasure of wearing them today.

Avec tout notre amour,
Maman & Tante Fleur

Nathalie’s hands trembled slightly as she folded the letter and set it aside. She stared at the boxes, the weight of her family’s history settling over her. These weren’t just gifts—they were pieces of the past, relics from women who had endured and thrived in their ways. She knew little about her Grandmother Appoline, she only recalls seeing her grandparents a few times. However, she considered herself somewhat close to her Tante Fleur. 

Fleur would sometimes send her letters, but what she knew about her never came from real experiences with her Aunt. Both her Mother and Aunt were important figures in Beauxbatons. Fleur was known for representing the school in the Triwizard Tournament in 1994 and fiercely partaking in the Order of the Phoenix during the Second Wizarding War. She was an icon of beauty and strength. 

Her mother was also known for her efforts during the war. At fourteen, she volunteered against her parents' will to go to England and help tend to the wounded. Her actions would lead to her mother becoming one of the best Healers of the 21st century. 

Since then, the name Delacour carried an even heavier weight in France and the Wizarding Community; Nathalie wondered if their accomplishments were why they hid who she was. Perhaps her parents have always known she would never come close to the achievements of her predecessors. 

Despite her resentment over her family, Nathalie felt undeserving of such gifts. She was not a Delacour, nor was she a Rosier. She was just Nathalie. A girl suspended between two legacies felt more like chains than gifts. Both lineages coursed through her veins, yet neither truly felt like it belonged to her. They say blood runs thicker than water, but Nathalie felt her veins held only air as if she were an empty vessel painted with someone else's legacy.

Hesitantly, she opened the first box—the biggest of all three, and where the dress was. A delicate, flowy fabric in soft blue emerged, adorned with intricate embroidery along the hem and cuffs. Nathalie traced the fabric with her fingertips, imagining her mother wearing it all those years ago. Twenty-two years had passed since Gabrielle wore this dress, yet it looked like time had been gently preserving it. 

The second box held a golden ring covered in different gemstones. On the inside, a phrase was engraved: Que ta lumière dévoile ta véritable nature. The words felt like a whisper meant only for her, ancient and patient, as if the ring had been waiting for this moment. 

The last box revealed Fleur’s hair clips—two golden, gleaming pieces, crafted with understated elegance and a touch of magic that shimmered as they caught the sunlight. Shaped like small suns, radiant and bold, they seemed to pulse with energy. As Nathalie turned them over in her hands, she understood why they had belonged to her aunt; they were tokens of warmth and quiet resilience, reminders of someone who had faced the world with grace and fire.

Although their stories felt so detached from hers, Nathalie decided to oblige with what was asked of her in the letter and began to put on the items she had been given. Yet, a sudden shift in the air made her pause. She sensed a presence at the doorway—familiar, gentle, and heavy with unspoken emotion. Nathalie didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Gabrielle stood there, her fingers trailing lightly over the edge of the doorframe as if anchoring herself in place. Her gaze swept over the small mess of wrappings and the open boxes and finally rested on Nathalie. Her lips parted, as though words had come too quickly to catch, before pressing back into a polite smile that felt just a little too careful. 

‘Oh,’ Gabrielle said softly, stepping inside with measured grace. Her eyes lingered on the gifts, hovering a moment too long—long enough for Nathalie to feel the weight of her mother’s thoughts. ‘I thought I’d check in. Are you enjoying everything?’

Nathalie nodded, unable to hide her slight surprise at the entrance. Gabrielle seemed to relax, her hands detaching from her waist momentarily, her gaze softening as she took in Nathalie’s face. She reached forward, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind Nathalie’s ear with a gentle, lingering touch. The small gesture felt unexpectedly intimate, almost unfamiliar, and Nathalie held her breath as her mother’s hands moved carefully through her hair.

‘Ah, there,’ Gabrielle murmured, almost to herself, fingers pausing just behind Nathalie’s ear. 'You know,' she began, her voice light with a hint of humour, ‘I still remember the surprise of it all. Fleur, marrying into a whole family of redheads, and yet—’ she shook her head, a playful glint in her eyes. ‘Not one of her children got even a touch of it. But here you are, ma belle, the little redhead we never quite expected.’ She laughed softly, almost wistfully, as if recalling a memory just out of reach.

Gabrielle lifted the hair clips from the box beside them, holding them delicately between her fingers. It glimmered in the dim light, an elegant, worn piece with a hint of age and charm. ‘Fleur always looked gorgeous wearing these,’ she whispered, her voice dipping as if speaking a secret meant only for them. ‘Maman gave it to her before we went to Hogwarts for the tournament. I can still remember her hair. Always so perfect, and this clip was her favourite.’ A soft, nostalgic smile played across her lips.

She leaned forward, gently placing the clips in Nathalie’s hair, adjusting it with care. Her hands lingered too long, and her gaze met Nathalie’s.

‘There,’ Gabrielle said finally, letting her hands drop and stepping back, the wistful expression on her face melting into something proud. ‘You look so beautiful,’ she murmured, almost to herself, before her smile brightened again. She looked at Nathalie, clearly savouring this moment as if they’d shared countless similar ones over the years. But that, Nathalie knew, was far from the truth. 

‘I’ve missed so many of your birthdays,’ Gabrielle murmured, almost more to herself than Nathalie. ‘I know that doesn’t change anything, but seeing you here, looking so grown, I can’t help but think of what we could have…’

Nathalie felt her chest tighten, a knot of emotions threatening to come undone. She looked down at the floor, pressing her lips together. For a second, she wanted to be drawn into her mother’s warmth, but another feeling pushed its way forward, sharp and heavy.

‘You missed all of them,’ she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. But Gabrielle heard her, the slight smile faltering as she took in Nathalie’s expression. Nathalie lifted her gaze, her eyes bright and intense. ‘You missed everything, Mum. Not just the birthdays.’

Gabrielle’s face fell, a mixture of surprise and hurt flickering in her expression. ‘Nathalie…’ she began softly, but Nathalie cut her off.

‘It’s just-’ Nathalie took a shaky breath, struggling to keep her composure. ‘It’s hard to stand here and pretend this—’ she gestured at the carefully decorated room, the presents, the letter ‘- means anything. After all this time. After everything. You left me alone for so many years, and now I’m supposed to act like we’re… like we’re close? Like we’re family?’

Gabrielle’s eyes widened. She looked almost as if Nathalie had slapped her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them grew heavy, the room's warmth slipping away, leaving an uncomfortable chill. Gabrielle took a step back, her expression unreadable, yet her voice stayed soft. ‘I know it feels that way,’ she said, barely above a whisper. ‘And you’re right. We weren't active in your life. You have every right to feel how you feel, Nat.’ Her gaze dropped, and when she spoke again, there was a rawness Nathalie hadn’t seen before. ‘But I never wanted to abandon you. Everything I did was… it was to keep you safe. I wish I could make you see that.’

‘Safe?’ Nathalie’s voice cracked with disbelief. ‘I spent years wondering if I was a burden you and Dad didn’t want around! All those lies you make me tell people. All the silence. How is that supposed to make me feel safe? It just made me feel invisible.’

Gabrielle’s shoulders slumped, and she moved towards Nathalie again, desperate to reach her. ‘Oh, my sweet girl,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘I wanted you to have a life untouched by many horrible things. I thought it was best. Your father and I carry that regret with us every single day. We were wrong, maybe we should have…’

For a moment, she looked lost, her usually graceful composure cracking. She took a deep breath, seeming to gather herself, before reaching out again, her fingers brushing Nathalie’s hand. ‘I can’t change the past. If I could, I would change everything. I'd be there for you from the moment you were born until my last breath. But I can't. However, I can promise you that things will get better.’

Nathalie looked down at her mother’s hand over hers, feeling the conflicting emotions swell within her—anger, hurt, and, despite herself, a small, flickering hope. Her gaze lingered on their intertwined hands, a silence stretching between them. Part of Nathalie wanted to pull away, to protect herself, but another part—a quiet, aching part—wanted to hold on. Gabrielle squeezed her hand gently, her warmth unchanging despite Nathalie’s reluctance.

‘I know it’s not enough,’ Gabrielle said, her voice barely a murmur, ‘and it may never be. But I am here now, Nathalie. And I want us to start somewhere.’

The words hung in the air, settling over Nathalie like a fragile promise. Her throat was thick with the urge to say something—something sharp or something forgiving, she couldn’t decide. But before she could untangle her thoughts, she heard a muffled laugh from the hallway, followed by the clinking of glasses and a familiar voice.

Nathalie’s head jerked up, her eyebrows knitting together. ‘Is that…?’

Gabrielle’s lips suddenly curved into a small, almost mischievous smile. ‘I may have arranged another little surprise. Just some family… people who wanted to be here for you.’

A mix of confusion and disbelief flashed across Nathalie’s face, but there was also a hint of curiosity. She hadn’t expected anyone else. She hadn’t even considered that her mother might have gone out of her way to do something so thoughtful. Gabrielle’s fingers tightened around her hand one last time before releasing it, and she nodded toward the door.

‘Go on! We'll talk later,’ she urged gently. ‘They’ve been waiting to see you.’

Nathalie hesitated, glancing at her mother before stepping toward the doorway. She paused for a moment, and then, taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and entered the hallway.

