The pink flowers fell like a waterfall, cascading from her wand. She laughed, dancing in the rain of pink. Her eyes, more grey than blue danced with life, and you watched her smile and laugh. If you could, you would capture the moment, frame it forever. She was your Dominique, and you wanted to remember this forever.
The magic came naturally for her. She had always loved pink, such a contrast to her sister Victoire. The flowers resembled those on the Flutterby bushes outside in shape, her childish mind recreating that which she knew, and moulding it into her fantasy. She was off to Hogwarts in a week, and she could already conjure flowers. You knew, however, that she wouldn’t be able to again for a while. Magic was funny like that, many things were capable when one was young and imaginative, but once the mind came into play with the concept that certain spells were hard, feats that you’d pulled off at the age of eleven were hard to accomplish again at fourteen.
You could see her now, heading off to Hogwarts with her trunk laden down with books, her cheeks pink with excitement. She was anxious to follow in Victoire’s footsteps, to do all she could to gain your approval. She was jealous of Victoire and Teddy’s friendship; she didn’t really have anyone close in age to her in the extended family.
All too soon, however, she’d find friends at Hogwarts and no longer need to lean on her parents. She grow up, blossoming into the beautiful woman you knew she would become. She was smart and gifted; you imagined that she would excel in her classes with little difficulty. She’d return home, different each time. You’d hear from her in letters, but wouldn’t see her grow and change.
One year, she’d be small and skinny, not entirely confident in herself, not yet. The next, she’d be laughing and crying over boys in her year. Then one day she’d fall in love. You would be there then, holding her as she cried over the heartbreak, as she worked through the confusion. You could see it clearly in your mind’s eye. She was your daughter, yet you knew she wouldn’t remain yours and yours only forever.
She would love, she would lose, she would learn. Victoire, as much as you loved her, was a freer spirit, anxious to break away from the family ties. Louis, your youngest, was mischievous, taking after his Uncle George. Dominique, however, was like you. She was quiet and she was always polite, even from a young age. The smallest things amused and captivated her.
She was now surrounded by flowers a plenty, the grass covered in a blanket of pink. You picked one up gently, careful not to crush its fragile petals, so like your daughter’s heart. She was a fragile girl, yet you could see the strength in her, waiting to rise to the occasion.
You tucked the flower behind her ear, smiling warmly at her as she laughed again. Dominique and her pink flower.
“Mum? Are you alright?”
The scene faded, and your eyes slowly focused on the dreary room around you, the tall, skinny blonde girl coming into focus.
You stared, not recognizing the girl in front of you. She was similar to the Dominique of your memory; the hair was the same shade, the eyes similar. Yet she was older, all grown up. She couldn’t be your Dominique, she was little still. Barely eleven.
“The pink flower,” you murmur, a smile breaking out across your lips once more.
The blonde girl approached cautiously, placing her hand over yours.
“Mum, it’s me. Dominique.”
She looked earnestly into your eyes, but you refused to look at her. She must be wrong. She couldn’t be Dominique. Dominique was eleven.
A voice outside of your vision called to the girl.
“Leave it, Dom. She’s not lucid.”
The girl sighed, smiling sadly at you before leaving. She placed something on your lap gently, before heading off in the direction of the voice.
You looked down to see a pink flower, so similar to that Dominique had made with her wand.
You didn’t understand. Dominique was eleven, she wasn’t an adult. This pink flower must have nothing to do with her, a mere coincidence. It was all so confusing.
She smiled up at you again as you led her back into the house. The pink flower complimented her colouring, her fair hair showing it off to its greatest advantage.
She’d grow up, all too soon. You’d be there for it, every step of the way. You didn’t want to forget a moment of her life. She was your Dominique, and she was special. Pink flowers and all.