Chapter Text
Part I: The Year of the Wolf
The house felt smaller with boxes scattered in every room. It wasn't exactly a mess—it was the order possible within chaos. At every step, Duque had to dodge a piece of furniture pushed into the middle of the path or a stack of books tied with string. The move to France had always been a plan, but now that it was happening, reality felt heavier, greyer, more definitive.
In the hallway, her mother was arguing with her father about where to pack the porcelain inherited from her grandmother.
"It won't all fit in the car, Oliver," she said.
"It will fit," her father replied, too confident for someone holding a shelf upside down.
Duque let the bickering fade into the background as she climbed the stairs. It was normal for her parents to bicker. Not in a bad way, but now that they were approaching seventy, they had passed a level of intimacy where squabbles were daily occurrences—never a fight that actually felt like fighting, just Oliver messing up the butter, or Amelia always losing just one shoe.
Dominique Delaire wasn't much like her parents, not entirely. They shared the same laughter lines, the face marking all the happy memories they had together. But her father's blond hair and her mother's brown eyes were not part of Duque's image; her hair was very black, very full with loose curls, and her eyes were a piercing blue. But that had never been an issue for the Delaire family. She had always known she had been received by her mother at St Mungo's, when a witch had been injured during the war against You-Know-Who. The witch, who sadly didn't make it, carried Dominique in her womb, and when she was born, she went directly into Amelia's arms and then to the home fullest of love that she and Oliver could offer.
Her bedroom was partially empty, which always gave her a small shock. Half the walls were bare—just tape marks and small discolourations where pictures and photos used to be. The sunflower wallpaper now just looked worn and outdated, even though it had always been one of the things she liked most about her house. Her mother had always called her "little sunflower", because Dominique should always turn towards the good things.
The morning light entered through the window, illuminating the dust dancing in the air, as if it were saying goodbye too. The open suitcase on the bed seemed to stare at her, demanding decisions. Duque took a deep breath and started where she could: clothes.
She opened the drawer of jumpers and pulled out a thick, dark blue wool one with old buttons that always clicked when they hit each other. Her mother leaned against the door at that exact moment.
"That one goes folded inside out, right?" she asked, approaching and running her hand over the fabric with a care that was almost comical.
"Mum..." Duque smiled sideways. "I promise I won't shove it at the bottom of the suitcase and crush everything."
"Just making sure," she replied, but there was an invisible tremor in her voice. "These are pieces that last for years. If you look after them."
Duque knew she wasn't just talking about the clothes.
"Mum..."
"Did you talk much to the girls over the holidays?" Amelia was a young elderly woman who, not for a single moment, knew how not to get straight to the point.
"I got a few letters, but I only replied to Parvati once. I don't know, Maman, I don't feel quite like I used to. Lavender is always making some strange comment, and from the letters, it seems worse than before. At the end of last year, with everything that happened with that Chamber of Secrets, she didn't have a single worry."
"She was being a child, my dear. I think being the daughter of two elderly people has made you too mature for your age. Enjoy it a little."
"That's good advice; at Beauxbatons I enjoyed it as much as I could. And I bet if you ask Minerva, she'll say she and your mother got up to a lot when they went to Hogwarts."
Her father appeared right behind, holding a box of books. He had sellotape stuck to his eyebrow. "I brought your books on..." he turned the box to check. "History of magical creatures. Or was it potions? I don't know anymore."
"As if Aunt Minnie would tell me something like that, thinking I'd cause trouble for her to solve." Duque bit her lip not to laugh, looking at the books her father was carrying. "Dad, those aren't mine."
"No?"
"No. That's Mum's cleaning potion recipe collection."
"What?" Her mother widened her eyes. "Oliver! That was supposed to be in the laundry cupboard boxes."
"Ah," he said, disconcerted. "I'll go back then." And he left, carrying the box as if it were dynamite.
Her mother sighed, but there was a tired smile at the corners of her mouth.
"Your father is a great man," she murmured, almost to herself.
"He is," Duque replied. "He just doesn't understand the concept of 'categorising'."
Her mother gave her a conspiratorial look. That was the kind of conversation only the two of them could maintain, half ironic, half affectionate. Her father had always said, from the moment Dominique could understand, that she was just like her mother. Even with different appearances, they shared the same quick wit with words, always having a ready answer—"too smart for her own good", her father always said.
"Let's have breakfast?" her mother asked, wiping her hands on her apron. "Your father thought lemon cake would be important to survive the move."
"He's right," said Duque.
In the kitchen, the sweet smell invaded the air. The table had stacked plates, mismatched cups, cutlery her mother was still deciding whether to take or leave. Duque sat between the two. The cake was hot, moist, with a sugar crust on top—exactly how she always liked it. For a moment, the noise of the boxes, the dragging objects, the banging drawers... disappeared. There was only that table, that breakfast, those two people.
When they finished, her father stood up slowly and touched her shoulder.
"Shall we?"
"Let's go."
The hug of the three was long. And silent. Her mother smelled of lavender. Her father smelled of dust and lemon cake. Duque went down the stairs with her suitcase behind her, and the sound of the wheels hitting the steps seemed to mark the end of something. The moment she reached the front door, she stopped and took a deep breath. She looked at the hallway one last time: yellowish light, bare walls, a displaced plant in the corner. The house seemed... not empty, but different. As if it were already saying goodbye to her too.
"Don't worry, dear. At our cottage, I'm going to plant lots of sunflowers for you, so you can always turn towards the good things," said Oliver.
***
The train was too hot. Duque slid down the corridor looking for a free space, dodging rucksacks, cats in boxes, running children, and third-years who already seemed to have grown fifty centimetres since June. The smell of smoke mixed with cheap Muggle shop perfume hung in the air.