She felt rather hysterical as she heard voices coming from the bottom of the stairs. Dialects mingled as French and English danced together in the atmosphere. Her entire body bubbled with different emotions. Nathalie was overwhelmed by everything. She wanted to put her life on hold and carefully address every issue before it turned into a snowball, hitting her like a blizzard. But time wasn't in her favour, she couldn't afford such luxury.

‘It’s just lunch,’ she muttered under her breath. But it wasn’t just lunch—it was a test. Nothing was that simple with her family. 

Her footsteps reverberated through the wooden stairs, filling the entire atmosphere. Slowly, the sight of her family members began to fill her vision. Tante Fleur, whom she thought she had heard earlier; Uncle Bill; Grand-Père Laurent and Grand-Mère Apolline; Teddy and Vicky—they were all there, watching her.

Nathalie froze mid-step, her grip tightening on the railing. Her presence drew all their attention, and a hush seemed to fall over the room. Their gazes, each filled with different degrees of expectation, warmth, and curiosity, made her skin prickle.

Tante Fleur let out an excited gasp, locking eyes with Nathalie.  She moved with the grace of someone who seemed untouchable, her silver hair catching the sunlight filtering through the bay windows. ‘Ma chérie, you look beautiful,’ Fleur said, enveloping Nathalie in a delicate embrace that felt almost rehearsed. 

Nathalie managed a weak smile, her body stiff against her aunt’s. ‘Thank you.’

The moment stretched longer than Nathalie was comfortable with. She could feel the eyes of the entire room on her, each adding weight to her already fragile sense of belonging. Her grandmother, Apolline, stood regally by the couch, her sharp blue eyes assessing Nathalie with a quiet gaze.

Her grandmother had always been a secret. Nathalie only remembers meeting her grandparents a couple of times. Yet, she was too little to form an opinion about them. They also never sent cards or letters. They were invisible in her life, there was nothing to trace them back to her. However, Nathalie knew about their relevance. 

Grand-Mère Apolline was the most gorgeous woman in the French Wizarding High Society. She was known for her beauty and presence, yet she had also built a prestigious career as a philanthropist. Despite the soft gleam of admiration that always followed her grandmother’s name, Nathalie couldn't shake the feeling of distance between them. Apolline exuded an almost unnatural perfection—every word, every glance was measured, purposeful. The elegance of her posture and poised lips that seldom seemed to smile was all too much. It was as if Grand-Mère Apolline was the epitome of grace, but the closer you came, the less human she seemed.

Grand-Père Laurent stood next to her. His silver beard was neatly combed, and he nodded at her, his expression warm but distant. ‘Comme tu as grandi, ma chère Nathalie. Je suis tellement heureuse de te retrouver après tout ce temps,’ he murmured, his voice thick with pride, but also an underlying sadness. She wondered if he truly saw her or just the image of the granddaughter he had imagined.

Nathalie was taken aback. After all this time? She hadn’t even realised that, for her grandparents, it had been 'all this time. How long had it been since they’d even thought of her? The thought hit her with a sharp sting, but she swallowed it, forcing a smile as she met his kind but unfamiliar gaze.

‘Merci, Grand-Père,’ Nathalie replied quietly, her words feeling foreign on her tongue.  ‘It’s... It’s good to see you, too.’

She often heard from her brother and cousins how cool Grand-Père Laurent was. They used to tell Nathalie that Grandpa Laurie, as they called him, was the funniest. He would sneak candy to the kids and tell stories late into the night, making everyone laugh. But standing before him now, Nathalie felt more like she was seeing Father Christmas in person than her grandfather.

Her grandmother’s sharp gaze never wavered. Scared of seeming impolite, Nathalie walked over to them instead of standing on the stairs. Still, Apolline’s eyes were like ice, cool and calculating. She wasn’t the type to show affection, not in any obvious way. Victoire and Dominique would often complain about how aesthetically obsessed she was. To Apolline, a strand of hair in the wrong place was unfathomable. 

‘Nathalie,’ Apolline said finally, her voice as smooth as silk. ‘I’ve heard many things about you. You’ve certainly made quite an impression at Beauxbatons.’

Nathalie stiffened, instinctively resisting the subtle edge of the comment. She hadn’t realised how much she had been holding her breath until now.

‘I try my best,’ Nathalie replied with a faint smile, her words more for herself than for her grandmother. Nonetheless, she could still feel the sharpness of Apolline’s gaze, reading between the lines of her polite words, feeling the weight of expectations that had never been spoken aloud.

Apolline’s lips barely twitched, the smallest of smiles crossing her face. ‘Of course,’ she said, her voice like the finest crystal, cold and unbroken. ‘Beauxbatons has always been a place of great promise. I still remember my days as a young lady studying there. Tell me, have you any ambition to join Les Fées du Thé in a couple of years?’

Les Fées du Thé… oh, Nathalie hated them. It was one of those ridiculous traditions she despised in Beauxbatons. Oftentimes, she'd think that the French Revolution was useless cause Merlin knows how relevant these archaic things were. Nathalie would never join the pretentious tea party club for multiple reasons. One of them was how much she despised such formalities, the second was that they'd never accept her. The committee would rather die than let an alleged muggle-born orphan sit at the same table as them. 

Unsure of how to reply, Nathalie gave her grandmother a fake smile. ‘Unfortunately, I am suspicious if they'd accept me. I know they have strict rules, including referrals and background checks.’

‘Nonsense,’ she gasped loudly, placing the glass of wine on the table. ‘ You are a Delacour; that should be enough for them to accept you.’

Hopeless, Nathalie opened her mouth hoping to explain to her Grandmother that she might have the last name Delacour, yet she was not one. Grand-Père Laurent, sensing the tension that was beginning to form, stepped forward and placed a hand on Nathalie’s shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring, a stark contrast to his wife’s cold beauty. ‘Don’t mind Apolline,’ he said with a chuckle, though there was a softness in his tone that suggested an apology he hadn’t said. ‘She’s just—well, you know how she is.’

Nathalie smiled at her grandfather’s attempt to lighten the mood. She wasn’t sure if it was the warmth in his voice or how he tried to protect her from Apolline’s chill, but it was enough to ground her for a moment.

‘I remember the last time we visited. You and Nathaniel got into trouble by the lavender fields,’ Grand-Père Laurent continued, his eyes twinkling with a hidden mischievousness. ‘I found both of you hiding behind the barn with flowers in your hair.’

Nathalie wished she could share such a sweet memory, yet she could not. Her earlier childhood years were often blurry and never seemed to stray away from the dullness of the Gordes Chateau where she was hidden. Nonetheless, she gave a small laugh, hoping her grandfather would believe she remembered the memory he seemed so proud of.  

Just as Nathalie’s forced laughter faded, warm hands suddenly ruffled her hair from behind.

‘Oi, aren't you going to give your favourite and only Uncle a hug?' a familiar voice teased.

Nathalie turned to see Uncle Bill grinning down at her, his long hair tied back neatly, the scars on his face catching the light like old battle trophies. His presence was like a gust of fresh air cutting through the tension coiled around her chest. Without hesitation, he pulled her into a proper hug—no elegant restraint, no careful posturing. Just Uncle Bill being himself, a privilege that came with growing up away from such uptight family customs. 

‘Uncle Bill,’ Nathalie breathed, her shoulders finally easing. 

‘It's been far too long, ’ he replied, pulling back to study her face with a proud glimmer in his eyes. ‘You’ve grown into a proper young lady—though you still look like you could take the wreath of the mightiest Dominique with the blink of an eye.’

Before Nathalie could answer, another voice chimed in, softer but playful. ‘Don’t let him inflate your ego too much. He says that to all his nieces.’

Victoire appeared behind her father, her arms crossed but a genuine smile tugging at her lips. Her blue eyes—which looked like they had been copied and pasted from Gabrielle's face—held a warmth Nathalie hadn’t expected. She leaned in and offered a light embrace, nothing too overwhelming, just enough to bridge the gap that had stretched between them over the years.

‘Took you long enough to come back,’ Victoire murmured. ‘We were starting to think you’d forgotten about us.’

Nathalie’s heart squeezed at the subtle jab of truth behind the joke. ‘I could never forget you guys,'  she said softly. ‘Just… things got complicated.'

‘Complicated is practically our motto’  came another voice, deeper and more laid-back. Teddy Lupin, with his trademark blue hair, lounged casually on the arm of the couch, grinning like he had all the time in the world. ‘But hey, you’re here now. That’s what matters.’

Nathalie’s lips twitched into a small but genuine smile. Teddy had always had a knack for making things seem easier than they were. It amazed her how, despite everything that happened to him before he could even walk, Teddy still managed to be the most uplifting person she knew. At times, she even doubted if they were related because there was no way that the always radiant Teddy Lupin shared any blood with her. 

‘I heard you’re training to be a Tattoo Artist?’ Nathalie asked, eager to shift the focus off herself.

Teddy nodded, a flicker of pride crossing his face. ‘Yeah, I  started last year. It’s different from the tattoos Muggles have. I spend more time practising spells to embed in the tattoos than doing them.’ He said, and for the first time since stepping into the room, Nathalie felt like she wasn’t walking on glass. It was a relief having Teddy there. He had never treated her with indifference or secrecy. But for the first time that day, surrounded by the warmth of Bill’s easy affection, Victoire’s teasing familiarity, and Teddy’s playful charm, Nathalie began to believe she might survive this lunch.

