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During the few moments I remain there, unable to move, my thoughts are so numerous that not a single one manages to make its way to my consciousness. It's too much. How dare they..? Quentin is looking at me.
"You had no right," I mumble, before doing the only thing I can.
With a sharp movement, I wrench myself free from Ewald's hand and run. I run, as far away as possible from that café, from my friends; I run far away from the past that's waiting for me. I don't get very far, as I can feel the panic rising within me. I collapse into a small alley, breathless, but not just because of the running. I'm hyperventilating, curled up next to a bin. They had no right! Quentin saw me. I've missed him so much! They had no right. He was never supposed to know. What did they tell him? I can't. I can't see him again, I don't want to see him again. They had no right. They had no right—he's going to get hurt again, or worse, he won't care at all. The pain I feel thinking that is physical. But I already know it's true—he doesn't care. I've known since I called him that night, since I jumped. God, why am I still not dead? Why?
My hand fumbles desperately for my blade, which I wrapped in a tissue and tucked into my pocket. I'm still gasping, my throat so tight that almost no air reaches my lungs. If only that could kill me. I need to disappear before the others find me, before they bring Quentin back here. I should've killed myself last night, when I was in the room, and never mind the trauma they'd have suffered finding my body. Anything would be better than having to face Quentin again. He doesn't need this. I was finally out of his life, so why did they have to go and look for him? Did he even get a say in this? What is their bloody plan? I hate them, in this moment.
My fingers finally find the blade, and I start working to unwrap it from the tissue. It's difficult because my movements are jerky, and I can barely focus. My thoughts fire like bullets, their impact leaving me shattered, and the blood that spills from them drowns me even deeper in the chaos of my mind.
oOo
I barely hear Ewald's hurried footsteps as he crouches down beside me. I barely hear his voice as he says my name. I don't react. I hate him. The blade, finally freed, drops into my hand, but I can't drive it into my throat any more because his magic would stop me. Instead, I squeeze it in my fist, hoping it might help me, at least a little. Gently, Ewald places his hand on my shoulder. Irrationally, I resent him for being so delicate, for not giving me another reason to hate him. His hand forces me to acknowledge his presence at my side, and despite myself, I hear him again.
"It's going to be all right, Vivian, it's going to be all right. Breathe deeply, focus on my breathing. It'll be fine, okay?"
His hand slides a little onto my back, delivering soothing strokes. I calm down just enough to spit at him, between ragged breaths.
"You had no right!"
His hand keeps stroking my back as if nothing had happened, but I can feel his gaze on me.
"No right to what?"
"Don't mess with me! Quentin has nothing to do with this any more! What right do you have to bring me here to see him? Does he even know who I am?"
"He knows."
The words sound like a death sentence, and I don't hear the rest of his explanations. He knows. They dared telling Quentin that I'm alive. A violent anger makes me tremble from head to toe, and my breathing speeds up again. If he knows, why is he here? Why reopen the wound?
Once again, I hear hurried footsteps at the entrance of the alley and the mingled voices of Arthur and Alphonse asking Ewald if I'm all right. I hate them. The Slytherin asks them not to approach just yet, to give me time to calm down.
"Aurore?"
I freeze again. His voice is a little deeper now, but I still recognize it. My breathing slows slightly, despite myself. I sense Ewald straightening up a little, and I lift my head. I don't want to, but I lift my head. I make out Quentin's silhouette moving towards us slowly, with Alphonse and Arthur standing still at the alley's entrance behind him. I lower my eyes before I can meet their gaze. I start to cry more normally, raising my eyes again to Quentin's figure, which has stopped a few steps away from us. Ewald is still at my side, protective in his stance, but he seems very alert to what is unfolding. He looks unsure whether to continue shielding me with his body or to let my former love approach. My body, however, is not so hesitant, and my lips betray me.
"Quentin."
My sobs intensify, yet I stand up. I've forgotten about the others. My hand releases the blade in my pocket, and I take a step forward. Behind me, I sense Ewald doing the same, but I pay no attention to him. I can't run anymore.
"Danlael. I've missed you so much," I whisper, in French.
That name, I've held onto it for eleven years. That name, no one else has ever heard except him. It's just a nickname I gave him, one I invented and that he liked. We used our secret names only in our letters.
It's his turn to freeze for a moment as I take another hesitant step towards him.
"It's really you. Aurore, it's really you."
