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Dom’s a wild child, something that can’t quite be tamed. She hates being told what to do (although she’ll concede to Papa and Maman who is another force to be reckoned with). She speaks her mind, acts out on her emotions, and isn’t a bloody doormat to anyone with her domineering attitude. She’s a shining comet made of fire, earth, and undiluted mass that streaks above.
And she’s always felt a bit different.
“Itz ze veela inside,” her Maman will gently say to reassure her when she’s younger, stroking her hair and humming when she’s had a bad day. But Dom’s not quite sure, as Victoire is made from the same stock, but they mix like oil and water to each other. She lacks all of Victoire’s easy grace and impeccability like some sort of Disney princess they see on the Muggle screens. The only thing they have in common is the claws that come out figuratively during their epic rows, both pretty faces turned sour, mouths filled with expletives on how Dom isn’t careful with their shared clothes, or how Victoire needs to lighten up. Where Louis cowers, and their parents break it up with their magic, making them both apologize.
She doesn’t feel at home in the presence of her loud, boisterous family during the Sunday lunches at the Burrow, she and her siblings sticking out like dandelions among their red-headed brethren. She doesn’t take as much pleasure in Nan’s cooking which while delicious, doesn’t compare to Maman’s French cuisine filled with olive oil and spices. Perhaps it’s the French in her that makes her feel out-of-sorts. A stranger in the presence of family.
The feeling lingers when she gets sorted into Slytherin, the first snake of her generation, much to her surprise. “The Slytherin Weasley,” a term loosely coined and thrown around like silver sickles among the rumor-mongers at Hogwarts, who she gives her signature death glare with all the veela bravado she can muster. Later on, she’s followed by her younger cousins Lucy, Molly, and Albus who come join her in their little den. Nothing changes minus Uncle Ron (and occasionally Uncle George) taking the piss at her, and she receives for every Christmas a nicely knit green sweater with a silver “D” emblazoned from Nan. Perhaps it was all a fluke, a figment of her imagination.
But she is different, and Dom realizes this later when puberty hits. Her dreams are filled with soft warm bodies and feminine laughter. She doesn’t take pleasure at looking at Michael Wood or Alistair Parkinson, or the rest of the boys who shamelessly court her and ask her to the Yule Ball. Her gaze, perhaps always, was drawn to others, and she’s far more interested in Ariana Zabini or Priyanka Patil.
She likes women.
And that’s okay. But visits to the Burrow become a bit more suffocating after she graduates. Where she’s asked who she’s dating, who the lucky (or rather unlucky) guy is, when she’s going to get married. The walls feel like they’re closing on her filled in a too cramped space that’s too loud, the faces of her relatives blending together asking the same skin-deep questions. Harmless little things, that sting her still, leaving little bites to her skin, itches that won’t go away.
Marriages, dating, romance still revolves around two opposite genders together in her family. Uncle Percy doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Aunt Hermione when he finds out about the relationship occurring between former school acquittances Mr. Thomas and Mr. Finnegan. A sentiment that gets echoed across. And Dom isn’t ready to tell them who she is, especially when she doesn’t know exactly who she is. So, she quietly keeps her preferences hidden like a house elf in the kitchen cupboard.
Perhaps it’s her drive to get away from it all, that there’s more to the world to see and visit. That life isn’t constrained to weekends at Ottery St. Catchpole or living back with her parents in Shell Cottage. Or even Diagon Alley, that feels so small and unfettered in the big city around it.
When there’s an opportunity to work abroad in New York City, Dom packs her bags and doesn’t look back. There’s occasional homesickness that comes in the form of longing for Maman’s cooking and of her family, of Shell Cottage and the tinkling of seashell wind chimes. This lessens after Albus comes three years later, who goes from being a distant younger cousin to a close confidant that helps her find the best English breakfast in town. There’s Louis who occasionally comes every blue moon whenever the runway carves a path for him, filled with elaborate tales in the world of high fashion. There’s a string of cousins who visit, and even Victoire who stays a month with Dom (surprise, they barely argued!) after her breakup to do some belated soul searching.