Even if it was still a test—maybe, just maybe, it was one she could pass.

As the hours passed, Nathalie started to ease herself into the environment. The pressure around her chest loosened with every shared joke, every laugh that didn’t feel forced. Slowly but surely, the heaviness of expectation began to lift, replaced by something dangerously close to comfort.

She found herself deep in conversation with her grandfather—or better yet, Grandpa Laurie, as he had gently insisted.

‘None of this “Grand-Père Laurent” nonsense.’  he had chuckled, his voice low and warm as an old melody. His twinkling eyes met hers as if they were already in on some secret together. ‘I’m Grandpa Laurie to everyone else, and I’d like to be the same to you, too.’

The simplicity of his request caught Nathalie off-guard, softening something inside her. For the first time, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she belonged in this room of near-strangers who called themselves family. The conversation shifted easily from old family stories to her studies, with Grandpa Laurie genuinely listening to every word she said as if each detail mattered.

But the real chaos began when Uncle Bill brought up Quidditch.

‘Still following that ridiculous team of yours?’ Uncle Bill teased, waving his napkin like a referee’s flag. ‘The Chudley Cannons could teach you a thing or two about loyalty.’

Nathalie’s eyebrows shot up, her competitive spark igniting instantly. ‘Loyalty? Is that what you’re calling decades of disappointment now?'

The room erupted with laughter, but before Uncle Bill could retaliate, Nate, her brother, jumped into the fray with an indignant scoff. ‘Oi, don’t let him get away with that, Nat. We’ve got actual taste in this family—he's just jealous that we got Oliver Wood to retire like a legend on our team instead of his.’

Her father, quietly sipping his drink in the background, joined in with a rare grin. ‘At least someone raised their kids right.’

Uncle Bill narrowed his eyes at Nathalie and Nate like a man about to dive headfirst into battle. ‘Legend? The only thing legendary about the Tornados is how fast they lose a lead.’

‘What lead?’ Nathalie fired back, smirking. ‘I wasn’t aware the Canons knew what 

that was.’

The playful argument went on, dragging even Teddy and Victoire into the verbal Quidditch match. Teddy, naturally, sided with neither– “Loyalty above reason,” he claimed dramatically as he showed his support for the Holyhead Harpie, while Victoire wisely stayed neutral, knowing that in the end, she would be willing to side with whoever was winning. 

Through the laughter and playful jabs, Nathalie felt a warmth she hadn’t expected to find in her, a sense of connection not built on shared history but on the unspoken understanding that, for better or worse, they were family. And yet, despite the joy bubbling around her, a small voice deep inside her head whispered that this comfort was fragile. One wrong move, one slip of the tongue about her past, her powers, or the isolation of her childhood, and this illusion of belonging could shatter. So she chose to push those feelings aside and focus on her mission: finding the truth. 

Nathalie tried not to get distracted by the atmosphere, yet as the afternoon sun spilt across the table in lazy streaks, catching on crystal glasses and half-finished plates, Nathalie's mind began to strain away. The room still hummed with the energy of shared laughter and playful teasing, but Nathalie couldn’t shake the undercurrent of something… wrong.

Suddenly, Gabrielle rose slowly from her chair, graceful but too careful. Her hand lingered on the table’s edge just a second too long, fingers brushing the wood like she needed the connection to steady herself.

‘May I have everyone’s attention for a moment?’ Gabrielle’s voice was as soft and melodic as ever, but Nathalie noticed the slight tremor beneath the words so subtle that no one else seemed to hear it. Everyone turned toward her, faces open with affection and anticipation.

But Nathalie’s eyes didn’t leave her mother’s posture. The way Gabrielle’s shoulders remained too rigid, her skin seemed paler under the light. She’s tired, Nathalie told herself. It’s just been a long day.

After all, the girl felt tired herself. The overwhelming amount of information and the new setting also caused her to feel some sort of uneasiness now that she had stopped for a moment. She wondered if Gabrielle was also thinking about the talk they had begun to have earlier that day. The uncertainty of when or if they would finish that conversation before Nathalie was shipped back to France began to make her insides twist. 

‘Firstly,’ Gabrielle continued, her voice threading through the room like a soft melody, ‘I want to thank all of you for being here today. Unfortunately, it's been hard for all of us to come together and celebrate the life of such a special girl, and I am extremely grateful to all of you who made an effort to be here today.’

Her gaze found Nathalie’s, and her smile deepened, though the corners of her mouth seemed weighed down by something unseen. ‘And to you, my sweet Nathalie… Happy birthday. Your father and I couldn't be prouder of the incredible young lady you have grown to be. Not a day goes by that we don't secretly admire every part of you—the bright, the hidden, even the wounded.’

Nathalie swallowed hard, her throat tightening as she watched the warm gaze of those sitting around the table. 

Gabrielle’s fingers trembled slightly as she turned toward the kitchen. ‘Time for cake, yes?’ Gabrielle asked as she disappeared briefly from view.

A moment later, she returned, holding the cake carefully, the candles glowing with soft, enchanted light. As Gabrielle approached the table, Nathalie noticed her mother’s breathing had quickened, each breath shallow and tight. Her mother’s skin had gone translucent; too pale, too fragile, like the remnants of morning frost about to melt away. She wondered if maybe she was seeing things. Surely, that must be it. Her mind played tricks on her so she wouldn't fall in love with this perfect family scenario. 

The cake hovered above the table for a breath too long.

And then, it happened.

A sharp, fractured sound cut through the room like splintering glass. Gabrielle’s body tensed as if seized by an unseen force, her back arching with the sudden weight of pain. A flash of light—brilliant and violent—burst from her chest, flaring out in tendrils of silver and gold magic. The room’s warmth collapsed into stunned silence.

‘Maman!’ Nathalie’s voice cracked, but she couldn’t move. 

The magic shimmered violently around Gabrielle, illuminating the panic in her wide, glassy eyes, reflecting every ounce of fear she had hidden for years. Then came the sound that would haunt Nathalie forever: a sharp, raw scream cutting through the room like an echo from another world.

The light vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind only stillness. The cake hit the floor with a soft, final thud.

Gabrielle’s body crumpled, folding in on itself with terrifying grace as if the very magic that sustained her had been ripped away. She lay there—too still, too silent. Her body now deprived of life lay scattered across the room, and Nathalie watched as her vision grew smaller and darker. If someone was talking, she couldn't hear. All her ears allowed her to bear was the echo of the piercing scream her mom had let out. And quickly, she lost control of any of her senses. Her mind went blank, and she fainted. Leaving behind all the laughter that had filled the same room just minutes earlier, welcoming death and whatever came with it. 

Chapter Text

Nathalie’s ears rang. A dull, pounding ache settled in her skull, pressing against the edges of her consciousness like a vice. Her limbs felt sore, her breath uneven as she slowly blinked awake. The world blurred with haze. Her mind dragged, bound by unseen chains. What a horrible dream , she thought, the remnants of it clinging to her like cobwebs. The dream still pressed against her senses. She could vividly recall the warmth of her mother’s voice and the steady presence of her father beside her. She could almost hear their laughter flickering candles atop the cake. And then light, followed by a piercing scream, ripping away the warmth instantly, leaving only a hollow silence.

No. None of it had been real. Just a trick of her mind, tugging at frayed edges, weaving illusions of resentment. She was at Beauxbatons–she had to be. She had probably overslept, exhausted from classes, or maybe she was coming down with something. Yes, that would explain the heaviness in her limbs, the sluggish fog clouding her head.

Forcing herself upright, Nathalie reached for the silky canopy of her bed, only to grasp at empty air. Her fingers flexed, confused, before she turned her head. The room was dim, the walls too close, the furniture old and unfamiliar. No elegant drapes, no soft blue glow from enchanted sconces. The air smelled stale, laced with something faintly metallic, nothing like the delicate perfumes of Beauxbatons. A chill crept up her spine, slow and insidious. This wasn’t her dormitory.

Her breath hitched as she finally took in her surroundings: dark wooden furniture, aged tapestries, and a family crest she didn’t recognise. The silence felt thick and suffocating in its unfamiliarity. Panic clawed at her chest, the tight walls seeming to close in with every unsteady breath. Nathalie didn’t have to think before bolting for the door and shoving it open with a forceful knock. 

Disoriented, the girl stood in a long corridor lined with countless doors, swallowed in darkness. She didn’t hesitate, though. Her feet moved on instinct, carrying her towards what she hoped was an exit. The corridor led her to a set of stairs, spiralling downward into an even deeper abyss. Her heartbeat quickened, but she forced herself forward, her fingers tightening around the cold railing as she descended. Only the faint creak of the floorboards broke the suffocating silence beneath her hesitant steps.

Her feet touched the bottom with an almost inaudible thump. Nathalie looked around the room, seeking a way out. A dim light flickered from an unseen source, casting long shadows against the peeling wallpaper and the aged portraits lining a corridor. Instinctively, and rather curiously, she followed the lit path. Guided by the portraits, whose painted eyes seemed to follow her unnervingly lifelike in the dim glow, Nathalie pushed herself, moving forward and slowly taking in the depths of her surroundings. This wasn’t just any house , she thought to herself. This house belonged to important people.

