𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘂𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻

Chapter 13:The City of Ashes

Flashback

Paris was indifferent to pain. Its streets glistened with rain and ambition, its people too busy with dreams to notice the ghosts that walked beside them. For Vivienne Florere, Paris was not an escape — it was a crucible.

She lived in Montmartre, in a narrow flat above a shuttered apothecary. The building groaned when the wind turned. She liked it that way — honest, unlike Hogwarts, where every stone whispered lies.

She arrived at nineteen, carrying nothing but a wand, a suitcase of translated grimoires, and the last letter Bellatrix had sent her — unopened.

She never read it. Not once. Not then.

Instead, she buried herself in the hidden layers of Paris, far from cafés and paintings. There were alleys where cursed blood stained the stone, and behind iron doors, libraries that didn't exist in the daylight.

She studied with renegade scholars, half-mad historians, and witches who whispered in forgotten tongues. Her name became a rumor: la sorcière étrangère qui rêve de serpents. The foreign witch who dreams of snakes.

She learned the origin of the Unforgivable Curses. She decoded Slytherin's journals, written in Parseltongue and obscured by venom-based ink. She read about Muggle-borns who had once led pureblood rebellions, long before Voldemort ever whispered the words "blood traitor."

But she never found her answer.

Why her? Why Slytherin? Why the pull toward darkness?

She never cast the Cruciatus Curse, but she studied its etymology. She refused to use the Killing Curse, but knew how to shield against it. She became what others feared — not because she loved power, but because power might one day protect the people she loved.

And always, Bellatrix haunted her. Not in letters. In memories.

That night by the Black Lake. The way Bella had laughed when she realized Vivienne could beat her at chess but never at lying. The kiss they almost shared before Rodolphus's boots echoed through the corridor.

Years passed. She aged, but never softened. 

One day she met someone, something new.

Her name was Éliane.

She ran a bookshop on Rue des Rosiers, specializing in magical theory, poetry, and obscure French enchantments. They met when Vivienne came in looking for Les Runes Obscures d'Ys, a manuscript believed to drive its readers insane. Éliane laughed when Vivienne asked for it.

"No one sane wants that book," she'd said.
"Lucky me," Vivienne replied.

There was a stillness to Éliane that made Vivienne curious. She didn't ask questions about England or scars. She didn't stare too long at the green sparks that flickered from Vivienne's wand when she was angry. They spent hours together, evenings layered in candlelight and slow, intelligent conversation. Slowly, the walls Vivienne had buried herself behind began to shift.

For the first time in years, Vivienne felt something like... ease. Something like hope.

And then, one morning, the Le Prophète Européen appeared on the breakfast table — a rare British edition brought in magically for Éliane's anglophone clients.

The headline was large, cruel, and impossible to ignore:

"Mass Breakout from Azkaban — Ten Escapees, Including Bellatrix Lestrange."

Vivienne didn't feel the teacup fall. She only heard the sound of it shattering against the floor. Éliane turned quickly, concern blooming in her voice, but Vivienne couldn't answer.