Later on, she finds it okay to be herself with her family on a trip back for the annual summer gathering. Where Uncle Charlie’s there with his boyfriend, and Roxanne brings home her girlfriend to the loud cheers from Uncle George and Aunt Angelina. Dom’s heart lies elsewhere though, across the Atlantic. To the flat she calls home.
***
Throngs of people crowd together in TAO nightclub, music blasting through the floor. Iridescent lights weave colors of neon and red all about giving everything a sluggish haze. The walls glimmer with East Asian symbols and lettering. Dom stares at her lychee martini, the plump skin of the soft, pink fruit plucked through a shiny metal toothpick.
Albus is off to use the restroom, Louis is on the dancefloor, his shoulder-length blond hair tousled, chiseled face thrown back as he dances with a beautiful brunette in tall high heels. The two of them standing out from the crowd of dancegoers, many of whom give him and his partner a second take.
Dom’s usually up for a good time, loving to feel the beats pulse through her blood. Trying drinks offered on the house, loving how they shimmer and glow without the help of magic. It’s the end of New York Fashion Week too, and Louis’ finally has some time off his busy schedule where the three of them can hang out in months.
But she feels drained being here, even among the mass of animated bodies moving about.
The ritz and shine have worn off on her. Dulled. All the fancy clubs blurring in a single entity filled with nameless strangers and unwanted guests who strike up conversation with her like she’s an object, just another pretty little thing to add to whatever collection they have.
She’s not a trophy though. She’s Dominique Gabrielle Delacour-Weasley.
Who is here, feeling out-of-sorts, cradling a beautiful drink, thinking thoughts akin to an impending quarterlife crisis.
“Try it!” a voice yells, one she barely makes out through the loud music.
There’s a stranger at her side at the edge of the bar, with a smile wide over glistening cherry red lips. Moon-shaped eyes that crease on the sides of a warm face. Her lithe figure leans against the high countertops, hand resting next to, coincidentally, a lychee martini.
Dom eyes her gingerly, Ms. Try-This isn’t setting off any alarms, although Dom doesn’t need a stranger to cheer her on for having a drink she’s had before. It’s seemingly harmless. So, she raises the glass to her lips, raising an eyebrow. To which the girl mischievously raises her own in kind.
It’s perfectly sweet as she sips, with hints of the tartness underneath with the watery taste of lychee. She gives a slight nod in approval.
The stranger beams, eyes crinkling even more, and raises her own martini in toast. Dom feels her heart flutter, doing little summersaults in her chest. Unexpected.
“Dom,” Louis yells out and Dom turns to see him close by with his blonde hair drenched, red handprint on his fair face that no longer looks as happy as it was a quarter hour ago. Red drink is all over his white button-up shirt. Albus is right next to him, helping make the way through the packed bar filled with people moving about, a look of worry on his face.
When she turns back to say goodbye, the stranger is gone before she can get a name and a number. The rest of the evening is spent administering a healing spell and listening to Louis moan about how jealousy is the root of all evil. To which Albus responds cheekily that hitting on two birds with one stone didn’t work this time around, and Dom admonishes her brother for doing so.
Yet, the taste of the lychee martini lingers on her lips, and she sees moon-shaped eyes, an easy smile, and cherry lips in her sleep.
Too bad.
***
A week later, Dom’s balancing her latest case work and café au lait on her way to the British Consulate at MACUSA.
There’s a familiar face that walks past, one that makes her do a double-take. Could it be?
“LYCHEE MARTINI!” Dom bellows out, to the annoyance of onlookers walking past. The stranger pauses in her steps as her back faces Dom.
When she turns around, Dom notes that she’s traded her bedazzled black dress for pearl white robes with a badge emblazoned, “Sandra Lin, Resident-Healer-in-Training, Kolwaski School of Medicine.”
“Oh,” the stranger says, voice lively. “Preoccupied blonde from last time,” and gives Dom the same beaming look as last weekend, one that she can’t look away from.
They meet for their first date later in the week in Wizarding Manhattan with rainbow sorbets from the ice cream parlor reminiscent of Fortescue’s back in Diagon Alley. Where vanilla cotton candy clouds float above the dessert, occasionally raining a soft drizzle of warm syrup that causes the nimbus clouds to fade.