His voice is laden with as many emotions as those swirling in my head, and a solitary tear rolls down his cheek. Slowly, he opens his arms, just like before, when he was taming me, like an invitation. I throw myself into them with force, and he holds me tightly against him, lifting me off the ground as he does.
My cheek is pressed against his chest, my body nestled against his. My feet no longer touch the ground, and it's a strange sensation because we were almost the same height before. The familiar scent of his body quickly makes me forget that detail and takes me back so far in time. I never thought I'd find myself in his arms again. I feel so many things that I don't even know what I feel any more. All I know is that I'm incapable of letting go of him for now. I cling to him as if to avoid drowning, and in doing so, I drown even further in my emotions.
oOo
I don't know how long we remain embraced because time seems to have frozen. Eventually, however, he gently sets me back on the ground and steps back. He's cried a little. I'd never seen him cry before. He looks at me from head to toe, and I stare at him in return. He's aged. There are lines on his face where there were none before, and the softness of his features has given way to sharper contours. His hair is neatly trimmed, and I find myself smiling at how absurd my thoughts are.
"Are you okay?" Quentin asks in a worried tone. He's not wrong to ask. My amusement teeters between hysteria and relief—I wouldn't even know how to explain it. Still, I answer without dwelling on the imbalance of my mind.
"I was just thinking you've changed your hair cut."
His face reflects confusion before he bursts out laughing. Despite myself, I start laughing too because the situation is so absurd. In eleven years, I'd hope he'd managed to visit a barber!
Quentin's laughter stops abruptly when his gaze falls on my right hand. Suddenly, he looks sad. I follow his gaze, understanding immediately what's wrong. It's the hand I clenched my blade in, and blood is still trickling between my fingers. In the chaos of emotions, I had forgotten. I lower my eyes, avoiding his face.
"Sorry," I mumble.
The others have, of course, been following the scene, and before Quentin can react, Ewald steps forward and explains in English that he's going to tend to my wound and take my blade. My former best friend moves aside to let the Slytherin do his work, and I don't resist. What's the point? Ewald's expression is guarded, but I can't tell if he's angry with me or himself for failing. I'm still angry at him for involving Quentin, so I don't thank him. Once he's finished, he asks:
"Shall we go back to the cafe so you two can talk?"
"I'd prefer somewhere quieter."
"We could walk along the docks," Quentin suggests in clumsy English.
Another surprise. The Quentin I knew could barely say, "Hello, how are you?" in my new native language. Still, his suggestion is a good one, and I mutter my agreement. The whole group follows, me walking beside Quentin, the others trailing behind.
oOo
We walk in silence. On my part, it's because I just don't know what to say. I want to ask him why he's here, to know exactly what they've told him, but I don't dare—not with everyone else around, not with my thoughts tangled up in my head. I sense Ewald trying to connect with me, and I'm on the verge of shutting him out, but in the end, I let him in.
"How are you feeling, Vivian?"
Rather than responding with words, I unleash a torrent of anger, betrayal, fear, and all my uncertainties at once, laced with the one certainty I have: I should've died sooner. He stumbles, nearly falling, startled by the flood of emotions. He steadies himself, however, refusing the helping hand Alphonse offers.
"I'm sorry we caught you off guard like this. I'm sorry we didn't give you a choice. But we didn't know what else to do. We didn't want to betray you by involving the adults."
"So you decided to drag someone into this who had nothing to do with it? Someone who was living his life in peace? He's already been through enough. If he still cares about me, this will just hurt him!"
"We didn't know what else to do. Would you really have preferred we involve Madam Pomfrey and your parents?"
"I would've preferred you let me die."
I reply, unwilling to admit that, if I had to choose, yes, I'd rather they'd reached out to Quentin. Because that's something I can't even admit to myself. Being near him is excruciating, yet it also brings relief. It feels as if a piece of the puzzle that is my broken heart has found its rightful place.
We quickly arrive at the harbour. Once there, Ewald steers the others away, ignoring Arthur's protests about my well-being. He conveys telepathically that they won't be far, and I sense his reluctance to leave. Oh, he tries to hide it, but I know he doesn't like this plan one bit.
oOo
I find myself alone with Quentin. We take a few steps toward a bench, where I sit. From here, I have a beautiful view of the boats. True to his nature, Quentin remains standing. I don't know how to begin the conversation, but my friend surprises me by breaking the silence first:
"Aurore, I– I wanted to apologise."
He seems to be searching for the right words, and I don't interrupt him, though I wonder what he could possibly want to apologise for. If anyone here owes apologies, it's me. I look up at him, but he avoids my gaze.
