Beauxbatons [Charlie Weasley]

Prologue

The gravestones stood silently, row upon row, like soldiers long forgotten.

She walked gracefully between them, as if floating over the ground. Her pale dress drifted behind her, shimmering in the moonlight with every step she took.

Every time she exhaled, her breath would be taken up by the wind, swirling through the cold night air. Her eyes reflected the billions of stars dotted amongst the blackness overhead, her pupils focussed on her destination.

The pale skin on her hand seemed to gleam under the full moon; her fingers brushed over the cracked and jagged tops of each stone she passed.

She slowed to a stop, halting in front of a crumbled grave, jagged words etched into the stone in an untidy scrawl, as if the carver was in a hurry. Her eyes traced over the words she knew like the back of her hand.

Slowly, she bent down, and pulled out a long, thin, intricately carved stick of wood from the folds of her dress. Her dainty arm raised the wand, pointing it at the eroded grave in front of her.

A wreath of white flowers shimmered into existence, standing stark against the darkness all around. They glimmered as they came to rest at the base of the deteriorating gravestone, representing the only symbol of love anyone could offer in that place.

The girl stayed there all night, knelt on the ground, her eyes trained on the scraggly words etched roughly into the stone. Her thoughts wandered to the back of her mind, delving into the depths of her memories.

She saw images of a young, carefree girl dance in front of her eyes. The girl's brown hair seemed to float around her as she laughed, dancing to music only she could hear.

Seated on the grass next to her, a golden-haired girl knelt, looking up at her best friend. Amusement danced in her eyes as she watched the brown-haired beauty spin and twirl, her pale blue dress fanned out around her.

The brunette reached down with her porcelain hands, pulling her best friend to her feet. Following her lead, the golden girl danced and laughed, the two of them turning into a whirl of ivory and blue.

Their bare feet flattened the brilliant grass in the pattern of their footsteps. The shade of the tree they were under allowed spots of sunlight to filter through; their hair and eyes shone when they caught the light.

The memory faded from her mind, her eyes focussed once more on the grave in front of her. A singular tear rolled down her rosy cheek, and she folded her pale hands in her lap. Her nails dug into her palm.

Another image flashed before her eyes. She saw a thin, sickly girl spread across a mattress, her brown hair fanned out around her head. A golden-haired girl sat next to her, gripping her hand tightly as tears streamed down her face.

Men and women in pale green uniform bustled around the room. They talked quickly and quietly in hushed voices to one another, eyes flickering to the bed-ridden figure.

The golden girl's face held no joy; her cheeks were tear-stained, her brilliant blue eyes watery. The brunette did not stir; her breathing was shallow and short. Her skin got paler by the second, turned almost greyish as she lay still.

She forced the memory from her mind, blinking as her eyes cleared. The words etched harshly into the gravestone in front of her burned through her thoughts as her mind repeated them over and over.

Her thoughts wandered back to the worst day of her life. The first and only time she wore black. It was a rainy day, as though the heavens knew what had happened and were mourning along with everyone else.

Huddled under a thick, black umbrella, the golden-haired girl stood stony-faced, unable to will the tears to come. She was silent throughout the entire service, the first one to arrive and the last to leave.

It was almost an insult, she thought, to make such a beautiful, lively girl be reduced to nothing but a scraggly old stone.

If it were up to her, she would have erected a large, marble statue in the middle of the village. If it were up to her, she would have charmed it to move constantly, dancing and twirling just like she used to.

But it wasn't up to her, of course. All she could do then was make sure the gravestone didn't get forgotten.

She finally stood up when the dawn broke, the stars fading from the sky, the dead grass beneath her feet covered in dew. Her pale dress drifted gracefully behind her as she seemed to float back along the route she came.

The iron gate creaked in protest, closing behind her with a clang. She left, heading back up the cobbled street to her home; tears welled up in her eyes at the thought of her being unable to return to visit her friend.

The gravestones stood silently, row upon row, like soldiers long forgotten.