December 31st, 1977
Sitting on a London rooftop in the almost-January chill, I watch my best friend, Cara Kent, chug from a pint like this is her last night alive. I smile. Her long, blonde hair dances in the light wind as she tilts her head back, and I liken her to the faeries I used to see in muggle storybooks. Winter shines bright behind her, covering the city streets below. The thick, white blanket of New Year's Eve has always made me feel, if just for a night, weightless. The image shatters as Cara belches, a little beer dripping onto her chin.
Our friend Emmeline Vance joins us with a fresh can and floats down beside me, letting her feet dangle off the edge. "It's almost midnight," she says.
Cara yells gibberish in response.
"Have someone in mind for a midnight kiss?" I ask.
Emmeline blushes and chuckles lightly. "I was going to say you better find that boyfriend of yours."
I look at the party behind me and shake my head. There are sixty-odd people from Hogwarts crammed inside and outside this rooftop flat, supplied unknowingly by Cara and Connor's parents. My boyfriend, Connor Kent, can probably be found with his teammates talking strategy in his father's office.
"He can find me if he wants a kiss," I tell Emmeline.
"Make him do the work!" Cara yells, eyeing the street below. She looks at me. "Where is my boyfriend?"
"He and his friends are inside seeing who can drink a can the quickest without spitting it all back out into your sink," Emmeline points to the door.
Cara groans. "The flat is going to stink."
"The flat already stinks," I laugh. "Peter Pettigrew spilled mead all over the cushions. Connor almost had a meltdown."
"Just go find my brother and kiss him already, won't you?"
Cara struggles to stand up, so I help her, afraid of how she wobbles so close to the edge. Emmeline tells me she'll take Cara inside to Cara's boyfriend, Bertram Aubrey.
"Oi, Kent, great party!" I hear someone, I think James Potter, yell. Glass shatters almost immediately after.
Throwing this big a party was surprisingly easy for our close-knit group of four: Cara, Emmeline, me, and our friend Dorcas Meadowes, who is begrudgingly in Scotland with her family. Bertram and Connor, both Ravenclaw Seventh Years, invited their respective friends. Emmeline, a social butterfly in her own right, easily invited classmates throughout the last week of classes before the holiday. Cara asked me to get word to one Marauder or another in the Gryffindor common room, and I chose Remus, who lent me ink once when I spilled mine all over the armchair by the fireplace.
In times of darkness, a little savagery can create the brightest light.
I lean against the back of a bench where two girls are chatting. My arms tingle in the cold, my jacket lying forgotten in one of the bedrooms.
"Gemini wore a caftan," I hear one of them say. "A bloody caftan!"
I think about my outfit of deep green corduroys, a black jumper, and plain clogs. My hair falls to my waist in flat, frizzy waves. I hadn't put much thought into getting ready earlier as Cara and Connor were in a rush to hide everything expensive in one of the closets. Their family's wealth shocked me when I was just an eleven-year-old girl moving into Shirley and Arnold's modest cottage in the wizarding section of Caerphilly, the Kents' home just down the road.
"Ruiz! Oi!" Connor's voice erupts in the distance, interrupting my daydream. "Has anyone seen my girlfriend! I don't want to kiss Lagunov at midnight!"
"Like you don't already in the showers after games!"
"Can't wait for Ravenclaw to claim the cup this year, Potter!"
I find Connor near the door to the flat, his arm around James Potter's shoulders, house rivalry forgotten as he listens to the latter sing along to the music — quite loudly — You're so vain. I'll bet you think you think this song is about you. Don't you? Don't you? Don't you? James turns to yell the words into Connor's ear, James's forehead somehow covered in hair and sweat. Connor laughs loudly, soberly, and James begins to slur through the next verse.
"James is a terrible singer, don't you think?" Sirius Black says, leaning against the wall beside me, wrapped in a dragonskin jacket, a cigarette resting between two slim fingers. He takes a drag.
"Can I steal a fag?" I ask, the familiar feeling of craving dulling all my other senses.
"What would your golden quidditch star boyfriend say about that?" He fishes one out of the breast pocket of his jacket, anyway.
"He hates the stuff," I chuckle.