"I'm so sorry for letting you down. I betrayed you when I promised I'd always be there for you. I'm sorry. Forgive me, Aurore."
I'm left speechless for a moment. I can hear the full weight of his guilt in his tone. It's the first thing he's said to me since he held me in his arms, so it must be incredibly important to him. But an apology?
"You have no reason to apologise. You gave me more than you should have, more than I deserved. You did everything you could to help me. It's me who should apologise. I took your time, your energy, for nothing. I died even though you did everything to stop me. If anyone abandoned the other, it was me."
"Aurore. You have nothing to apologise for. You did your best, and all the time I gave you, I gave willingly. You were my best friend—I was just doing my part. And after that, I let you down. It's only right that I apologise."
Hearing that I was his best friend—past tense—hurts. We haven't seen each other in eleven years; he didn't even know I was alive, and it's probably just a way of speaking. But my heart takes it as rejection all the same. I lock that feeling away deep inside before replying, shielding myself with my flimsy mental walls.
"You're human. It's normal not to be there a hundred percent of the time, normal to feel fed up, exhausted. I know you felt like nothing was changing, like I was stuck in the same place. Of course you were discouraged. Quentin, you are not responsible for my death. I chose to drink that poison. I chose to jump off that damned roof. Me, not you. You answered the phone when I called, even though you were tired, even though you'd had enough, because you wanted to help. You have nothing to feel guilty for. You're human. That's all."
I believe every word I say, even though they gloss over the sadness, the pain of feeling abandoned. Rationally, I understand why he couldn't always be there, why he couldn't handle it all. My heart will never understand. But despite all of that, what I'm saying is true. In the end, he still tried to be there for me. I look at him because I want my words to reach him. I can see on his face that he's trying to take in what I've said, and it makes me want to cry. How long has he been living with this guilt?
"I should have done better. I know you're right, but I should have done better, and that doesn't change the fact that I failed when it mattered most. I'm sorry. Being human isn't always enough, you know?"
"That's why I didn't want to call you. I didn't want to give you the chance because I didn't want you to live with the failure. But I made you a promise."
"And I'd ask you to make it again, even if I'm unworthy of your trust. Because you have another chance now, and even if it's selfish, I don't want to lose you again."
I'm left speechless for a few moments, my tumultuous heart warmed by this heartfelt declaration. He doesn't want to lose me again?
"You still care about me, then?" I try to make it sound like a joke, but my insecurities are far too evident in my voice. Quentin answers without hesitation:
"Of course! You're the person who's had the biggest impact on my life—even more than Tessa. You're the only one I ever shared poems with, the first person I entrusted with so many of my secrets… How could that ever change?"
"It's been eleven years; you've had time to forget me. Or even hate me, after what I did." I set aside the mention of "Tessa" for now—I'll ask about that later. Right now, I need to understand. Quentin shakes his head, his expression torn between pain and affection.
"I've spent the last eleven years regretting not being enough, every time I thought of you. And even though I didn't spend all my time thinking about you—I kept living—I thought about you often. Some of the decisions I made in my life, I made while thinking of you. After your death, I tried to help other people. I even programmed a chatbot to combat depression."
"You're into computing?" I ask, focusing deliberately on the detail rather than the weight of what he's just revealed because I don't know how to respond to that.
"Yes, I'm a programmer. I specialise in artificial intelligence."
The statement lands strangely after the conversation we've just had. We fall silent for a few moments, and I try to imagine what his life has been like these past eleven years. But I can't bring myself to ask—I feel like we're not done with this conversation yet. For one thing, I'd like to know how he ended up here and what exactly the others told him. As I'm gathering the courage to ask, the words teetering on the edge of my lips, Quentin speaks first.
"You've made good friends."
I shrug in response. I don't really want to think about my friends right now. I'm far too angry. Quentin notices, of course, and asks:
"What's wrong?"
"They never should have told you I was alive." I add quickly, realising he might take it the wrong way: "I mean, I don't have anything against you—quite the opposite. I've missed you so much, I can't even put it into words! I—I care about you so much. It broke me not to be able to talk to you any more. But they still shouldn't have told you."
"Why?"
There's sincerity in his question, but I wonder if he really doesn't understand my reasons. Knowing him, he probably wants me to verbalise what I'm hinting at. It's astonishing how quickly old habits of conversation resurface, how easily I slip back into them, with a mix of pain and a sense of coming home.
"Do you really not understand?"
"I'm not sure I do, and I'd rather hear your reasons than get lost in speculation."