Dom finds out she goes by Dara Lin. That she was there to get a Floo license renewal when they ran into each other again. And when they were at the night club, she found Dom intimidating to approach (but did so anyway).
If there was a thing such as fate, such balderdash it is. The workings of the universe to align the stars, or perhaps of two people, Dom thinks (and hopes) this is it.
And the rest is history.
***
Her weekends go from waking up hungover, to waking up only slightly hungover with a mass of black silky curls mixed with her golden blonde ones. Their limbs are tangled among each other, like pieces meshed in a jigsaw puzzle.
Her Saturdays are slowly filled with dim sum at the hole in the wall place in Flushing with fragrant jasmine tea and delicious har gow, presents of shrimp and minced meat and vegetables wrapped in rice paper, strewn in small bamboo baskets that are placed at their side quickly by busy attendants. They visit bookstores, try out the new café Dom’s been meaning to go to where the espresso beans are slightly burnt and shouldn’t be worth the nasty price point. Dara will laugh and let Dom snob all she wants about the coffee while making silly faces of disgust in imitation of Dom each time she sips her café au lait.
There’s long walks in Central Park on lazy afternoons where they admire the leaves changing color from verdant green to holly red. Holding hands together, with Dom tucking their interwoven hands into her coat pocket when the weather gets cold enough.
Sometimes, Dom goes to scare the pigeons that tried to steal her half-eaten pretzel, wretched birds they are. Dara will laugh and wait, her red plaid coat billowing in the near distance, arms wide in the air waving, beckoning Dom to come back. Her figure like a lighthouse drawing Dom back to shore.
She’s never had anything like this before. Relationships have always been brief, sorts of flitting things that never pass a month in time. It’s always felt more chore and inconvenience done out of the routine responsibility of dating. All skin-deep things they are where they never get past the tip of the iceberg before they break-up and easily move on.
This though, is different. There are deep conversations when they get together on Friday nights when they’re filled with falafel from Dara’s favorite takeaway down the street. Their lives start to mix together, like swirls of vanilla and chocolate. They meet each other’s friends. Dom drags Albus and Louis, along with her coworkers at work to slam poetry nights at the Half-King bar attended by Dara and her classmates. Two toothbrushes adorn the stand in her bathroom now. Her pale blue one, and another, all peach pink and shiny.
They even go back to nightclub they first met at, with Albus and Louis in tow, and toast for real this time with lychee martinis on a quiet balcony and watch through too-shiny glass windows onto the dancefloor, cackling to each other like old crows about the moves being put out. Louis shamelessly flirts and takes turns spinning members from a bachelorette party, somehow wearing a baby pink sash emblemed with “Bride Tribe.” Albus is roped into dancing with a handsome stranger, whose hair unfortunately isn’t platinum blonde or and whose name isn’t Scorpius Malfoy, Dom thinks poignantly. But he makes Albus laugh all the same when he whispers into his ear, bodies pulled close together, a smile on Albus’ face that Dom knows to be genuine.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Dara asks out, her hand taking Dom’s into her own, thumb gently stroking the back of her hand with tender caresses. Her eyes sparkle like black pearls, cheeks flush with red on beige-yellow skin, lips wide pressed. A soft waft of the perfume she uses on special occasions wafts in the air that Dom sinks into.
Dom gives out a shit-eating grin, and pulls her in for a kiss.
“That’s what I was thinking about,” Dom answers softly, and she rarely does soft. “How kissable you are.”
They kiss again. It’s just them here, all cold outside with the faint music from indoors that pulses underneath them.
But she’s warm through and through with the thumping of her heart, and the universe sinking around them like a fishbowl where they float around each other, slow dancing to their own beat.
***
“Is it okay to be this happy?”
Albus and her are sitting on a park bench, watching the handful of Quidditch players flying above the hazy shores of Coney Island masked by enchantments. Ferris wheel and brownstone buildings are in the background, a blue winter sky above. He’s been taking pictures for the mag he works at. She’s just here for the company.
Albus stares at her as if she’s grown another head.
She looks away facing downwards, feeling her face reddening, thankfully hidden by a nest of hair. “You know what? Forget it.” She’s never been good talking about itty-bitty feelings that creep about.
