Chapter Text
Madelaine Black
Beauxbatons Academy, France, Spring 1943
The vast gardens of Beauxbatons were too perfect at night. The fountains flowed with crystal water that sparkled in the moonlight, the roses slept in neat rows, and the marble statues gleamed pale. Order was woven into every branch and hedge, as if Madame Marat had pressed order in the grounds with her very own hands.
But I, Madelaine Black, knew better. Perfection was always a lie. Beneath it, something ugly always waited.
I slipped between the hedges in silence, my slippered feet careful on the gravel path. With my hood up, and my wand in hand, though I hardly need it, I slip through the vast gardens that I’ve become far too familiar with over the past few years. I’ve turned them into my sanctuary. The resting place for my secret. When the well swells too full, when the fever bites at my mind and the heat threatens to eat me alive, I bleed it all out here. Into the fountains, the flowers, the air itself. I tear the world open in secret and stitch it closed again before dawn.
That’s all I meant to do tonight.
Then I hear footsteps that mirror my own.
“Out after curfew, Black?”
I freeze. Of course. Étienne Durand.
I turn in time to see him step out from the shadows of a rose hedge, his icy blue eyes raking over me as he approaches. I’m far too used to the look in his eyes. It's the one that screams arrogance. That once that shows just how much he believes he has the right, not just to look at me, but to touch.
I keep my eyes locked on his as he stops a foot away from me. By the gleam in his eyes, I can tell he thinks I’m scared. But, all I feel is pure annoyance.
“I should have guessed,” he remarks with a scoff, breaking the silence, his french accent accompanying his words. “The strange English girl, wandering out past curfew? You know, we aren’t blind right? We see the way you watch us, always thinking you're better. Smarter.”
I don’t answer. Just tilt my head to the side, meeting his gaze.
His smirk widens, turning more predatory as he's motivated by my silence, once again mistaking it for weakness.
“But that's not the case is it? I mean, everyone knows all about the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” he says, his tone turning mocking. He steps closer as he reaches up and his fingers wrap around my long braid that peaks out from my hood. He begins toying with it as he continues. “Even after all these years, they’ve still kept you hidden away here. They must see what all of us do, a disappointment."
I keep my silence.
“Hmm? Not going to answer?” He scoffs, his fingers still stroking my braid and I resist the urge to make my disgust clear. He thinks he's toying with me but is it so bad that I want to see where this leads?
“What do you do out here anyway, hm? Cry where no one can see? Write a letter back to a lover in Britain? Or..” His voice drops, taking on a seductive tone. “.. are you waiting for someone like me?”
The heat inside me stirs.
He steps even closer, his breath fanning my face as he lowers his voice to a hiss. “You think you can sneer at me, but I could ruin you and your name. Do you know what people would say if I told them you begged for me out here, in the dark? That I touched you, and you made no move to stop me? They’d believe me, not you. They’d call you a desperate, English whore. And I’d laugh. Who would your ever so noble parents be able to marry you off to then?”
The well inside me claws at my ribs. Étienne has been toying with me, fixating on me since second year, and frankly? I’ve been waiting for a reason to sedate the part of my consciousness that still possesses empathy.
Étienne leans closer, breath foul. “Maybe I should prove it. Pin you right here by the fountain. Make you cry for real. And who's here to stop me?”
That is his mistake, but I give him one more chance
“Leave,” I say softly.
He laughs and it's a sharp, ugly noise. “Or what? You’ll hex me?” He scoffs. “You wouldn’t dare. You're well aware my father sits on the French Wizengamot. Lay a finger on me, scream, fight, and I’ll tell him everything. You know how much influence he has at this school, Madelaine.”
And that's when he drops the braid and reaches for me.
I don’t let him get far though.
I don’t even think. I don’t need to. I simply let go.
The well inside me bursts open. The air thickens, sharp as a storm, electric with static.
Étiene jerks violently, as if an invisible hand is seizing his throat and ribs all at once. His smirk vanishes. His wand clatters to the gravel.
With the lift of my hand, he rises, his feet kicking, desperately looking for purchase and finding none. I keep him there, hovering, as he claws at his throat, giving him zero opportunity to plead his way out of this.
Then I twist my hand, and the sounds follow. Bones splintering. Cracking. Wet, sharp, louder than I expected. His back arches grotesquely, legs flailing against nothing. His screams strangle in his throat before it can form aloud.
And I feel it instantly. The relief. The fever draining. The heat passing away from my skin. The release.
Étienne’s eyes go wide, white with terror. He stares at me like I’m the monster.
I step closer, watching him with a detached curiosity. The way his arms twist unnaturally. The collapse of his chest under pressure no spell could leave. He writhes, convulses, breaks.
Then silence. Finally.
His body crumples at the fountain's edge, limp, face forever frozen in horror. His eyes remain wide, lips parted as if he still means to beg.
I crouch down beside him, reaching out to tilt his jaw towards me with two fingers. Its already cooling. Already nothing.
“You should have listened,” I murmur.
The air in the garden settles again. The roses take a breath. The fountain's currents turn back to a whisper. My well calms.
I stand, smooth my cloak, adjust my hood. I leave him there, wand by his hand, just out of reach, his twisted fingers reaching out as if he tried one more time to reach it. Let them wonder. Let them whisper of duels, of ghosts, of accidents.
When they find him tomorrow morning, they’ll search for curses, creatures, for anything but me, for as I walk away, I reach down into the well that's calm for now and tap a portion of the curse. With a flick on my wrists towards the gravel path, wind rushes out, smoothing away and traces of my footsteps.
Passing the fountain, I catch my eyes in the reflection. Not green, but violet, glowing faintly in the ripples.
I smile at it.
And walk back into the marble halls without a trace.