"They never should have told you because you've already given enough. You deserved to be left in peace, away from my mess. As far as you knew, I was dead, and you could move on. What right did they have to dump all of this on you?"
Quentin stays silent for a moment before replying:
"Maybe they just put themselves in my shoes. I'm glad they did. It's… it's a miracle for me to have this second chance. It's true that, thinking you were dead, I moved forward, grew, and changed… But I never forgot you. I never forgot the biggest mistake of my life. And I thought it was a burden I'd have to carry forever, with no hope of redemption. I never dared to tell anyone, you know? That I had a chance to stop you, and I didn't take it."
"You have no reason to feel guilty. You did what you could at the time."
"Tell me the truth, Aurore. That night, could I have stopped you? If I hadn't been so self-absorbed, of course."
I need to think for a bit before answering, and when I think about it, I don't want to tell him the truth. Because his guilt hurts me, and I'm not going to help ease it. Still, I form my words all the same, reluctantly, because now that he knows I'm alive, I don't want to lie to him.
"I don't know. I don't know, because before that night I'd thought about killing myself, but I'd never gone through with it. But I went up onto that roof, and I'd written my goodbye letters. I'd prepared everything. Still, it's true, I called you, and I think it wasn't just to keep my promise. Maybe it was still giving life a chance. I don't know. At that moment, everything was confusing, and I needed so badly for it to stop. Maybe I gave you a real chance to stop me, but I don't know what you could have said that would have stopped me at that moment. I think... I think I had blind faith in you and thought, unconsciously, that you were capable of miracles. But, Quentin? You did your best. You can't live with this much guilt your whole life."
My friend takes a moment to digest everything I've just told him before responding.
"Thank you for caring about that, but I think this guilt is important. It reminds me of my failure and has served as a motivation to not make the same mistakes again. That said, I'm glad you're alive, that you're here."
"I can't say the same," I reply, in spite of myself. "I'm happy to see you too, but this shouldn't have happened." A hint of a revelation slowly comes to me, but I try to bury it as deeply as I can in my mind.
"Why shouldn't it have? For me, what's happening here and now feels right. My feelings are probably selfish because I'm happy to have a chance to make up for things, to restore balance, and to see my best friend again. But even for you, even if you're not necessarily able to admit it, I think you needed this, didn't you? You have good friends who look out for you, and who preferred to bet everything on your past rather than betray your trust by asking for help from people you don't want to involve. Aurore, even if you say I've already given enough, that they should have left me alone, I'm part of your story, and you can't deny it. And if you're willing, I'll continue to be part of it. Anyway, I know you're alive now, and there's no way I'm losing you a second time."
"It's ironic to say 'if I'm willing' you'll be part of my life while denying me the right to leave."
"If you have something against me, or if we find that our bond can't handle all the differences between us now, I'd find it fair for us to break contact. However, there's no way I'm letting you die. There's no way you're going to find an excuse to cut me out of your life if the sole purpose is so you can kill yourself."
"What exactly did they tell you?"
Quentin sighs.
"Everything, I suppose. Alphonse explained to me that you're wizards, although he couldn't tell me how you could have been reincarnated. He also told me how you became friends, who you were to him… He told me about the night you tried to kill yourself again. And about the cuts."
He looks a little sad as he says this. I feel frozen. So, he really does know everything. Everything he can, at least. Still, one detail stands out to me:
"It was Alphonse who told you all that?
"He contacted me online before asking to meet me in person to talk about you. I really thought it was a prank, but I couldn't figure out where the trick was, and I didn't want to risk missing a chance."
"And you met him." It's not really a question, but I want to hear the rest.
"Yes. He came all the way here and did a demonstration of magic to prove he wasn't lying before telling me his story. After that, we arranged for this meeting to happen. Neither he nor your other friends knew what else to do. They care about you, Aurore. They love you."
oOo
I remain stuck on the implications of Alphonse's revelations. He took the risk of performing magic in front of a Muggle. He knows full well what the penalties for that are, just as I do, because of his love for Azmi, the Muggle basketball player. We'd researched it together in the library. He didn't dare risk breaking the Statute of Secrecy in front of her, despite his feelings. And now, he's done it for me. I can imagine Ewald lending him my wand (well, the paedophile's wand) to avoid the Trace, but still, he did it.
"Is everything alright, Aurore?"
I startle, pulled from my thoughts by Quentin. I want to tell him yes, but I'm a bit too angry to be convincing. And I'm fully aware that my anger stems from retrospective fear for Alphonse.