“Dom,” Albus starts, “What’s going on?”
Dom bites her lips, her hands fidgeting in her lap. She’s not sure how to start, these emotions bubbling inside her. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone. Dara – she’s so special,” she babbles out, “What if it goes wrong? What if I do something?”
She glances back at Albus, “I’m not easy get along with.” He gives her an eyeroll and wry smile on that.
“I’m so scared,” she continues, hating how her voice trembles, how there’s a shudder coming from deep within her body. “I’m so scared of fucking this up.”
“What if she hates me? What if we break – “
She puts her hands over her mouth and stops herself from uttering the last bit realizing that she’s in the company of Albus. Albus whose gone through a rough break-up stemming from years of dating and of being best friends, one Dom knows he’s not over even though it’s been years.
If it brings up any bad memories, Albus doesn’t show it. Instead, he’s there at her side, scooting closer, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Oh Dom” he says, “You’re both so madly in love. Anyone can see it.”
“When we went to get tacos last week after clubbing, it took Louis three tries to get your order because you wouldn’t stop mooning at each other,” he adds cheekily.
Dom flushes. “Oh please,” she retorts, “I don’t moon. Just hard to hear him at the front of the line is all.”
“Sure cuz,” Albus responds back, giving a small laugh, eyes gleaming, seeing through her words. “Anyways, my point stands. If she hated being with you, she would’ve left already. Never responded to any of your texts and owls no matter how much you would harp about.”
“It’s going to be okay,” he says supportively. There’s a pause, “No one knows how relationships will pan out. We can only try our best and have faith.”
He’s looking straight at her, his dark hair flying in the wind, green eyes burning with that smoldering confidence of his. “You deserve to be loved,” he says softly. “And deserve to love in return. Don’t you dare forget that.”
Dom chortles, and rests her head on his shoulder which he grudgingly lets her do. Tears well at her eyes, and she doesn’t try to banish them away. They land on Albus’ suede coat, and brandish it with dark speckles of salt and water.
Time passes by like this. A random onlooker asks if they’re okay, to which Albus responds with a smile that they will be okay.
When they finally get up, Dom sees that her eyes are red and swollen on the reflection of her phone when she pulls it out, mascara still intact. Albus finally stretches his shoulders and winces at the pain coming from the right side where Dom had treated it like some sort of plush pillow.
“You good?” he asks her.
“Brilliant,” she answers back with a secure nod, and truly means it.
“Great,” he gives her a wide grin. “Because you own me pizza, and perhaps a back massage for all my troubles.”
“Oh sod off!” Dom scoffs, “This is extortion Albus Severus Potter. I will not stand for it.”
Albus pulls her into a big bear hug, and Dom hates how he’s able to tower above her by being so bloody tall.
“Please,” he says lightly, letting go after she tries to wrestle out. “The great, scary Dominique Weasley. Coming to me for relationship advice.”
“Tell anyone,” she threatens, “And your darling camera set will go missing.”
“Lips sealed. But only if you confess that I’m your favorite cuz,” he responds back, tongue sticking out, and runs away when Dom starts chasing after him.
When they finally stop, Dom feels far past her years as she’s huffing to catch her breath. Albus is beside her, beads of sweat falling on his face from their Tom-and-Jerry run. It reminds her back to when they were just kids playing tag. Little memories flicker by, times when Dom was far bigger than he was, where Albus would stumble and fall, when Dom had to grudgingly replace his ice cream when it fell from the cone as he cried. He’s all grown now, with his handsome good looks. On the inside too, where she can find through him reassurance and strength.
“Al,” she says.
He perks up, “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” she whispers out, and doesn’t try to wrangle out when he hugs her again.
***
Moonlight spills from her window. It makes them shimmer in pearlescent hues, like scales of the aigrefin seen swimming during her summer vacations in Provence with grand-mère and grand-père.
Dara is lying beside her on the twin bed, knees touching, comforter above like a bed of white snow. Their skin flushed and carrying the remnants of lovemaking.
“Dom,” Dara breathes out. She’s such a beautiful thing, and Dom marvels how she can bring out these feelings from Dara, how she can make her react the way she does. Their hearts sit a lily pad away, but they beat to the same rhythm, thump by thump.
