AURORA BOREALIS

VERONIQUE MOREAU ❛ i have LOVED the stars too f o n d l y to be fearful of the night. ❜

[audrey-sterling-deactivated2016]

“Oh no, no– I’m fine completely. Thank you.” Audrey waved her hands. Of course, even if she’d broken something, she’d still insist she was fine. That accident had been her fault, after all. She wouldn’t want to impose. Actually, she was certain her stocking might have torn, where it felt sore, but there wasn’t any immediate need to check on it. “Again, I’m really sorry.” Audrey offered once more despite the other girl’s reassurance. “Is there anything I can do for you? There’s a place I know with absolutely killer-diller cinnamon buns!” 

“That is if you weren’t busy or anything?” Agnes would be able to last without her and she needed to make it up to the girl.

[vcroniques-blog]

         She sighed in relief, the knowledge that she was alright -- or, at the very least, pretending so. Her wrist flicked in dismissal, shaking the apologies out of the air. “Nonsense, it’s quite alright,” she insisted, close-lipped smile falling over her face as a courtesy. Veronique contemplated the offer for a moment, mulling it over in her head. Ultimately, she had nothing standing in the way of preventing her from going with this woman, yet hesitation bubbled inside of her. She had after all promised herself that today would be a day of shaking whatever bad mojo had fallen over her like a storm cloud, and if this was the ray of sunshine that was going to lead her down that pat, well, what did she have in her path preventing her from doing such?

         Nothing. “Z’hat would actually be lovely,” Veronique admitted with a sheepish laugh. “I don’t really know z’he last time I’ve had...well, anything sweet.” 

[audrey-sterling-deactivated2016]

Date: 22th may, 1945 Location: Streets of Diagonal Alley Time: 08:22 AM Availability: open

Today was Audrey’s turn to take care of the Inn, and as they were running low on some supplies, she had gone out to restock. The streets of Diagon Alley were never too crowded in the mornings, so Audrey walked leisurely, eyes on the shops rather than what was in front of her. It was amazing, how resilient the community was, she thought as she took in how quick the business were rebuilding. 

“Looking swell, Mr. Stibbins!” Audrey smiled and waved at the old man as he wiped his window clean.

He waved back, rag in the air. “Come in, Audrey! Got the ol’ girl running up again!”

Audrey turned on her heels, walking backwards to face him. “Can’t! I’ve got errands to run! But I’ll definitely stop by later! Pop by the cauldron for a drink– On me!” She laughed as he ushered her off and returned to his window.

And in a moment, it appeared Audrey had been too confident walking in the slow streets because, at once, she’d knocked back into another person. “Ah!” Audrey scrambled over. “I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

[vcroniques-blog]

         Yesterday had been the first day back at work and it had certainly taken its toll on Veronique. She had been on edge for the better half of the day; every time the bell over the door jingled a small jolt of panic raced down her spine and any outside commotion that was loud enough for her to hear through the walls had her gripping her wand inside of her robes. She’d finally had to start casting Charms against the shop in order to to block out any sort of outside noise, and by the time she’d turned in for the day she had been completely drained of energy. She’d never felt more unlike herself in months.

          Against perhaps her better judgment, Veronique saw fit to take today off. She needed to get out of London, and while going to Diagon Alley didn’t constitute as a much better choice, Veronique needed to be immersed in a world she so dearly loved, surrounded by magic and daylight and a human population that wasn’t seeking anything from her, like when they’d meet a grim fate or if so-and-so from down the street really did mean what they’d said at dinner last week. She’d stirred early, making it down to Diagon Alley when she knew businesses would only just be peeling back their drapes and opening for the public. It was her favorite time to be in the heart of the Alley, as there was a certain charm it exuded at that hour that had simply captivated Veronique the minute she’d visited it for the first time.

         Her idea certainly was unpopular, as most shops were beginning to crawl into their opening hours and there wasn’t much of a reason for any other witch or wizard to be strolling the streets so early in the morning in the midst of yet another workweek. Ultramarine eyes absorbed as much of her surroundings as she could take in, allowing for the peace to wash over her like the cleansing shower she’d been in desperate need of since the air raids. Peace suddenly came to a screeching halt as her body collided with something, snapping her right back into reality and away from that ethereal ascension to relaxation she’d been slowly climbing.