 Despite its ragged appearance, someone important commissioned the portraits on the walls. The faces, draped in dark robes embroidered with intricate silver thread, held an unmistakable air of arrogance and authority. Their expressions showed anything from cold indifference to disdain. The place was ancient and steeped in something she couldn’t quite name. Magic clung to the walls like dust settling into forgotten corners. But it wasn’t the warm, flowing enchantment at Beauxbatons. No, this was different. Darker. Woven deep into the house's foundation, like a presence lurking beneath the surface. 

She could feel it reaching for her. It coiled around her magic, probing, pressing, smothering. Like two opposing forces locked in an unseen struggle, it repelled and pulled at her equally.

Nathalie considered going back, but something urged her on. The corridor widened into a room, and against the far wall hung a massive tapestry. Perhaps once a fine and richly dyed fabric, it had faded over the centuries, yet the golden embroidery still flickered. An intricate web of names wove through sprawling branches, each carefully stitched, each thread whispering of an unbroken lineage. Pollux, Cygnus, Arcturus, Druella, Bellatrix, Andromeda and many others…

She stepped closer, her fingers hovering just above the fabric, tracing the names without touching. Some names were scorched away, blackened threads like burn scars interrupting the lineage. Others had small embroidered symbols beside them — stars, daggers, crescent moons. She didn’t know what they meant, but it unsettled her. She had heard some of those names before; there wasn't a single witch or wizard alive who did not know who they were: The Sacred and Most Ancient House of Black. They had given the wizarding world a masterclass of glory and doom. 

But more than the secrecy or darkness that loomed over the family’s legacy, what truly staggered her was this: their history was laid bare, preserved in unusual ways yet documented for anyone to see. Maybe they never intended for her to see it, but in this brief, unexpected visit, she knew more about their family than her own. 

Stillness pressed in around her, thick as fog, the kind that made you forget what motion felt like. Instead of peaceful, it was deceptive, tearing through the quiet like a sharp scream. Nathalie flinched, her heart leaping into her throat.

 A sudden crash shattered the silence, reminding her she wasn’t safe. The sound from a nearby room reverberated through the hollow corridors like a warning. It wasn’t the familiar groan of an old house; this was real.

She hesitated, torn between fear and an irresistible urge to understand what was happening. Then, her feet moved, pulled forward by a mixture of unease and something deeper, something familiar, though she couldn’t explain it. The corridor continued to stretch ahead. Shadows twisted and spread over the peeling wallpaper as she passed. Another noise. A muffled voice, followed by the distinct clatter of something falling. She wasn’t alone in this house.

Nathalie followed the sounds to a wide archway. The air here was different, heavier, thick with the scent of damp stone and scorched wood. She stepped inside what could only be a kitchen: vast, cavernous, cluttered. Mismatched chairs crowded around a long, scarred table. At the far end, a cold fireplace sat beneath a mantle of soot, its embers barely glowing.

She lingered at the threshold, and then, without warning, two unmistakable figures sprang to their feet. Teddy’s bright blue hair peeked out from beneath the table as he grabbed the top of his head, wincing. Victoire, still chuckling, rose from the floor and extended a hand to him.

‘Uncle Harry’s going to love hearing you broke something in his precious house,’ Victoire said, still laughing.

The word confused couldn’t describe how Nathalie felt at that moment. Her head spun with bewilderment as she tried to process what was happening. Her thoughts reeled. Moments ago, she’d woken from the most vivid dream—or was it a memory? Her mother had dragged her to England. There had been a tense encounter with a family she barely knew. Then the dream had spiralled into horror, ending in her mother’s death.

And she had woken up in a strange room, cold and disoriented. And now… Teddy and Victoire were here?

Her brain screamed that she had finally lost her mind. Somewhere, somehow, she must have slipped into madness, and this was all just the side effect of some temporary insanity. Nathalie closed her eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. This is all a dream, she told herself, over and over. “I’ll open my eyes and I’ll be in my dorm. This madness will be over.” But when she opened her eyes, Teddy and Victoire were still there, staring at her with wide eyes, their mouths agape.

‘Fuck—’ Victoire muttered as she and Teddy exchanged tense glances, heavy with something unsaid. They seemed to be carefully weighing their next words, deciding what to reveal—and how much to withhold. Nathalie could see Victoire’s fingers twitching at her sides and the slow, measured exhale from Teddy like he was bracing for something. Neither of them spoke to her. At least, not right away.

Instead, Victoire took a cautious step forward. ‘Nathalie, you need to sit down,’ she said, her voice gentle but firm, as though speaking to someone on the edge. ‘You just woke up. You mustn’t be feeling well.’

“Mustn’t be feeling well.” That was putting it mildly. The weight in Nathalie’s limbs and the way reality seemed to warp and shift with every breath- nothing felt right. And yet, there was an undeniable clarity to the cool air against her skin, to the solid ground beneath her feet. If this was a dream, it was like no dream she’d ever known.

Nathalie took a step back instead of forward. ‘No,’ she murmured, shaking her head as if that alone would dispel the haze of uncertainty in her mind. ‘No, I don’t understand. What is going on?’

Her words rang hollow in the cavernous kitchen, swallowed by the towering stone walls and the flickering light of the dying embers in the fireplace. Teddy straightened, running a hand through his blue hair. His expression was unreadable, yet there was hesitation in his eyes.

‘You’re safe,’ he said, his voice carefully neutral.

The word felt foreign to her, meaningless against everything she had just experienced. Safe was Beauxbatons. Safe was the familiar scent of her dormitory, the distant hum of enchanted quills scribbling notes, the ever-present murmur of conversation in the grand halls. Safety was where her parents’ webs of lies had woven a wall between their world and Nathalie. This place, wherever it was, was anything but safe.

Nathalie watched the room with a heavy gaze. None of the surrounding artefacts provided the enlightenment she sought. To Teddy and Victoire, the house didn’t seem foreign or oppressive the way it did to her. They appeared to know the place, their belongings scattered around casually. She noticed a newspaper on the table next to a used mug, and a neatly arranged vase of flowers decorated the space.

Nathalie’s fingers curled into fists at her sides as impatience stirred within her. ‘You’re not answering me,’ she said, her voice quieter now but no less firm.

Victoire hesitated before forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘That’s because there’s nothing to worry about,’ she said lightly, reaching for Nathalie’s hand. Yet she didn’t insist when the girl instinctively pulled away. ‘Your father will be here soon.’

Nathalie stiffened. Anger rippled through her veins as she watched their performance. She didn’t care about her father or whoever—she wanted the truth. Just like in her dreams and for the entirety of her life, she had sought answers, but no one had ever been brave enough to give them to her. Nathalie took another step back, her breath shallow. Her pulse thundered in her ears, frustration building with every passing second. ‘Victoire, please,’ she pleaded, her voice strained. ‘Just tell me what’s going on.’

Victoire shook her head, forcing a small, hesitant smile. ‘Your father will explain everything when he arrives.’

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to being enough. But before Nathalie could protest, Teddy spoke, his voice gentler than before. He nodded toward the table, suggesting, ‘You should eat something.’

Nathalie wanted to scream that she wasn’t hungry, that food meant nothing to her, and that all she wanted were answers. But her body betrayed her, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her. She hesitated for a moment, then gave a quick nod.

Victoire and Teddy exchanged a glance before heading toward the pantry. ‘We won’t be long,’ Victoire promised. ‘Just sit tight.’

As they disappeared through another doorway, silence crept back in. Its uneasiness seeped through her, filling the surrounding space. 

Nathalie sat at the table, her fingers curling against the worn wood. A thousand thoughts raced through her head, but no matter how hard she tried to assess them, she knew it wouldn’t suffice. Nothing in her life had ever been logical. 

Her gaze flickered to the open newspaper still resting beside the abandoned mug. Something about it tugged at her, a gnawing unease in her stomach. Nathalie reached for it. The paper crinkled as she smoothed it out, her eyes scanning the articles. As she flicked through it, she noticed nothing of particular interest in the British Wizarding World, just a jumble of columns about politics and various events. But then her breath caught as her eyes landed on the words: Gabrielle Delacour: The wizarding community grieves as we reach seven days since the death of the acclaimed healer. The world seemed to tilt. 

No. That couldn’t be right. Nathalie blinked forcibly, refusing to believe what she had just read. Her eyes darted quickly through the paragraphs detailing her mother’s academic and professional journey, but the more she read, the less sense it made.

Nathalie’s hands trembled as she flipped the pages frantically, seeking proof that this was a cruel misunderstanding. Then her gaze froze on the date at the top of the front page.

April 20th. Exactly seven days after her birthday.

Her chest tightened, her breath shuddering as realisation crashed down on her. It wasn’t a dream. Everything had been real—this was real.

 A broken sob tore from her throat. The newspaper slipped from her fingers, falling onto the table as she clutched at her arms, trying to anchor herself as if doing so could make it all untrue.

Teddy and Victoire returned just in time to see her crumble, but she had no strength to acknowledge them. Her vision grew darker, and she could barely hear them over the piercing scream of her mother echoing through her mind.

‘Nathalie?’ Victoire’s voice wavered, thick with concern.

Teddy set the tray down, his eyes flicking from the newspaper to Nathalie’s tear-streaked face. His expression darkened. ‘You saw it.’

Nathalie let out a choked, bitter laugh. ‘I saw it? I lived it.’ Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves, her whole body trembling. ‘Tell me it’s wrong. Tell me it’s a mistake.’