Sirius nods his head in response. I expected him to be as legless as James, but he seems as sober as Connor. I am somewhere in between, floating on the tingling sensation drink brings me. Connor eyes me from his huddle with James and smiles, and I fake a smile back. I raise the fag to my lips, and his smile falls. I try not to think about the silly lecture he'll give me later.
"One minute to midnight!" Somebody yells. Connor will have to kiss me despite the taste of my usual tobacco and Sirius's added menthol. The cool, mint flavor eases my guilt if just a tiny bit. "One minute to midnight!"
Connor extracts himself from James — who grabs onto someone else, his girlfriend absent tonight — and grabs my free hand as soon as he's near. He ignores Sirius's presence entirely, looking deep into my eyes.
"Would you be mad if I went to bed?" He asks. I almost choke on the smoke in my throat, but instead, turn my head away from him and toward Sirius to breathe it out. Sirius looks at me like we share a secret, but in fact, we just had our first conversation. I wonder if he knows my name or just my status as Connor's girlfriend.
"You do plan on kissing me in less than a minute, right?" I say. The countdown, which started small at the minute mark, is much louder now at 45, 44, 43…
"Of course," he smiles. I almost melt, but his gaze flickers to the flat behind me, shattering the moment. I look down at our shoes. A few years ago, Connor could make me blush by entering a room. His shining eyes and crisp shirts were a far cry from my childhood of torn trousers and matted hair. I still think about the way his pale hands look as they slide across my tan skin.
"Cara, Emmeline, and I are getting breakfast in the morning," I let go of his hand. I think about anything but the growing distance between us. 27, 26, 24. "We'll all sleep in the spare tonight."
"Bring me something back?"
"Some porridge?" I think if I loved him more, I wouldn't feel bored with a simple conversation. I wouldn't notice my cigarette is losing life, and I don't want to ask for another. I wouldn't notice the girl walking past us on a mission to kiss Sirius Black at midnight. 20, 19, 18.
"Sounds perfect, Aster." My name always sounds foreign on his tongue. Every time I think about our relationship ending, I get a stomach ache. But I still think about it.
I lean back against the wall and take a drag. Connor's face twists in annoyance, and I almost smile at the way his brow scrunches up. In my peripheral, Sirius leans down to whisper in the girl's ear. If they were to date, would she find herself inches from the boy she once dreamt of kissing her, thinking only about how he'll hate the taste of her tongue? Is this what love feels like? 13, 12, 11.
"Ten, nine, eight!" Connor shouts to the crowd around us. I flinch. Sirius laughs into the girl's brown hair. "Seven, six, five!" The girl puts one hand on Sirius's shoulder and slides it up and around to the back of his neck. I think about her bravery. I've lost some of my boldness dating Connor. "Four, three, two!" Connor leans down, and I still. "One," he says quietly, and his mouth lightly touches mine for a short, sour kiss.
I whisper, "Goodnight," as he pulls away.
"Goodnight." And he goes into the flat, probably about to put a silencing charm around the bedroom.
Sirius and the girl pull away from what looks like a deep, satisfying kiss.
"Thanks," is all Sirius says, pushing his fag between his lips, breathing in. His pale, delicate cheekbones shine underneath the fairy lights Cara made Connor hang up. The girl looks at him for a moment, thanks him in return, and walks away with a look of disappointment.
"Nice necklace," Sirius throws my way.
"Thank you," I instinctively touch the crystal hanging from a leather chain. My tía gave it to me.
I think about striking up another conversation, but instead, step on the butt of my fag and make my way inside to find Cara and Emmeline.
.
January 1st, 1978
In the morning, after a mere three fitful hours of sleep, Cara, Emmeline, and I all pull on jumpers and jackets for breakfast. The living room is littered with sleeping teenagers and empty cans. On the couch, Remus Lupin reads from a small, hardcover novel with golden script across the binding, Sirius sitting beside him, arms outstretched over the back, his eyes closed and head tilted upwards. James and Peter are sprawled out on the floor in front of them.
The girl Sirius kissed at midnight is slumped into a chair, the tips of her hair falling into her slightly open mouth. Even like this, she is pretty. I wonder how much she thought of him before last night and how little he'll think of her today. I understand the appeal of Sirius Black: the dragonskin jacket, the slight androgyny, the excitement of his reputation.
