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Romeo and Juliet belongs to William Shakespeare. Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. I own nothing but the OCs and plot.
Stunning chapter image by the amazing FATAL! at TDA.
You are both in tears, but not for the same reason.
She is not aware. She is oblivious, assuming the salty tears that run steadily down your porcelain cheeks are tears of happiness. She does not realize that you are not drowning in bliss.
What you are doing is envisioning a wedding dress. It is simple, and it is yours. White eyelet lace, pearl buttons with a long, flowing skirt that billows out when you walk. It sits in your mind's eyes, clear as the crystal glass that fell from your hand when you heard the news.
Now the red wine has stained the carpet, and your mind plays horrific images. They are all of her, marching down an aisle in your wedding dress.
It would be foolish, idiotic of you to ask the question that burns on your tongue. You already know the answer, after all, and asking would lead to questions. You did not want questions.
Clasping your sister's hands, a twisted smile forms your lips. She does not notice, she is too blind to anything but her own happiness. "Where's the groom?" you ask.
It is surprising when Victoire stops crying long enough to answer you.
"Teddy is telling Andromeda," she laughs, wiping her eyes. Her makeup has smudged, her eyes are pink from the tears, and her hair is disheveled from twirling around the room with you.
She has never looked more beautiful. She seems to be emitting a glow that only a young, engaged girl would. You have never felt more broken.
And, oh god
, the guilt.
It weighs upon your shoulders like lead. You cannot find a reason for why your legs have not given out, leaving you smashed to pieces on the floor beneath you, next to your fallen glass of red wine.
"No," you whisper, "how?"
As if you wanted to know. As if you care about how your world ends, crushing you under the debris of broken dreams and hearts, forgotten promises and whispers of I think I love you
You are beginning to see black dots. They cloud your vision, obscuring Victoire's face. You can see her in your mind again, your father guiding her down the same aisle.
"I was on my balcony," she recalls.
Blood freezes in your veins, and you can no longer bear the lead, the heavy chains that pull you down. You fall backwards, landing in the chair you had not known was behind you. Victoire does not notice this, and so she continues.
"And I heard him there, under the balcony," she very nearly sings, "he was reciting poetry for me, Dominique, it was absolutely beautiful."
You try very hard not to scream, not to curl up in your chair and let your body heave with sobs that no one could ever comfort. Instead, you mask a sob under a gasp. Victoire smiles, thinking you are marveling at her fiance's creativity.
But you are not happy for her, nor is Teddy Lupin very creative. She does not know what you do, and you wonder if you will keep the secret ages from this moment. When Victoire tells stories of how she became engaged, and when people ask Teddy how he came up with such a proposal ideal, you wonder if you will keep quiet.
"What kind of poetry?" you ask her, one final attempt at salvaging your heart.
Her eyes seem to glaze over in pure, indisputable elation. She pauses for a moment, reveling in her own good fortune.
“Something about roses?” she wonders, “Sweet smelling roses, and something about names. Oh, Dominique, it was beautiful. I think I’ll have it recited at the wedding.”
Perhaps this is fate. Perhaps this is punishment for everything you have ever done wrong. For all of the kisses. For the brushes of a hand across a cheek, slim fingers intertwined under a table where they cannot be seen.
“Where was it from? Do you know, Vickie, where the poem was from?”
“No,” she responds, “But what does it matter, Dominique?”
Nothing is what it mattered. It would not matter anything to someone other than you, or other than Teddy. Victoire would not understand your attraction to works of Muggle literature. She had no idea. She relies on her own magic far too much.
You had been laying with him in his lawn, amongst the grass that needed cutting, reminiscing about time together that was well spent, and what would become of the future.
Marriage had always been a sore topic, but he asked you nonetheless. “If someone were to ask a girl to marry them, how would they go about doing it?”
he would ask, “If it were you?”
So foolish, so naïve. You had never known when you had gone too far, and by the time he leaned over and kissed you, you had told him.
A play, Shakespeare, a balcony. The irony is excruciating. Of course. Of course it is the one you loved most that would shred your heart to pieces. The situation is almost as cliche as your "Romeo and Juliet" proposal. The one that Victoire just got.
“Oh it doesn’t,” you assure her.
Because she will never know, and she will never understand. She has everything you have ever wanted, everything that you believed was yours. She has your dress, your love, your proposal.
“Oh, Dominique,” Victoire sighs, and she fits herself into the space beside you. The chair is antique, falling apart, and it is going to give out under the weight of it all.
“I’m just…so happy
Teddy and Victoire are getting married. You lost your dress, your mind, true love, your glass of red wine. You bear the weight of the world on your shoulders. There is going to be a wedding.
You smile delicately, afraid that if you move just an inch too much, you'll break apart like the fragile china cup you feel like.
“Dominique, I want you to be my maid of honor.”
There is silence. There is choked breathing. There is your sister, her arms around you. Your sister has everything. You are no one to put a stop to it.
You are both in tears, but not for the same reason.
She will never know.