"Do you have any idea what kind of penalties Alphonse could have faced for what he did?"
Quentin shrugs vaguely.
"He told me it was risky, but he didn't go into detail."
"They could have snapped his wand and banished him from the Wizarding world. All that just to warn you. Damn it, even the others are in danger because of this! If anyone ever finds out that they intentionally broke the Statute of Secrecy with a Muggle..."
Quentin takes a moment to absorb the new information before replying in a calming tone:
"I would never talk, and I doubt your friends would make that kind of mistake."
I calm down a little because I know he's right. Still, the fact that they took that risk is already far too much.
"That's true, but they never should have done it."
"It was the only way for me to believe what Alphonse had to say."
"I believe I've already shared my opinion on that point," I growl.
"What's done is done," Quentin offers.
I take a deep breath and decide to change the subject. I know I'm not going to win this one. Quentin seems convinced that seeing us was the right thing, and even though I think the others were wrong, I can't help but feel happy to be talking to him again. This meeting feels like a miracle for both of us, even if not for the same reasons. He thought I was dead and has a second chance, and I thought this kind of reunion was forever forbidden.
"Who's Tessa?"
Quentin is surprised by my sudden question, but he answers once he gathers his thoughts.
"She's my partner."
The use of that word feels strange to me, a reminder that he's almost thirty now. Since he doesn't seem inclined to elaborate, I press him:
"Hey, you can't just stop there! How did you meet? How long have you been together? Are you married?"
Quentin shakes his head with a slight smile, and I feel the atmosphere lighten a little. He sits next to me on the bench and asks:
"Is this where we tell each other about our lives now?"
"If you're willing to share all that with me."
"Of course. But my memory hasn't really improved since high school, and I'm not sure what you're interested in... So it probably won't be very complete. Don't hesitate to ask questions..."
"No problem," I smile.
I wait a few moments in silence, but Quentin doesn't begin. Instead, he admits:
"I don't know where to start… What do you want to know?"
"Everything?" I reply with a light laugh before becoming serious again.
"Maybe start with when I died?"
"Are you sure you want to talk about that?"
"Isn't that more my question to ask? I wasn't the one who suffered because of it."
Quentin falls silent, turning his gaze toward the sea, once again unable to meet my eyes. For a moment, I think he won't answer, but eventually, he speaks, his voice slow and somewhat distant, carefully searching for his words.
"When you died… When you hung up, I was worried and tried to call you back, but you didn't answer. I'm ashamed to say this, but I eventually went back to bed. I didn't sleep well, and I really started to panic in the morning when you still weren't answering. I called your dad, and he told me you weren't in your bed."
My dad. I haven't thought about him in a long time, except in passing. Hearing Quentin mention him takes me back. I don't have time to linger on the thought, though, because Quentin continues.
"That's when I realized you were dead. And at the same time, I refused to believe it, so I looked for you, everywhere I could, until your dad called me back. They'd found your body. After that, I was the one who told the others—Florian, Maeva, Élias… I went to your cremation. I did my best to respect your final wishes."
At this point, he turns to me and offers a faint smile before looking away again.
"I met Mélanie."
He must sense my renewed interest because he turns to me again, though his eyes avoid mine.
"She refused to take anything of yours."
I'm surprised to feel only a slight pang in my chest. It's been so long since she cut me out of her life that I seem to have gained some distance from it.
"I see."
Perhaps misinterpreting the neutrality of my tone, Quentin adds, possibly to reassure me:
"She seemed… fine, fairly mature, like she knew where she was heading in life."
"Good for her." My smile is probably a little sad, but I mean it. At least one of us is doing well.
"How did the others take it?"
"Badly. It took us years to find some balance again. Florian didn't talk to me much about it, but you could tell he was deeply affected. He and Élias blamed themselves so much for not noticing how badly you were struggling. And Maeva… She started withdrawing more and more from everything around her. We all stuck together for a long time, and I think we barely had any contact outside our group. Maybe because no one else could understand. I broke up with Célia."
It hurts to imagine them all like that. I knew they'd suffer a bit from my death, but after all, we'd only known each other for a year or two. Sure, I was very attached to them, our little group of misfits, but I always get too attached to people. Always more than they do to me. So I didn't think my death would affect them that much. I dare to ask:
"What happened to them?"
"I lost touch with Florian toward the end of my studies, but he found a job as an engineer in coal mines. He used to say it suited his true dwarf nature perfectly."