Thinking of Connor's appeal, my stomach aches.
"Good morning," Remus says without looking up. "Happy new year."
"Morn'," Sirius adds. Someone near lets out a loud, long snore.
"Good morning," Cara breathes, taking a small sip of the hangover potion Dorcas made for us before the break. She passes the bottle to Emmeline. "I'd invite you lot to breakfast, but we aren't close."
Remus closes the novel and puts it on his lap. He turns to look at us as Emmeline finally gives me the potion. I throw back a small, shot sized dose and feel my bones loosen.
"Hello, Remus," I say softly.
Remus smiles. "The lads and I are eating breakfast at James's before returning home."
"Home," Sirius snorts.
"My parents will give us a lecture," James groans, not moving from his sprawled position half on top of Peter. "But then they'll feed us."
"Worth it," Peter adds.
Remus pulls a pair of glasses out of his pocket and reaches down to give them to James.
"Good luck," Cara chirps, smoothing down her hair. "I hope everyone here is gone when we return."
.
Cara and I return to yelling, Emmeline having apparated home, and for a moment, I assume Cara's parents have returned days early. The muffled sounds of shouts are heard even from the elevator, but once the doors open, the voice becomes clear. Christopher, the eldest Kent child, is kicking out the stragglers.
Students meet us in the hallway, some stopping to thank Cara, some with their eyes half-closed. Christopher is yelling obscenities in between cleaning spells, including a daunting reparo! followed by the clink of glass.
Bertram stops Cara in the hallway for a goodbye, and I bravely continue without her. When I reach the open door, I peek in to see Connor pointing his wand at a pile of cans, Christopher still yelling somewhere near. When Connor notices me in the doorway, he only shakes his head.
"Aster!" Christopher shouts, coming into view, a large rubbish bin floating beside him. He gently lowers it to the ground. I stay in the safety of the doorway — Tía Ramona's superstition still sticking in the corners of my brain. "Where is my bloody sister! I want to yell at both of you! I don't know if I'm supposed to yell at you, but I am going to anyway!"
Christopher is six years older than me. He always seemed kilometers ahead of us, too far in the distance to catch up. He still does sometimes, but I do know we'll someday feel more like peers. For now, he gets to play the adult, a mere twenty-two.
"She's saying goodbye to Bertram," I say, taking a cautious step inside. "Why are you here?"
"Why am I here! Why did you throw a party!"
"We're sixteen," I offer, forgetting Cara's recent seventeenth birthday spent getting drunk by the lake.
"When I was sixteen — "
"You would have jumped at the chance to throw a party," Cara cuts in. "I may have been ten, but don't think I don't remember your Hogwarts days."
Christopher sighs. "I won't tell Mum and Dad if you clean the rest up."
Cara smiles and grabs the rubbish bin, whistling a song I've never heard. She's more knowledgeable about magical music than me, but I show her muggle records in return.
"Aster," Christopher says, bringing me out of a trance. I think he is about to tell me to help with the cleanup, but instead, "I came to give you a letter. Arnold and Shirley brought it over for you."
"A letter?" I look in between Connor and Christopher, but Connor only continues cleaning. "I could have seen it tomorrow when we returned."
"It's important," he pulls the letter from his back pocket. "They said it's from your sister."
I look at Connor again to find nothing. No sympathy or love, not even a glance. I think I must've told him about my birth-parents, Azalea, Theo, and little Ramon, but I didn't. I told myself I would when I trusted him with the ugly parts of me. The broken, jagged parts of me. But a boy so unmarred as he could never understand what it means to not be whole.
There's a war looming over us; a spark ignited by the ugly underbelly of our little magic universe seeking to keep its gates closed from people like me. And Connor, beautiful, pureblooded, ignorant, refuses to listen when I tell him to prepare for dark times ahead. If he can't believe in the darkness of our present, how can he handle the ugliness of my past?