Victoire’s face crumpled, and she knelt beside Nathalie, reaching for her hands. ‘I wish I could.’

Nathalie wanted to turn away and pretend Victoire was lying, but she paid attention to the details for the first time that day. Victoire's once sparkling blue eyes were now dull. She glanced at Teddy, who exhaled heavily, grief etched into his features. ‘I’m sorry, Nathalie.’

But sorry wasn’t enough. None of it was enough. A spark of anger flared in Nathalie’s chest. She shoved the chair back and stood abruptly.

‘I can’t—I can’t just sit here,’ she stammered, pushing past them.

‘Nathalie, wait.’ Someone cried out.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Nathalie stormed out of the kitchen, driven by something raw and desperate. She needed answers, and the agonising pain from their absence fuelled her as she rushed through the hallway. Then, as she rounded a corner, she stopped dead in her tracks. Standing at the entrance of the hall, like a ghost shackled to its regrets, was her father.

He looked nothing like the man she remembered.

His clothes, once immaculately tailored, now hung loosely from his frame, crumpled and worn. His hair, once neatly styled, looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb in days. The once sharp lines of his jaw were now softened by the hollow of his cheeks, and his eyes that had always seemed welcoming despite their grey tint were now sunken, heavy with exhaustion and something darker, something she had never seen before. 

He was smaller somehow, his shoulders slumped, as though grief had stolen not just his vitality but a piece of him, eroding the man he had once been. For the first time, Nathalie saw him not as the distant figure who had spent years drifting like a shadow through her life, but as a man utterly broken. His once formidable presence now seemed fragile, as if the weight of everything he’d buried had become too much to carry. It was as though losing her mother had ripped through him in ways she hadn’t imagined, ways that made him more human than she’d ever allowed herself to see.

Her anger faltered, the fire within her momentarily dimming as her gaze lingered on him. He was still her father, but he wasn’t the father she had known. He was a stranger. Someone she could never have imagined, and yet, here he was, standing in front of her, looking as lost as she felt. He opened his mouth, but no words came. His lips moved, but the silence between them was thick and suffocating. He didn’t speak, only stood there, looking at her with eyes that were wide and raw, stripped of all pretence. 

In that unguarded moment, he was not the man who had once been so careful in everything he said. He was just a man, broken, uncertain, and consumed by a grief that swallowed him whole. And Nathalie, for all her fury, for all her overwhelming grief, didn’t know whether she wanted to scream at him, demand every answer he had hidden for years or collapse into his arms, allowing the walls she’d built around herself to crumble, and let him hold her like he had never held her before. But she couldn’t. 

She felt small again. Like a child, confused and abandoned, left to piece together answers from the silence. Even now, when they shared the same loss, she still couldn’t find it in herself to believe him.

Cassius’s hands trembled slightly as they reached for Nathalie’s arm. She met his gaze, completely unsure of how to feel or act.

‘How are you?’ His voice was hoarse, barely holding itself together. He tried to smile, but it faltered in its sincerity. 

Nathalie didn’t answer. The frustration in her expression was enough. She stepped back, pulling away from his touch. 

‘Like I’ve been left alone. Again.’ Her voice was barely a whisper, but the hurt behind it was unmistakable. ‘It’s not my first rodeo, but—’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Cassius’s eyes flickered away. ‘I didn’t want you to wake up like this,’ he said, his voice cracking.‘I wanted to—’

‘Keep me away? Protect me?’ Nathalie interrupted sharply. ‘I don’t even know what the story is anymore.’

He flinched, then let out a bitter chuckle. ‘What do you want me to say, Nathalie?’ His voice wavered. ‘I know you’re upset, but you have to understand—all we ever wanted was to keep you safe.’

‘Safe from what?’ she asked, annoyed at the same old excuses. ‘If you hate me so much, just say it. I’d rather know than be hidden away, left to rot in some house while you put me to sleep so you don’t have to deal with me.’

Cassius’s hand dropped to his side as he exhaled shakily. ‘I didn’t put you to sleep,’ he muttered, almost to himself, as though the words pained him. ‘It was your body. We couldn’t wake you up. Merlin, Nathalie, I thought you were dead too—’ He stopped, swallowing hard.

Nathalie stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. ‘So you hid me again. Because that’s easier, isn’t it? If I’m out of sight, you don’t have to face the mess you created.’ 

He closed his eyes for a moment, grief twisting his face. ‘I didn’t hide you. I was trying to protect you. It guts me to see you like this.’

‘I’m not asking for your guilt,’ she shot back. ‘I’m asking for the truth. Why am I here? What the hell is going on?’

His shoulders slumped, the weight of his grief breaking him further. His hands trembled as he reached out, as if trying to grasp at words he no longer had.

‘You’re safe,’ he whispered. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

 ‘Safe?’ she repeated it like a curse. ‘You call this safe?’ 

Cassius cleared his throat. ‘Yes, Nathalie. You are safe. Without a single scratch on you, like your mother always wanted. I commiserate with your pain and struggle. After all, I created them. But you cannot tell me you’re not safe when that’s been the sole purpose of my and your mother’s lives for the last fourteen years.’

Nathalie recoiled again, the weight of her father’s words sinking deeper, heavier as they suffocated her. There was a space between them now, a chasm where neither could cross, and she stood there, trapped in the tension of it all. His voice, strained and raw, echoed in her ears long after he had fallen silent.

It wasn’t the truth she wanted, though, not this fractured, incomplete version. There was something more, something that demanded to be understood, but Cassius didn’t seem like he knew the truth either. 

As the silence stretched, her thoughts grew heavier. The weakness in her limbs took a toll on her body. Before she could voice another word, before she could even think about what she might say next, the world around her seemed to shift.

Nathalie barely registered the moment her surroundings changed. One moment, she argued with her father inside the suffocating halls of what felt like a haunted relic of the Black family, and the next, warmth wrapped around her like an unwelcome embrace. A suffocating kind of warmth. Cassius had pulled her into a hug and Apparated without a word.

The soft crackle of a fireplace and the scent of aged wood laced with traces of lavender were unmistakable. She was back at the Delacour-Rosier mansion.

Exhaustion clung to her like a second skin, despite the week-long slumber forced on her. Her mind swayed in and out of clarity, tangled in the haze of everything that had happened—not just that day, but ever since her life had turned upside down. No matter how many times she replayed the events in her mind, no matter how many times she read or heard about the moment, her birthday turned into something grotesque; she couldn’t believe it. She refused to believe it. It felt like a cruel joke, a nightmare she should have woken up from.

And yet, she hadn’t. And never would. 

A part of her whispered that this was always going to happen. That doom would find her, no matter how far she ran. Her mother’s death on her birthday, in front of her very eyes, was nothing more than the universe’s way of balancing the scales. She shouldn’t be here. She should never have sought the truth. 

Standing in the house, surrounded by the ghost of Gabrielle’s careful touch, felt like a desecration. This was the home her parents had built, a space that reflected their life and love. And Nathalie’s selfish self, who had never appreciated life enough, had stolen from her mother the privilege of living. Every breath she took was borrowed air.

The weight of her father’s grief pressed against her ribs, suffocating in its silence. His eyes, hollow and lost, haunted her more than any spectre ever could. He hadn’t blamed her outright, but he didn’t have to. She could feel it in the way he looked at her, the way his voice wavered when he told her to make herself at home. As if this place could ever be her home.

Before vanishing, he said they would talk soon, and Nathaniel would be joining. The words lingered, thick and bitter, but she swallowed them down. Protesting would be pointless. What choice did she have? He was the one deciding things now. 

She scrubbed herself clean, trying to get rid of the uneasiness in her chest, but the water could only do so much. The unease remained, seeping into her bones. Nathalie occupied herself as she waited for the dreadful conversation that awaited her. 

She looked at the framed photographs that lined the walls, chronicling a life that had gone on without her. Nathaniel’s birthdays, his first day of school, and childhood moments were frozen in time. Her parents’ wedding, their holidays, their laughter. Smiling faces, blissfully unaware of the storm that would come. 

To anyone else, it was the portrait of a perfect family. To Nathalie, it was proof that she wasn’t the missing piece she believed herself to be.

She kept wandering through the house, her steps filled with guilt and hesitancy as if she feared disturbing their peace any longer. Everything looked untouched, frozen in time. It was as if the house had been expecting Gabrielle’s return, waiting for her to step back into the life Nathalie had robbed. 

Nathalie’s fingers trailed absently along the polished bannister as she made her way down the grand staircase; the familiar scent of her Mother’s lilac-filled perfume wrapping around her like a bittersweet memory. She let it guide her, let it pull her deeper into the past she barely remembered.

Her mind, heavy with grief, turned to the few vague and fleeting memories of her childhood. They were fragmented pieces of a life that had never really been hers. A quick flash of a birthday she couldn’t fully remember. A fleeting moment of laughter from a family she didn’t know. 

Nathalie paused in front of a photograph of her parents. She had forgotten how young they were when they first met. Her mother was always beautiful, smiling with a warmth that seemed to radiate even from the picture. Her father, who had always seemed so serious, looked at Gabrielle with devotion and ease. Together, they seemed perfect. Her mind felt clouded; there was that gnawing sense that she had missed so much, that she was forever on the outside looking in. The memories she should have shared with them, the things she would never experience, clawed at her insides. 