Quentin and I exchange a small smile. I haven't forgotten our role-playing game sessions back in high school.
"Maeva… I don't really know. I think she did some training in pottery, but she struggled to find work and didn't dare start her own business. I'm not sure where she's at now—it's been at least two years since I've heard from her. I'm still in touch with Élias, though. He's my best friend… To be honest, he's the only person I've had a lasting friendship with. You know me—I like my peace and don't feel much need to socialize. He's in IT, like me. He stayed in Lyon, but we often work on projects together and see each other occasionally. He's coming to visit me tomorrow."
Élias… I've always liked him a lot, and he's probably the person I was closest to after Quentin. It's thanks to Élias that I met Quentin, actually. I'd like to see him again. The thought takes me by surprise, and I immediately crush it without hesitation. Isn't it enough for me to mess up Quentin's life? Élias has grieved, he doesn't need this. Besides, he didn't know anything about me back then. He wouldn't understand. I'd have to explain, and that's assuming he'd even believe in my reincarnation. I shake my head to clear away these thoughts, grateful that Quentin continues to speak.
"As for me, I studied computer science as well, and I specialised in artificial intelligence. I met Tessa during a trip to London. She's German and an architect. We liked each other, kept meeting whenever we could… It took me a while to allow myself to start a new relationship."
Quentin's eyes wander everywhere except towards me. He has something to say but doesn't know if he should. I recognise this behaviour, even after all this time.
"I don't know what it's about, but you can tell me, Quentin."
He's clearly trying to calm himself, and I wait in silence.
"I… I didn't think I deserved to love anyone, not after what I'd done."
He's always struggled to admit truths about himself. And I imagine the fact that this one might hurt me doesn't make it any easier.
"I imagine you know what I think about that," I say. "I don't agree with you."
Quentin sighs.
"I know. But I've come to terms with it. It's been seven years now. We travelled around the world together. Can you believe it? And we bought a house here, in Brittany."
He smiles as he tells me this, and I smile too.
"I'm happy for you."
And I mean it, once again. I lost my chance to live alongside him when I jumped off that roof—I've known that for a long time. And if I hadn't jumped… He wasn't meant for me anyway. Knowing that he's happy despite everything is a real gift, one that soothes some of the growing guilt I feel about my death.
"Where did you go?"
"Oh, we saw loads of places! We went to Canada, the United States… But my favourite was Japan!"
The conversation continues, and I take pleasure in hearing Quentin talk about his life. He hasn't spent the last ten years stuck in the same rut like I have. He's moved forward. He's created dazzling memories, built a relationship that seems strong, and I note all the little details that show me he's changed. He looks me in the eye when he talks. The words he uses to describe Tessa are simple, yet they convey how important she is—so much so that I find myself wanting to meet her. Of course, it still stings a little to think I've lost my chance with him, but… He's no longer the person I loved. It's no longer our time, above all. Quentin has moved on, and I've stayed behind. I'm still in the same place. I lie to my friends, and I try to die. And the worst part is, I wouldn't even know how to do things differently. How can I live when the past keeps coming back to haunt me? I'll never be able to escape the memories of my brother. I'll never be able to escape my own mind. I know—there's always drugs, or alcohol. But that doesn't solve anything, and I wouldn't be myself without my memories, without knowing who I am. That's not for me.
"What about you?"
I flinch slightly, pulled from my thoughts by Quentin's question.
"Me?"
"Will you tell me about your life?"
I shrug.
"I'm afraid it's not as interesting as yours, but I'll give it a go."
"You're joking, right? You do magic! How could that possibly be boring?"
I laugh softly before starting:
"Okay, okay. Well, uh… I was born in Lyon, but my parents are British, and I live in London. I'm an only child. My parents eventually got used to my 'incomprehensible' intelligence, and they're pretty nice. They're well-off too, so I grew up with a governess, Mrs Winston, to keep me company. She's lovely but far too overbearing."
"How so?"
"She's the one who'd say, 'Who's going to the park with Mrs Winston? Leave the door open, Vivian-Eris, I'll help you wipe your bottom!'" I say in a high-pitched, exaggerated voice, mimicking her.
Quentin blushes and then bursts out laughing. I slap his arm.
"You're laughing, but I suffered, okay?!"
And I really did, at first, though now it all makes me laugh too. That doesn't mean I'll let him mock me so easily, though.
"I remembered my past when I was a little over three years old."