“Darling,” Dom responds in kind, Dara’s nickname between the two of them made from combining Dara Lin.
Every time Dom looks, she marvels at the fact that she can pick up something new, how there’s a small faded mole at the nape of Dara’s neck as if made from a fine-tip quill. How her eyelashes flutter so quickly like the beating of a swan’s wings.
“I love you so much,” Dara breathes out, smile stretching out on her face.
“You just say that,” Dom says coyly, “Because my tongue can bring you to heaven.”
Dara gives out a rambunctious laugh, one that might wake up the neighbors next door. “Yes, I love your tongue a lot.”
“But,” Dara’s voice, despite being so lighthearted, has the veiling of seriousness underneath. “I love you best.”
“I love you too,” Dom responds, and she really means it, one hundred and ten percent.
It’s times like these where Dom feels exposed yet so full with her heart wobbling like jelly. There’s no easy grace to her, she’s all brash with a domineering streak, and her vulnerability likes being walled up and hidden like a rose in a castle.
She can just leave it at that. Nothing more to be said. They’re happy here in this moment, and she doesn’t need any bloody insecurity to upset this delicate balance. She’s tough. Self-reliant. Always has been. Yet, why doesn’t it feel right? Why does her stomach churn at the thought?
“Sometimes,” Dom says, trying to put her thoughts into words, hand to her chest. “Sometimes, I don’t know why you’re with me,” she says, voice getting lower as she speaks.
Dara’s lovely face contorts in confusion. “Oh Dom,” she sighs out. She’s getting up, moving towards her, firmly planting her delicate hands to the sides of Dom’s face.
“You’re so lovely,” Dara says affectionately, and Dom sees in her eyes that are filled with tenderness like hues of a clear night. Her hands caress the sides of her face, all light butterfly touches.
“I love your eyes,” she says, the flutter of a finger underneath Dom’s left eye. “So sharp, yet able to hold such kindness underneath for me.”
“I love your mouth,” Dara continues, moving her right thumb to trace the edge of Dom’s lips, “How it opens and closes. How it can make me laugh, and reassure me on a bad day.”
Dara’s eyes crinkle as she recounts, “How it stands up to the bartender when I’m charged extra for drinks I didn’t order.”
Dom gives a small hiccup laugh for that particular memory.
She moves her hands into Dom’s hair, playfully playing in her blonde tresses, “I love your hair. How beautiful and wild it is, just like the rest of your body. So dynamic like you’re on a mission. Even when you’re just coming back to me.”
She places a finger to the tip of Dom’s nose. “You’re so lovable. I love everything about you.”
“Even when we argue,” she continues, “Where you hold to keep your voice low even when you don’t want to. When you apologize with flowers the next day.”
Dom gives a small smile, “Supermarket flowers, the key to mending relationships. One of the many great inventions of our time.”
Dara laughs, the sound filling the space between them like cotton candy bubbles. Dom takes a hand into her own, all hot against her cool skin.
“I love how you’ll make me French toast after our fights,” Dom begins, remembering the smell of maple syrup and powdered sugar the mornings after tumultuous silent nights.
“I love how – “
And there’s no end to this as she expresses feelings carved out in her soul. It’s all the small little things that they do for each other. How Dara will try to make her favorite French dishes of bouballaise and cassoulet. Her lovely, lovely cheeks flush with color when she sees Dom approaching. The millions of gestures, words, memories dispersed in their lives, filled with reciprocal love. Love that Dom wishes she could hang like framed photographs to the sides of her heart.
They’re up the whole night, poignant whispers and laughter between the two of them. When Dom wakes up to afternoon light streaming in, the first thing she sees is Dara’s face sleeping right next to hers.
Birds chirp outside. She feels whole like the final piece missing in the puzzle has been placed.
***
Dom’s no architect. She’s a dreamer, an explorer, too busy finding herself than planning out her life in 10-page parchment scrolls like Rose or Victoire do. Relationships don’t come easy to her, and she can’t be as charming as Louis is.