The girl couldn’t stop thinking about how she had robbed them of such peace and happiness. She let out a shaky breath, the tears she had been holding back finally escaping. She sank to the floor, her arms around her knees, as the tears came in waves.

It was all too much. The anger, the sadness, the guilt. Why had she been the one to survive? Why was she left here, in this house, with these memories, when her mother should still be alive? The guilt gnawed at her like a vice. The weight of it was unbearable. A voice in her mind whispered: You should never have been born. 

She couldn’t stop crying. Not for the loss. Not for herself. But for the life she could never have. Nathalie condemned her parents for their neglect and her isolation. But perhaps she had condemned them to a life of misery and grief. If Gabrielle now lay cold beneath the earth, it was her fault.

Hours slipped by as Nathalie explored every corner of the house. She noticed how her mother had meticulously polished the kitchen cupboards and found pale strands of blonde hair on Gabrielle’s brush. Though Gabrielle no longer drew breath, the house still pulsed with her presence, so fragile that it felt almost sacrilegious to disturb a single object. 

And Nathalie remained an observer, as she always did. She’d grown up seeing their story through different lenses. Once in the posed, smiling photographs displayed in intimate corridors and cabinets and again in glossy magazines and newspaper spreads. The wizarding world adored them: Gabrielle, the fierce healer with a skilful wand and Cassius, the quiet war hero. Their names were whispered in society columns, linked with the Weasley‑Potter clan, their parties reported like royal affairs. Even in the smallest village inn, from Mary, the fifty-year-old witch in Norwich, to her gossiping neighbour next door, everyone seemed to know them. And the strangest part, and perhaps the cruellest, was that they did know them. Or thought they did.

 The same beloved figures who smiled from those pages were the ones Nathalie had secretly claimed as her own, whispering their names to her heart like a charm, wishing every night on the brightest star for a family that felt real.

Now, a perverted version of that dream had come true. Nathalie sat in her father’s study, spine stiff against the leather couch, arms folded tightly around her stomach. The silence plagued her, broken only by the occasional rustle of pages as the wind stirred the corners of an open book on Cassius’s desk. He had told her earlier that Nathaniel would join them soon. After withstanding moments of agonising silence as they waited, Cassius had gone to fetch him, growing tired of his peevishness. 

The clock on the mantel ticked like a metronome, unrelenting. Time was strange in this house, heavy and slow, soaked in memory as if dragging itself at the loss of the harmony that once held the walls. Nathalie’s fingers curled against her knees, nails pressing faint half-moons in her flesh. 

Then came footsteps, and as the door cracked open, her heart jumped, not out of anticipation but dread, as she hesitantly braced herself for whatever was coming. The air in the room shifted, becoming tense as Cassius entered, with Nathaniel trailing behind him. Nathalie watched her brother with his head down. He didn’t look at her. His shoulders were rigid, his face unreadable.

Cassius motioned to the couch opposite, pulling a worn leather chair across from them. He sat slowly, elbows on his knees, as if proximity might soften whatever he was preparing for. He didn’t speak immediately. His gaze flicked between them, searching for something. Meanwhile, Nathalie waited. She wasn’t sure what she expected to happen. An accusation. A confession. A miracle. None of it seemed to matter now. If this were her last judgement, the guilt surrounding her name would already call for an unfavourable sentence. 

But Cassius finally spoke, sending away any overly consuming thoughts in the girl's head.

‘I know this is difficult.’ His voice was hushed, almost reverent, as though they sat in a cathedral, not a study. ‘And I know you both have unanswered questions. I may not even know how to answer. But I promise, I will. In due time.’

Nathalie didn’t move. Nathaniel exhaled sharply, but remained still.

‘I feel lost,’ Cassius admitted. ‘Your mother was always the one who held everything together. She carried more than I ever realised, and now that she’s gone, I see how unprepared I was. How unprepared we all were.’ He swallowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

‘But if there’s one thing she wanted, it was this—us, together. As a family.’ He looked up at them, his eyes glassy but steady. ‘Gabrielle’s greatest wish was that we would be united. That you would know each other, support each other. That we wouldn’t fracture apart once she was gone.’

A pause, a beat too long, stole Nathalie's breath away. 

‘And so,’ he continued, ‘things will change. You’ll both be living here, together, from now on.’ 

Nathalie froze; the millions of questions on her mind suddenly halted. Her eyes widened so dramatically that she could feel them slipping out of their sockets. But before she could protest or understand what was going on, Nate exploded next to her. 

‘No.’ His voice was sharp, slicing through the stillness. 

He stood, his fists clenched at his sides. ‘You want me to live with her?’ He jabbed a finger in Nathalie’s direction, still not looking at her. ‘The person who killed my mum?’

Nathalie choked as if Nate had sent a million daggers in her direction. She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. Nate was right, she had killed their… his mother.

‘You think this-this fake family reunion fixes anything?’ Nathaniel’s voice cracked. ‘She ruined everything. My life was perfect before you brought her here. There must be a reason you kept this freak away. Now Mum’s dead, and I’m supposed to play the delighted brother role?’

‘Nathaniel.’ Cassius’s voice was tight with warning.

‘No.’ He took a step back. ‘You can’t make me do this. You can’t force me to pretend she’s not the reason Mum’s gone.’

‘That’s enough,’ Cassius said, his voice rising, threaded with a rawness he couldn’t hide. ‘I can’t do this if you won’t try. Either of you.’

Nathalie watched her brother's eyes burn with fury, but he said nothing.

Cassius turned to Nathalie then, his voice lower. ‘This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.’ He stood slowly. ‘Your mother was sick,’ he began, quietly but firmly. ‘For a long time. She didn’t tell either of you because she didn’t want a bigger burden to be brought into our lives. But she knew. We both did.’

Nathaniel’s head snapped up. His fists trembled at his sides, like he was holding himself back from tearing the room apart with his bare hands.

‘Oh, brilliant,’ he said, venom dripping from each word. ‘So we’re rewriting history now?’

‘Nathaniel—’

‘No,’ he cut in. ‘Because if she was sick, and if you knew, then you’re telling me you just sat there and did nothing? You let her work, let her pretend, let me think she was fine until one day she just dropped dead?’ 

His voice cracked on the last word. The silence that followed was so thick it nearly suffocated them all. Cassius didn’t defend himself; he only nodded at Nathaniel.

‘Gabrielle didn’t want you to know,’ he said finally. ‘She wanted peace. She wanted joy. And she wanted, more than anything, to protect us so we could be a proper family someday.’

Nate laughed, bitter and cold. ‘Then she got what she wanted, didn’t she?’

Nathalie stayed silent, frozen, feeling the old ache brought by grief expand in her chest like a wound ripping open. Then Nate turned to her. For the first time. His eyes landed on her like a curse, cold and uninterested.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

Nathalie didn’t flinch. Her body simply stopped responding. The words drained the breath from her lungs. Nathalie felt like something inside her collapsed quietly, without protest. She couldn't help but agree with her brother; she knew she shouldn't be there. Her rightful place would never be outside the prison they built for it, and by defying it, she killed someone she loved. 

‘I know,’ she whispered. Her voice was so thin it felt like it would vanish before reaching anyone’s ears. ‘I never meant—’

‘Don’t.’ Nathaniel said. ‘Don’t say you didn’t mean it. Because you being here is enough. That’s all it takes.’

He turned back to his father, eyes blazing. ‘If she stays, I leave. I’ll go to the Potters. Aunt Ginny said I was welcome there whenever I needed.’

‘Nate.’ Cassius said, stepping forward and trying to reach his son. Gabrielle's perfect clone. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I do,’ Nathaniel snapped. ‘I mean every fucking word.’

Then he was gone. The slam of the door rang through the study like the toll of a funeral bell. Cassius didn’t chase after him. He didn’t raise his voice or try to call him back. He stood there, hands trembling faintly at his sides, staring at the door as though it might open again and give him a second chance. But it didn’t.

Nathalie sat motionless, her breath barely making it past her lips. Her brother’s words looped on a cruel reel in her mind, repeating in every tone. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn't exist. It wasn’t new. But hearing it aloud had finally made it real.

‘I killed her,’ she mumbled.

Cassius turned slowly, his face pale. ‘No–’

Nathalie stared at her knees, digging her nails into her arms. ‘But I did. I've always pushed her. I made her angry. If I hadn’t—if I’d just let it go, if I’d just kept quiet.’

‘You think one moment could have stopped it?’ Cassius’s voice broke as he knelt in front of her. ‘You think one conversation could undo your mother’s death?’

She blinked back a tear, lips trembling. ‘You said she was already dying. But she didn’t die until she had to deal with me.’

Cassius shook his head, reaching out carefully to take her hand. He was rougher than she remembered. Tired. Human. ‘Your mother loved you. She protected you for years. She didn’t regret you, Nathalie. Not even for a second.’

Nathalie didn’t believe him, even though she yearned to, but she could not fit his words into the narrative of her life. They hung loose, misplaced amidst all the chaos. 

‘But everyone else does,’ she whispered. ‘Everyone else looks at me like I’m some misplaced object.’

Cassius exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over her hand as if anchoring her to the moment. ‘Then let them think whatever they want. Let Nathaniel scream. Let me stumble and fail and say the wrong things. But you aren't carrying this alone. Do you understand me?’