         “Merde!” she swore, trying to catch her balance and recompose like a snapped rubber band from the fluster all at once. Her eyes met the other woman’s almost immediately, and while they were certainly wide and alive with trepidation, she managed to muster a smile over her lips in forgiveness. “Oh, z’here’s no need to apologize,” Veronique said in a strained sort of voice unlike her, brushing a few wisps of blonde hair from her eyes. “I’m perfectly fine, but you? Are you alright?” French accent heavy, Veronique felt her shoulders relax as she slipped into the persona she was most used to — that which put virtually anything with a pulse ahead of her own wellbeing.  

[aurorosierx-blog]

Ant turned his eyes towards the woman, which he had just spilled depression on. Her accent was French, which was interesting enough, given that Antoinne had some French roots himself. Yet again, his English was not influenced by the other language, mainly because of the environment he grew up in. He didn’t know the woman, the face was unfamiliar, but it was pretty, he had to admit. He took another sip of his drink, thinking upon her words. ‘… even when the white flag has been raised.‘ Rosier even wondered who exactly had raised the flag. There were no winning or losing sides; even the Purists had many victims from that gruesome night.

“Name’s Antoinne.“ He paused, looking to make eye contact, while feeling the glass of whiskey in his hands. “Je suis désolé d'avoir été si effrayant. (I’m sorry for being so creepy.)“ Antoinne smiled, hoping that his native-language-detector was not lying to him. “What about you?“ His, voice became a little bit more soft, when he realised he was going all depressing mode.

[vcroniques-blog]

          Her lips curled into a smile, still pressed tightly together as she kept her eye trained carefully on her company. Trying to read people was something she did for a living, and although it wasn’t the most appropriate thing to do to a stranger, it wasn’t a skill she could suppress or turn off. It would always be there, always constantly running and always feeling out for some sort of vibe she could easily classify and categorize. “Veronique,” she replied carefully, her voice even. Introductions were usually her thing, able to quickly hold the attention of the other party, but lately the light her charisma usually exuded had been dimmed. How could it not have  

          As French spilled past his lips, Veronique’s reaction was visible; her eyebrows lifting in genuine intrigue. “Non, pas besoin de présenter des excuses; vous n'êtes pas celui qui est assis à une table déjà occupée. Êtes vous Français?” She felt her enthusiasm begin to slip away from her reins of control; rarely did she meet someone from her home country — most seemed to stay in France as opposed to making the trip to England — so she felt vaguely similar to a child on Christmas morning, spine straightening a little more and eyes beginning to light up. She was already running ahead of herself, questions flooding her brain and piling rapidly on top of the other. It was almost physically painful to restrain her lips from flying at a mile a minute.  Composez vous-même, she thought.

[aurorosierx-blog]

DATE: 20th may, 1945 LOCATION: Hog’s Head, Hogsmeade TIME: 22:34 AVAILABILITY: open

A sip. Throat burning. Euphoria.

That’s what Antoinne felt, while drinking his firewhiskey. The Auror was not a fan of alcohol, bars and being drunk, but the gruesome aftermath of the muggle attack and later, the storming of the purebloods were… well devastating. Ant had fought, and this time passed only with one wound which he was able to heal by himself even.

The little village’s pub was emptying faster than filling, but newcomers continued arriving, until eventually one sat right next to him. “You know what’s sad? This world is sad. Including myself, trying to help a cause that seems inevitable. The events before a few days are sad, the war is sad, we are sad. I’ll tell you what, my friend, this whole thing is sad.“

The Ministry was restoring the building and the Aurors had little to do these days. Rosier didn’t know why he decided to drown himself in alcohol and share thoughts with strangers.

[vcroniques-blog]

         Air. She needed air.

         Sitting with the blinds drawn and in the far corner of her shop was as depressing as the environment she was walking lifelessly around; the aftermath of the air raids still very much hanging heavy in the air above her head and even alone with the closed sign on the door, Veronique felt suffocated. She’d kept her distance from the fighting, tried to stay away, but just like most horrors, they always came running through her neighborhood and there was simply nothing she could do about it. The walls of her shop eventually started closing in on her as she went stir-crazy, and knew that she needed to escape — even if it was into the mouth of the beast itself. Hogsmeade had been the first place to pop in a head filled with heavy thoughts of nothing, space limited in her mind. 