This statement brings us back to seriousness, and I tell him everything quickly, without looking at him too much. The self-inflicted cuts, the loneliness, the longing, the crying fits, the sleepless nights. The loneliness again, the confusion about why I wasn't dead. My desire to die, held back only by the fear of reincarnating once more. The feeling of being trapped. My discovery of magic, and the particular circumstances surrounding it.
"To be honest, I think if I'd discovered magic in a different setting, it could have been an escape. I might have loved this world, and maybe it would've helped me. But as it stands, all I saw in it was a possible explanation for my resurrection and a new lead to chase… And really, I'm saying this, but my past would have caught up with me in the end anyway."
"Nothing's stopping you from appreciating magic now. And, well, it seems fun, doesn't it?"
"Nothing's stopping me from appreciating magic and wanting to die. There's no point in talking about it, anyway."
Before Quentin can reply, I tell him about my solitary studies, Arthur's rare visits, and then my entry to Hogwarts. I recount meeting Scorpius, the girls in my dormitory, my encounter with Ewald, and later Alphonse. I talk about my holidays with Al', the moment my parents found out about the paedophile, the obstacle course, the Firefly Hunt. In the end, I talk about Ewald the most, because as time went on, I spent more time with him than anyone else, and he's the one who managed to see through me. I also tell Quentin how much Arthur often reminded me of him. Finally, I explain the memories erased by the mysterious wizard who brought me back to life, my suicide attempt, and the time I spent at Ewald's home. I tell him how much my friends' constant vigilance weighs on me, and how guilty I feel for putting them through it.
"Give up on dying, Aurore. That way, they'll be happy, and you could be too."
Suddenly, I remember why I often felt like hitting him. His simplistic, stupidly optimistic answers…
"It's not as if I can just forget everything, you know?"
"I'm not saying it would be easy. But you're alive, even if it's against your will. You're alive, and you're loved. You'll die eventually anyway, when your time comes. But as long as you live, there's hope. You can always die later, but you can only live now. If you die, you can't come back if you change your mind."
He's always spouted annoying optimistic lines, only to follow them up with something deeper, more heartfelt. Yet I still can't agree with him. I just don't want to live—it's as simple as that.
"I've already given life a chance."
"I don't think you ever really did. From the moment you thought about dying, you decided you'd had enough and did everything you could to make it stop."
Slowly, anger rises within me. Can't he just leave me alone? As if I hadn't tried—tried until I bled, exhausted from surviving, from doing everything I could. I tried, and I just ended up stopping when I realised it only led to more pain.
"Everything you believe isn't the truth," I reply curtly.
"And what's the truth, according to you?" His question sounds sincere, open. He's always been like this.
"The truth is, I tried. I did everything to hold on, to be strong. But the truth is also that it's pointless to fight for a hypothetical future if it never comes."
"And yet, you're still here."
"Very much against my will."
"But you're here, and that's a chance. You tried. You fought alone for so long… But try again, one more time. That's the only way that could lead you to happiness. And you're not alone any more. I'm here, and especially, your friends are here."
I let out a short, dry laugh at his "only way to happiness." The best I can do is survive. I've never really lived again since Jérémy.
oOo
I don't respond straight away to Quentin's monologue. No matter what I say, he won't understand. Or rather, I know from experience that even if he did, he'd keep pushing for me to live, refusing to acknowledge that my desire to die is understandable. It was the same back then. And he also told me he'd be there, until the day he wasn't. I don't want to remind him of that, anyway. What's the point in making him hurt? He'd admit his mistake, but still cling to the idea of making me live. In the end, I avoid answering the heart of his message.
"I'm glad you're here."
"It's mutual." He smiles before adding, probably following a similar train of thought to mine. "And I promise this time, I won't make the same mistakes. Even if we live far apart, we'll stay in touch. And we'll keep seeing each other, alright?"
"I doubt I have much of a choice." I joke, with a falsely fatalistic tone.
"You always have one," he responds seriously. "But once again, no distancing yourself from me just to protect me. I'm committed to this relationship, and now that I know you're alive, it's too late for you to run away."
I roll my eyes.
"I got it, don't worry."
I'm about to add something, but I notice that Ewald has moved closer to us, waiting for us to notice him. Arthur and Alphonse are a few steps behind him, within earshot.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's getting late." Ewald's voice is neutral, and I wonder what he's thinking.
Quentin nods and stands up.
"Indeed… I didn't realise the time had passed. Are you alright, Aurore?" The words he addresses to me are in French, and I respond in French.
"I'll survive." I then turn to Ewald to ask: "What's the plan?"