She stared at him, heart aching, needing desperately to believe it. ‘I don’t know how to be part of this. I had none of it, and now I’m in the middle of someone else’s story.’

Cassius’s eyes darkened with grief, but not for Gabrielle- they grieved Nathalie, for everything she never had. 

‘It is your story, darling,’ he said. ‘We were too afraid to let you have it. But now it's yours to take control of.’

Nathalie wiped a tear from her cheek, though others replaced it as soon as they fell. Cassius sat beside her, not saying a word, and for the first time since she arrived, Nathalie didn’t feel completely invisible. 

Chapter Text

As the words left her Aunt's mouth, Nathalie's world tilted into a slow and sickening spiral.  At first, she didn’t react. She stood there, staring past the woman as if her ears had betrayed her. Yet, somewhere deep down, she knew this was coming. She should have known. After all, in this family, kindness was always conditional and calculated.

All the overwhelming attention given to Nathalie over the past few days should've been a clear indicator of something happening behind the scenes. From her father asking her to stay another week in England so she could “respect her grief” to him enlisting Teddy and Victoire to help her reorient herself, to explain the world she’d been shut out from for so long. Everything had left a bitter taste on her tongue, but she ignored it, feeling that maybe she was being too judgmental. Nathalie began to lower her guard. She began to forgive—not her father, not yet, but herself. She began to imagine what it would be like to live in a place that didn’t feel like exile. And then, it all came undone.

Their Machiavellian approach felt almost comical, straight out of a movie. It all started when Cassius invited Fleur over for lunch, claiming that to overcome grief, they needed to stick together as a family. Nathalie had been wary, but she went along with it out of politeness, or maybe out of some desperate, lingering hope that this time, things would be different and no one would die.
They sat around the garden table, sipping lemonade under the mild spring sun, and for a moment, everything felt almost normal. Fleur complimented Nathalie’s English skills, saying she would have no problem blending in with the English as she did. Cassius laughed more than usual. Even Nathaniel, who’d been stiff and unpleasant in the past days, seemed to soften. It was all carefully choreographed to trap her like a hopeless mouse.  

And then, without preamble, Fleur said it. ‘We’ve been talking, your father and I,’ she began gently like someone easing into a pool of cold water. ‘And we believe it would be best if you stayed here permanently.’

Nathalie felt confused; surely the previous conversation she'd had with her father had already insinuated that she'd be here when she wasn't in Beauxbatons.

 ‘Yeah, I know,’ she replied hesitantly, glancing at her father, who nervously sipped his drink. ‘Dad has already told me that I am to move here after this school term ends.’ 

‘Yes, well,’ Fleur said, folding her hands neatly in her lap, her voice still light, as if they were discussing the weather. ‘There’s a little more to it than that.’

Nathalie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

There was a pause, and Fleur glanced at Cassius, who looked suddenly fascinated by his glass. She didn’t wait for him to speak.

‘It’s just that… after this term ends, you won’t be returning to Beauxbatons,’ she said gently, almost apologetically. ‘You’ll be starting at Hogwarts in the autumn.’

The words settled over the table like ash as if Nathalie's world had burned down right before her eyes. Nathalie stared at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

Fleur gave a small, placating smile. ‘You’ve done so well these past few days, adjusting. You won’t have any trouble fitting in. Hogwarts is a wonderful school. Truly. I think you’ll thrive there.’

Still, Cassius said nothing even though Nathalie's gaze pierced through his skull, begging for her father to say something.

‘Right,’ Nathalie said, her voice flat. ‘And when exactly was I going to be told this? Were you planning to wait until the night before so I wouldn't be able to protest?’

Fleur hesitated. ‘Soon. We thought it might be easier once you’d had time to settle in. It’s a lot of change, I know, but—’

‘So you’ve decided this for me,’ Nathalie interrupted. ‘Behind my back.’

‘We just wanted what’s best for you,’ Fleur said, her smile beginning to tighten at the edges. ‘You’ve been through so much. This way, you’ll have support. Family.’

Support. Family. Words that meant nothing in a house full of decisions made without even consulting her first.

Nathalie turned to Cassius. ‘Is this true?’

He nodded slowly, not quite meeting her eyes. ‘It’s done, Nathalie. The transfer papers are signed.’

The table was quiet again, but everything inside her screamed. Nathalie's vision turned red with anger, and she felt she could set everything on fire. She could take the isolation, the indifference and the dead mother, but to take away the only thing that was good in her life was dehumanising.
Suddenly, Nathaniel, who had been silent through it all, pushed back his chair and stood. ‘You can’t do this to her,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s not fair to either of us.’

The words caught the adults off guard, and Fleur's smile faltered. 

‘Nathaniel—’ she began, but he didn’t let her finish.

‘No. Don’t talk to me like I’m part of this decision. I didn’t agree to any of it.’ He looked between them, eyes sharp. ‘You’ve all decided again without asking either of us what we want. What she wants.’

He glanced at Nathalie, but not for long. His jaw tightened. ‘Look, I don’t want her at Hogwarts,’ he said, more to the table than to anyone directly. ‘I don’t even want her here.’ He stopped himself, brow furrowing. ‘And now you’re dumping her into my life like it’s a solution for something. It’s not .’

Nathalie flinched, but he didn’t seem to notice.

‘But this?’ he went on, quieter now. ‘Springing it on her like this, signing papers behind her back? That’s cruel. Even for you.’

Cassius finally lifted his head, but Nate didn’t give him the chance to speak either.

‘You didn’t raise her,’ he said, voice low. ‘You don’t get to pretend you know what’s best now. And just because I don’t want her at Hogwarts doesn’t mean I think she deserves this.’

Silence followed. Fleur’s expression was unreadable, and Cassius looked like a man who had just been told the truth and hated every word of it. Meanwhile, Nathalie didn’t know whether she wanted to scream or thank her brother. Yet, she didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say.

She stood slowly, her chair scraping against the stone tiles. Every pair of eyes followed her, but no one stopped her. Not even Cassius, who still hadn’t looked her in the eye despite being so keen on ruining her life.

She walked inside. Her hands were shaking, but her back remained straight. If they wanted to treat her like a problematic piece on their little chessboard, then fine. She would play their game, but she wouldn't let them see her break.

She climbed the stairs one by one, carefully and deliberately, like each step was an act of defiance. Nevertheless, when she reached her room, it all came crashing down. She barely got the door closed before the sob tore out of her throat. It wasn’t a graceful or poetic cry. Just raw. 

Nathalie sank to the floor, the rug rough against her knees, pressing her palms to her eyes as if that could somehow stop everything from spinning.

They’d taken everything from her. The only thing they had never managed to ruin was Beauxbatons. Despite all the lies she had to tell people, the unpleasant questions and the guilt she carried living a double life, Beauxbatons was the only thing that belonged to her. But now, it was gone, with a handful of papers and a few carefully chosen words. 

She curled onto her side, her arms tightening around herself as though she could hold all the pieces together. But it was useless. The sobs kept coming, uneven and hollow, and there was no one to hear them. No one to understand them. 

Eventually, the tears ceased to flow, not because she felt any better, but because there was only so much hurt one could endure. Nathalie's chest ached terribly, and her head throbbed in pain as if her body was punishing her for putting herself in this mess. She kept lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Nathalie felt like she was living in a story that was written about her, but not for her. And she had no say in the ending. 

Perhaps she wasn't real, and she was just a conscious character inside a dreadful Russian literature piece. That would explain the death, abandonment, and detachment. Or she was simply unlucky. The unlucky one, born with a powerful family name and money in a seemingly perfect family, but too unlucky to ever be a part of it. 

She pushed herself up, knees scraping. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, a face she barely recognised. The tears had swollen her eyes, but beneath the hurt was a quiet, simmering defiance. If they thought she would accept it, they were wrong.

The next morning, the kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the kettle. Nathalie was caught off guard as she didn't expect anyone to be around, as usual, but she stepped inside, still carrying the weight of yesterday’s storm in her bones. 

At the kitchen island stood Nate, sleeves rolled up, hair damp and plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed as if he’d just sprinted a marathon. His hand clasped a carton of juice, from which he gulped greedily. She was surprised to see him, although they had been living in the same house; it was rare to have him walking around. Nathalie hadn’t seen him since they all sat around that garden table, words hanging heavy between them like thick fog. He hadn’t looked her in the eye then, and now, he kept his gaze fixed on the countertop. 

For a moment, Nathalie wondered if she should thank him for what he’d said yesterday. She never expected any support from him, even if it was for his own benefit. She was sure that after what her brother had said, maybe Cassius would reconsider his actions. But before she could gather the words, Nathaniel broke the silence.

‘There’s a letter for you.’ He nodded toward the kitchen island.

Next to a vase of dead flowers lay a cream-coloured envelope. The handwriting was unfamiliar; besides, she wasn't expecting any letters, especially since she'd learned that now wizards rather communicate through Muggle phones. Nathalie’s heart stumbled as she stepped closer, the sharp scent of the dried blooms prickling her nose.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the letter. On the front, in deep green ink, were the words:

Ms N. Delacour-Rosier
Rosier Hall
7 Beaumont Lane
Ascot, Berkshire

Her breath caught; she had seen such letters a few times, and the green ink itself made it unmistakable. It was from Hogwarts. Nathalie's heart dropped, and the letter fell on the floor. How many times had she dreamt of this as a little kid? This was all she had ever wanted, but now, she couldn't help but wish for it to go away. 