Christopher says my name once more and holds the letter out. I take it cautiously, afraid of what's inside. I try to prepare myself for every possible scenario. Hey Hermana, just writing to say that I still think you're a freak and shouldn't exist. Thanks for ruining our family. Love, Tu Hermana Coño. Or Hey, Aster, just wanted to let you know how superb we're doing without you. Papi came back, and he and Mami both got better jobs. Uni is perfect. It's amazing how great life can be when you have no problem children to worry about. Don't ruin anybody else's life if you're able. Love, Tu Hermana Coño.
I pass Connor and go outside, sitting on the cold concrete. The Kents charmed the roof to not fill with snow in the wintertime. I am grateful. I pull my knees to my chest and open the letter, surprised by its length.
Aster,
I got your address from Tía Ramona; she finally relented, telling me that you come to see her whenever you're on holiday. I'm glad that you still have someone from our family to whom you can turn in times of need. I'm writing this from a baby's bedroom in London, a baby I think you should meet. Her name is Fern Aster Ruiz; she's my daughter. She turned one a few days back. I named her for you.
She's not the reason for this letter, but I do regret you and her not having met yet. She's such a happy baby, full of the same light and joy as you were at her age. You as a baby are some of my oldest memories. Your mop of hair that grew in oddly quickly, your twinkly brown eyes, your small giggle. I'm sorry we didn't love you the way you deserve. I painted Imogen's bedroom creamy yellow like yours once was. I'm hoping this color can forgive me and I can create new memories for it, like the moment of love I give to my daughter. I'm hoping that creamy yellow can come to mean love instead of hate and fear and regret.
I'm a mama! How crazy is that?
I notice a small smudge by that last sentence, where it looks like a drop of liquid fell without permission. It melts the punctuation, and I imagine the sentence to end with a question mark, but it may very well be an exclamation point. How crazy is that! Azalea was always one for theatrics.
But I'm a mama without guidance now. That's why I'm writing to you. I know that our parents didn't care for you, didn't love you, and turned us kids against our sister. I know that Ramon can't remember a time before our parents began to fear you. I know that Theo (Tío Theo!) only has small moments of that. I know that I can't blame them for our fear of you, too. That we followed their lead without question. That I, the oldest, should have been there for you.
I keep getting off track. My regret keeps getting in the way of this. I know that my next words might not affect you at all, that maybe you have long since become numb to the mention of us.
Mami is dead. She got cancer a few years after you were gone. It had spread to her brain, and now she's dead. I'm writing to you because it's hard for Tía Ramona to use a pen with her tremors. This is the only way she would ever let me know where you are when you aren't away at school learning magic. Magic! I feel free now to tell how jealous of you I always was. I think that's why it was so easy for me to follow Mami and Papi.
I'm writing to you to see if you would want to meet me in London for lunch whenever you can. I moved in with Papi soon after I got pregnant. Mami kicked me out. I think that's when I started to regret what you had to endure in our family. Theo and Ramon are moving in after the funeral; the neighbors have been taking care of them.
I read the name of the muggle cafe she suggests, the Love, Lea instead of Love, Tu Hermana Coño, and I shove the letter in my jacket pocket. Looking out over the city, rooftop after rooftop running past the horizon, I do the math. Azalea is turning twenty in the summer, meaning she had Imogen when she was eighteen. Theo is recently eighteen, and Ramon is turning thirteen in two weeks. I send him a birthday card every year so he doesn't forget me, but I don't know if he receives them. Tía Ramona says she doesn't know, either. I have been gone a little over six and a half years. My mother is dead. My sister named a child after me a year and a half ago, and I'm just learning of it. I wonder if she has a mop of dark hair growing in oddly quickly. I wonder if her eyes are brown like mine or hazel like Azalea's. I wonder if she'll be happier than I was.
Her name is Fern Aster Ruiz. Fern Aster for our mother's love of flowers and me. Aster, my name, means daintiness. Fern means magic. I think Ruiz means Azalea is raising this child herself.
My niece. And my sister wants me to meet her.
.
AN: Hello, welcome a new, darker, Marauder-era story. This story will not be updated often, as it will be taking a backseat to Ask Anonymous, my baby. But the idea of something darker and first-war centric has been dancing around in my brain for a while, and I just wanted to get out however little I can.
Also, yes, more floriography references. There is always a bouquet sitting in front of my window. Flowers never fail to brighten my mood.
Thanks for reading.
All my love 3