When she found the door to the compartment where Lavender and Parvati usually sat, she heard the loud, unmistakable laughter even before opening it.
"DUQUE!" Lavender jumped on the seat and waved enthusiastically. "Get in, you're super late, I thought you were going to miss the train!"
Duque raised an eyebrow as she pushed the door.
"The train isn't even ready to leave yet, Lavender."
"But it could be!" Lavender retorted, shoving bags to make space. "And then you'd be forced to go by cart, and it would be very tragic."
Duque entered, balancing the weight of her hand luggage. Parvati smiled sympathetically.
"Hi, Duque. Was starting to think you'd run off to Paris like Lavender wanted to."
Lavender gasped exaggeratedly. "I did NOT want to run off to Paris! My cousin said Paris matures a person."
Duque put her bag in the overhead compartment and sat down.
"If maturing means coming back full of shopping, you succeeded," she said, looking at the scattered bags. It was going to be a long year.
The train whistled and the familiar vibration began under their feet. Duque adjusted her coat on her lap, smoothing the green skirt she wore, and took a deep breath. The year was starting, and there was still time for that universe to make sense again.
But Lavender, as always, was determined not to let the calm last. She pulled one of the colourful bags she had brought and began rummaging inside like someone looking for a forbidden artefact.
"My new acquisition!" Lavender announced, triumphant, pulling out a small, circular mirror with an elaborate metal frame. The kind of thing a rich and dramatic aunt would buy in an antique shop. But when Lavender opened it, the object glowed with a soft light and a melodious voice echoed:
"Bonjour, ma chère."
"It talks?" Duque asked, neutral.
"It compliments," Lavender corrected, as if that were a prize. "And gives beauty advice."
The mirror winked—literally winked—and completed: "The new haircut really values your eyes, dear. You look stunning today."
Lavender almost melted with happiness. Duque maintained an impassive expression, but inside she thought: Great. An object that flatters for sport. Hogwarts really needed this, frankly.
"I present to you... my French love counsellor," Lavender announced, fiddling with the settings. "Mirror... I think I want to... fall in love this year."
The mirror responded like a wise old romantic: "A wonderful decision. The heart is a flower that blooms when you allow yourself to feel."
Duque turned her face slowly to the window to avoid snorting. Cheap philosophy now. If this mirror started reciting poetry, she was jumping off the train.
For the next hour, Duque listened—or tried not to listen—as Lavender detailed her "emotional flowering" plan, which involved French perfume that smelled like sugar and desperation, a list of potential first kisses, and a newfound obsession with Harry Potter’s "vulnerable aura".
"I think he needs someone who understands him," Lavender sighed, clutching the mirror. "Someone to see beyond the 'Boy Who Lived'."
"That includes you, I suppose?" Duque asked, her patience wearing thin.
"Maybe," Lavender replied with all the dignity of someone building castles in the air.
Duque watched the landscape blurring outside. She understood wanting to reinvent oneself, but Lavender treated everything like a spectacle—and Duque was already tired of the show. I'm getting different from them, she thought clearly for the first time. Sooner than I imagined.
The conversation was interrupted by a subtle shift in the atmosphere. A chill ran down the back of her neck, as if someone had run the tip of a cold knife along her spine. The air became denser, damper, gloomier.
"Guys... is it cold in here or is it just me?" Lavender asked, her voice trembling.
Duque tried to pull her coat tighter, but her hands were strangely slow. As if her fingers belonged to someone else. The train made a deep creak, almost a groan. Parvati hugged herself, rubbing her arms.
"What's happening?"
Duque swallowed hard. The change in temperature was brutal—not the natural cold of the wind, but a cold that seemed to be born inside herself. No. I know this kind of feeling. This isn't normal.
The ceiling lights flickered. Once. Twice. The train slowed abruptly.
"I... I think I'm going to faint," Lavender whimpered.
The compartment door slid open with a screech, pushed by rotting fingers. And then, the shadow entered. A cloaked figure, too tall, too thin, like a skeleton dressed in rags. No visible face—just a devouring void.
A Dementor.
Lavender screamed and Parvati whimpered, paralysed. Duque didn't scream; she couldn't react. It was as if the whole world was being drained. As if a giant vacuum was pulling something inside her—her courage, her clarity, her strength. The temperature dropped so much the air seemed to crystallize in her chest. A white noise filled her mind. An absence of memories. A near-echo of something she always tried to forget—the memory didn't come, but the pain did.
The Dementor retreated, hissing, and left.
Duque breathed again. Not calmly—but like someone surfacing after being underwater too long. She sat frozen, head against the seat back, eyes closed. Her throat burned, her tongue felt heavy.
What was that?
Later, in the Great Hall, amidst the chatter of students who seemed to have bounced back too quickly, Lavender was already turning the trauma into gossip.
"I heard Neville fainted! Imagine Neville facing a Dementor! Poor thing..."
There were giggles around the table. Duque felt blood rise to her face. Not anger—but a thick sense of injustice.
"Lavender," she began, in a controlled tone. "That's not funny. You don't know who it was. And saying that now just makes it worse."
Lavender opened her mouth to retort, but Parvati made a discreet gesture, begging for the conversation to end. Duque looked away, staring at the enchanted ceiling. The fake sky showed heavy clouds, a harbinger of rain.
Maybe I'm not as strong as I imagined, she thought, the feeling stuck in her head like an invisible thorn. And as she looked at her friends, laughing again as if the cold hadn't touched them, she knew the distance between them wasn't just physical. It was silence. And she didn't have the strength to bridge it anymore.