She didn’t pick the letter back up. She just stared at it, lying face down on the cold tiles like a fallen bird, limp and lifeless. Nate didn’t move either. He drank his juice like nothing had happened, but Nathalie could feel the way his eyes flicked over to her, just once, just enough to check if she was going to cry again or scream or set the entire kitchen ablaze. But she didn’t. She just stood there, quiet, knuckles white around the edge of the counter.

Eventually, Nate cleared his throat. ‘So… that’s your Hogwarts letter?’

‘I suppose,’ Nathalie said. 

‘A bit early for it. They usually go out in June.’

‘Yeah, well, I guess rules don’t matter when no one gives a shit what I want.’

That made him pause. The juice carton crinkled in his hand as he shifted it from one palm to the other.

‘Did you open it?’ she asked gently.

He shook his head. ‘Didn’t feel like it was mine to open.’

That surprised her. She nodded, barely perceptible. Nathalie picked the letter up with slow, careful fingers. Her name looked so formal on the front as if anyone had ever called her that without some agenda stitched into the syllables.

She turned it over, breaking the seal without ceremony. The parchment inside crackled as she unfolded it. Nathalie wasn't expecting anything apart from the standard content of a Hogwarts letter, the same old: “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…”, and that is exactly what she found written in the parchment. 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmistress: Professor M. McGonagall

(O.M. First Class)

Dear Mrs Delacour-Rosier,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Aurora Sinistra 

Deputy Headmistress

Nathalie shoved the letter in her pocket, choosing to ignore it. Surely, if she never mentioned its existence to her father, he would forget this fiasco and let her continue living in peace at the hidden Chateau in the Pyrenees Mountains. To keep herself busy,  she wandered through the house for hours, trailing her fingers along furniture that wasn’t hers, passing portraits that didn’t know her. Cassius had disappeared, as he often did when things got uncomfortable, and Vicky and Teddy couldn't come and torture her with their “How to be a 21st-century girl” workshop. That left Nathaniel, who, against all odds, still hadn’t fled the house. 

Despite Nathalie not fully understanding the standard dynamics of a family, there was something about siblings that felt oddly natural to her. Siblings fought, but they also mocked, prodded, and occasionally offered each other crumbs of kindness when the world got too loud.

She found her brother in the sunroom, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, flipping through a Quidditch magazine like it owed him something.

‘I thought you were avoiding me,’ she said with a wicked smile on her lips, pausing at the doorway.

‘I was,' he replied without looking up. ‘You found me. Congrats.’

She stepped in, deciding not to question his misdemeanours. ‘I wanted to say thanks. For what you said yesterday.’

He snapped the magazine shut. ‘Don’t thank me. It was selfish. I still don’t want you at Hogwarts. And I mostly just wanted to have a go at Dad.’

‘Wow,’ she said, dry as dust. ‘Thanks again for making me feel cherished.’

She turned like she was about to leave, but his voice caught her.

‘Wait,’ he sighed. ‘I didn’t mean— Look, I’m not good at this.’

‘I've noticed.’

Nathaniel dragged a hand through his hair. ‘It’s just—what they did wasn’t fair. To you. Or me. But mostly you. I don’t hate you, alright? I just... didn’t know what to do with you showing up and suddenly being real.’

Nathalie crossed her arms, leaning against the frame of the sun-drenched window. ‘You think I know what to do with myself?’

‘You act like it.’

‘Well,” she said, half-smirking, ‘acting is kind of what we do best here, isn’t it?’’

That shut him up. The silence that followed was stagnant, not awkward, just full. There was something that neither one dared to name. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or both. 

After a while, he said, ‘So... you're leaving tomorrow?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And after that?’

She shrugged. ‘Back to France. Back to pretending this was a fever dream.’

There was a pause, then—softer, almost shy: ‘Do you want me to write? I’m warning you, though, I won’t be good at it.’

She looked over, genuinely surprised. ‘Would you? I've heard of this promise before.’

He gave a half-shrug. ‘If you promise not to cry about it.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Only if you promise not to write anything sappy.’

‘No risk of that. I'll update you on Quidditch, though.’ 

Another silence, but this one felt almost comfortable. Like shared ground, they didn’t know they had.

‘I promise I won’t disturb your life next term,’ she said finally. ‘It’ll be like I’m not even there.’

He didn’t look at her, but his jaw shifted. ‘Nat,’ he said, quiet now. ‘You don’t have to hide anymore.”

That night, Nathalie didn't sleep. She lay curled on top of the sheets, eyes wide, listening to the strange creaks of the house, half-expecting it to speak, or break, or keep her from leaving. She had grown comfortable at the house, despite it feeling so foreign. Packing hadn't taken long. Nathalie never truly unpacked.

The room wasn’t hers, not really, but it had collected traces of her in the past weeks: a silk scarf thrown over the mirror, a half-burned candle, books she hadn’t opened but liked having nearby. She had folded everything slowly, as if her hands didn’t quite want to help her leave.

She stood by the window late into the evening, watching the shadows stretch across the gardens; a habit she had nurtured ever since the death of her mother. After all, as soon as she would succumb to slumber, nightmares would torture her sleep. Her breath fogged the glass, heart heavy with everything there was to be overcome. Tomorrow, she would be gone. Back to Beauxbatons. Back to a place that, for all its complications, had at least belonged to a warped version of her. But she did not know if that version still existed. Perhaps the lies had died with Gabrielle.
Nathalie wondered whether she'd still be able to play the part of the orphan Muggle-born after being away for the past 3 weeks. What would people say? Was she supposed to come waltzing back as if she never left? Tip-toeing around the lies created by her parents was already hard, but now that she carried even bigger burdens and secrets, she feared she might slip. 

At dawn, she dressed in silence and dragged her trunk down the polished staircase. Her steps echoed. The walls, still lined with family pictures, watched her with the same indifference they always had. Outside, the carriage waited. And surprisingly, Baltimore stood tall and gleaming, feathers preened, eyes alert. He looked almost excited, and no longer green; perhaps Urko finally figured out who had dyed the glorious mane of Beauxbaton's most beloved winged stallion. 

She kept glancing at him through the window, and he looked almost excited. Yet, she wasn't. Cassius stood near the door, arms folded, like this was any other day. It surprised her was even there. Shortly, they were followed by Fleur, Teddy, Victoire and Nathaniel. Her Aunt appeared austere, as if seeing each other and bidding goodbye was a normal part of their lives.  Meanwhile, her cousins and brother shared looks of uncertainty as they offered Nathalie fake, reassuring smiles. 

‘You’ll write, right?' Victoire said, pulling her into a hug.

‘Of course,’ Nathalie murmured, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it.

‘We’ll see you this summer,’ Teddy added. ‘We’ll plan something fun.’

She nodded. But the thought of returning hadn't yet settled into her bones. Without saying a word, Nathaniel approached her, offering an awkward yet necessary hug. Whatever war they were fighting inside themselves, either led by grief or anger, proved to be pointless in tackling each other. Perhaps, they had found a common ground to stand on while their lives came crashing down.
Cassius approached last. ‘Baltimore will take you straight to the chateau. Madame Maxime is expecting you.’

‘That’s it? ’she said. ‘No last words of wisdom?’

Cassius studied her. ‘You already know what matters. You are stronger than you believe.’

She clenched her jaw. ‘Am I?’
He nodded, lowering himself to place a kiss on her forehead. It lingered for a moment before Cassius whispered: ‘I know you hate me right now, but I promise it will all make sense in the end.’
When she climbed into the carriage, her heart pounded. She hadn’t realised how heavy her trunk was until she let it thud against the floor and Baltimore pawed at the grass, eager to lift off. Many questions raced through her head, and her body felt heavy with uncertainty. 

Then, at the last second, she leaned out the window and shouted, ‘WAIT! What do I tell them? At school?’

Cassius didn’t move. ‘Maxime will help you handle it.’

And that was it. Baltimore took to the sky with a thunderous leap, hooves skimming the clouds. The house below disappeared like a memory she hadn’t finished processing. The wind clawed at her hair, suffocating her face, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

Inside the carriage, everything felt suspended, as if she were stuck in a limbo. She tried to focus on anything but the pain and the anxiety she felt. It never occurred to her, three weeks prior, when she arrived in England, that life would change so drastically. She came in search of an answer, and she left with even more questions. 

Nathalie opened her trunk to rummage, to distract herself from a possible meltdown. On top of her uniforms lay a bundle of letters. Victoire’s was in pink ink, smelling faintly of rosewater. Teddy’s was a chaotic scrawl full of doodles and half-finished sentences. And then there was one in plain parchment. Just her name. Nat.

Her breath caught. Inside, Nate had written:

I'm sorry I didn't write to you when you first left. I know this sucks, but you are not alone, not as long as I'm alive. 

 — N

Nathalie folded the letter slowly. No drama. But for the first time in days, something in her chest didn’t hurt. She leaned back in the seat, held the letter to her chest, and let herself breathe.

Baltimore flew on, wings slicing eastward toward the mountains, the fog, and the quiet place where maybe, just maybe, she’d remember who she was before her world turned upside down.