She’s not good with the let’s-talk-about-our-feelings with the reserved assurance that Albus is so great at (although she’s trying!). She can’t spill out her heart to the world with the ease Roxanne does as she dishes out about her latest tryst, the last heartbreak, oh the woe.
But she wants to build this relationship, to see it grow as its constructed. She wants to see this figurative house filled with more rooms in their little universe that’s for her and Dara alone. There’s a bedroom made of red and pink, colors burnished with desire and affection. The kitchen is green like the house plants Dara keeps in her small kitchenette, with tons of light floating in. Furniture strewn and built from the little nit-naks and secrets they hold dear together. Walls made with the memories engraved in their heart.
Perhaps, someday, the little house in her dreams could become a kind of reality when they move in together, filled with the things they like and laughter they share.
For now, she’s here, helping build whatever this is they have.
When she had told Louis that she would be making dumplings, she saw how his face had paled a shade whiter in the Floo. “Brillante,” he had said and then dubiously, “Erm. Will people actually be eating these?”
Dom’s been here in the small Queens flat since the break of dawn with Dara. Helping Dara’s dad make the dumpling dough, and turning flour, water, and salt into malleable paper squares. Learning that measurements don’t matter with Mrs. Lin, and to eyeball everything when it comes to how much soy sauce, ginger, and chives to add to ground pork to make dumpling filling.
They’re seated at an all-too big table in an all-too small kitchen, faint trickles of conversation come in from the living room where Dara’s parents are greeting the rest of their small Queens family coming over. Dara had showed her earlier how to make dumplings, her instructions like the step-by-step manuals used for putting together furniture, on how to transform the dough squares with filling into proper dumplings. Fold by fold, crease-by-crease, held together by a dash of lukewarm water. Able to stand upright by gravity on the parchment paper of the tray.
Dom tries the best she can, dutifully following the instructions of putting the filling into the middle like if it’s the center of the archery ring, folding it to the side first to change the square to rectangle. Pleating the edges. Yet, her creations never look exactly at right, and hold a bit of character to them.
“How do you do this again?” Dominique asks, staring at the mass of filling oozing like lava out of the dumpling’s dough wrapper. Bloody thing.
“Too much filling,” Dara says glancing over.
“Here.” She takes Dom’s hands into her own, guiding them gently. The non-architecturally sound mass is reopened and a large clump of the filling is taken out. For the nth time that day, she steers Dom’s fingers again to pinch and fold the edges of the flat wrapper to create upright pleats which are held together by a short trickle of water.
There’s something about how her hands move so quickly, how patient she is with Dom. How concentrated she is that diverts from her usually light-hearted personality.
“Thanks,” Dom says after it’s done, appreciating the quick help.
Dara beams at her. “No, thank you,” she says, a bit shyly. “Thanks for being here with me today.”
“Darling, Dom replies earnestly, “Pleasure’s all mine.” She remembers how elated and curious she had been when Dara not only invited her to meet her parents and close family, but also to spend Lunar New Year with them. It’s been a tiring day filled with a lot of preparation from everyone as Dara’s parents had struggled to clean and then place up decorations filled with red.
Stray strands of hair whisp from Dara’s messy bun at the top of her head, that fall over her eyes. Their hands are dirty, covered in flour. Dom reaches over anyways, and tucks them behind her ear, leaving a smidgen of white where she touched.
Dara gives out a laugh, and then a smile as wide as the day they met. And Dom knows that this is another memory, one she’ll look back on years and years from now. Perhaps in that future, they’ll be making dumplings together, both folding together perfectly shaped, rounded, delicious ones. Perhaps, Dom will be the one teaching their kids how to build them out of nothing.
For now though, she’ll settle with her creations.
When she posts what they made on the Owlgram, a slew of responses come back. Victoire has responded with, “Magnifique, my dear sister!” Louis lets her kindly know he readily has the emergency hotline number for food-poisoning, to which Albus responds to that he had the number ready for the local fire department in case Dom burned anything down. James and Fred both badger her on when she’s going to make these for Sunday lunch when she comes back.
Dom sees that Dara has responded as well. All she posts is a simple heart, one that makes Dom’s own heart flutter and beat about to the very person who matters to her the most.
She replies back with her own.
<3