"We've got a portkey to get back to the manor. We weren't sure how the meeting would go, so we planned to return today. If you want to meet again, we'll arrange something, alright?"
I shrug. I seriously doubt I have much of a choice anyway. I can hardly invite myself to Quentin's, where he'd have to explain to Tessa why he's bringing an eleven-year-old kid home. Plus, he's supposed to meet Élias tomorrow. My heart gives a little tug at the thought of him, but I can't see him. Not now. I'd have to put him in the Secret, putting him in danger, and once again, it would stir up the life of someone who's grieved for years. But I liked him, back then…
"How much time until the portkey leaves?"
"About thirty minutes. We should get out of the city before it activates."
"I'll take you." Quentin replies.
I let out a small amused laugh, once again reflecting on how strange it is to hear him speak English. Of course, he asks what amuses me, and gives me a friendly nudge when I explain.
"I did have eleven years to learn, just so you know!"
I laugh with him, but inwardly I'm slightly shocked by the reminder of those lost years. Eleven years is a long time. Will we really be able to stay friends? He's had so much time to do things, to change, to evolve, and now our lives follow such different paths… Yet, when we talked earlier, I had the feeling that at least our souls were still connected. Not as if nothing had happened, but as if our bond hadn't been weakened by the years. Somewhere, I think we'd both been waiting for that miracle…
oOo
I keep these thoughts to myself as we all walk together toward Quentin's car. He walks beside me, exchanging some light banter with Alphonse. I feel Ewald's gaze on me while he talks softly with Arthur. I hate them all, yet my heart is filled with affection for them all the same. I despise them and at the same time, I'm grateful to them for letting me see Quentin again.
I spend the ride in the front of the car with my old friend, and we only talk about light topics. I tell him a few funny anecdotes from my time at Hogwarts, and he talks about his job and the strange clients he meets (he sees a lot, being a freelancer). He drives us to a small hill near the sea, and we all get out of the car together. There's still about ten minutes before the portkey activates. Ewald asks to speak with Quentin, and I wonder what he wants to say to him. Sadness begins to tighten around my heart at the thought of leaving. Arthur tries to make small talk with me, asking if I'm happy to have reconnected with my friend, if I'm okay… I only respond with monosyllables, staring blankly ahead. I don't really want to talk.
Eventually, Ewald and Quentin return, and Quentin says a few words to Alphonse before thanking my friends collectively for being there for me and giving him the chance to see me again. Then, without us discussing it, the two of us walk away from the group a little to say our goodbyes. Once the group is out of sight behind a fold in the hill, we stop. I look at him one last time in silence, trying to burn his image into my memory. He stays quiet too, although I don't know what he's thinking.
"I'm going to miss you," I admit.
"We'll see each other again," Quentin smiles. "And in less than eleven years!"
"You better!" I reply, despite the hypocrisy of my remark.
He laughs softly before stepping closer to me and opening his arms. I step into his embrace, inhaling his scent deeply, and he whispers,
"I love you."
I love you. We used to say those words, before I died, before he got with Célia. How much I'd hoped to hear them with the weight of love rather than that of friendship back then… And now, hearing them again completely disarms me. I hold back my tears, but a few slip from my eyes when I answer.
"I love you." It's not romantic love I feel, not the way it once was. But the words are still true. If there's one certainty within me after these eleven years, it's that I still love him. I love him like a friend, but I love him.
I discreetly wipe my tears as I break the hug, and Quentin says,
"Thank you for surviving, Aurore. I care about you, and your friends do too. Talk to them, okay? Talk to me too. We'll be here. And we'll see each other again."
"Thank you," I reply simply because I don't know what else to say. I'm not even sure why I'm thanking him exactly, but I know I'm grateful for his presence, his friendship, and the time he's given me. I feel guilty too, because I don't know if I'll be able to give him what he's asking for, or if I'll even stay alive long enough for us to meet again.
We join the others without speaking further, and I hug him one last time before grabbing the portkey with my friends from Hogwarts. He steps back a few paces and remains on the hill, watching us disappear.
oOo
"I have always loved my friends more than my family. My friends, I didn't really choose them, contrary to what the saying goes. We chose each other after life had thrown us onto the same path. But it's with my friends that I share my life, that I share my secrets, especially. I've always had a distance with my family, I couldn't really say why. Originally, before the rape, they were perfectly fine. They looked after me, encouraged me in my successes, supported me in my failures... Yet, I've always kept a certain distance."
-Excerpt from a document on Aurore's computer, kept by Quentin Lemage after her death-