         Her idea was a popular one, walking into a pub that was only a short distance away, and after absentmindedly ordering something to keep the staff from accusing her of loitering, Veronique accidentally sat down at an occupied table. Eyebrows lifted quizzically at his choice of words; they certainly weren’t the ones she was anticipating once she’d come to the awkward and uncomfortable conclusion she was intruding. Turquoise eyes scanned over her company carefully, fingers brushing along the edge of her glass. “Oui,” she replied softly. “No’zhing about z’his world is happy anymore. It ‘eez mostly pain and heartbreak, even when z’he white flag has been raised.”

[axmalfxy-blog]

🐍 16;may;1945

                     ( the alcohol in his brain had dissipated,the dizziness wasn’t there anymore and it left an agonizing feeling of regret on the pit of his stomach. his shoulder still ached from the wound and even though it had stopped bleeding, abraxas still checked to see if it bled; his coat was dirty with his own blood and the sight of it made him feel sad (it was his favorite coat and he was afraid the blood wouldn’t wash off). above all, he felt tired, tired from what the night had brought, tired from fighting. abraxas didn’t feel like abraxas malfoy anymore, he felt weak and for the first time in the night, he prayed chaos would end soon. where lights and flashes had amazed him now it blinded him, made his head ache and the sound of screams made him feel like his ears would explode. )

                     ( underground, he thought; malfoy needed time for himself, needed to be alone, to reset his thoughts; abraxas didn’t need more worries, he thought worrying about others would only get him in danger for caring. he rushed through a crowd of muggles stuck in the tunnel as he looked for somewhere not as crowded, somewhere that made him feel safe. he looked at his own hands, dirty with his own blood, reminded him of his second nanny’s roses when he visited her house for the first time; red and exquisite, reminded him of death and the blood that slithered down wolfhilda’s finger when she touched those roses that seemed to hide secrets. it all felt blurry, his own memories; abraxas often questioned which memories were fake and which actually happened. )

                    ( his shoulder had started bleeding again and eache step malfoy took fueled his own pain; he cursed under his breath and if he thought he had found a place to be by himself the voice of someone else spoke otherwise. ) “i have no intentions of killing you, my apologies.” ( he spoke through gritted teeth; abraxas sat down on the floor a few feet away from the weird french woman. malfoy took off his coat,unbuttoned his shirt and unwrapped the bandaid around his shoulder; it looked bad, nasty and it hurt, the pain blocked his ears and he felt like passing out. he blinked once, twice, trying to call himself back to reality. ) “and i assume you won’t kill me; i’m wounded, it would be unfair.” ( his chuckle - which had once been filled with confidence - was all nervousness and no abraxas. )

[vcroniques-blog]

           Veronique lowered her wand carefully, making as much room as she could in her small space on the ground for her newfound company. “No need,” she muttered softly as she rolled her wand around in between her forefinger and thumb absentmindedly. “This is not my fight, nor is it ever.” And she meant it; she had no business ever running around and hurtling spells left and right, it had always given her an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach when she was a girl first being exposed to the art of a duel, and still to this day something about her felt off kilter the minute wands were drawn on the offensive. She was at the very least grateful for company that meant her no harm; perhaps it was foolish of her to let naivety and blind trust rule her logic, but the fact of the matter was that emotionally, Veronique was as wounded as the man next to her.

           She could smell the metallic stench of blood, distinctly through the other dozens of smells riddling these underground tunnels. Even in the dim light Veronique could see the wound, “You are hurt,” Veronique mused, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you mind —?” She gestured towards his shoulder, hands then lifting in mock arrest. “I’m no Healer, but I do know a spell or two. If anything, I can at least keep you conscious until it’s safe to get out of here.” Here she was offering her services to someone she could barely make out the facial features of, but old habits would forever die hard. Veronique, in this case, would die always giving as much of herself to satisfy whatever anyone could possibly need from her. It was that selfless nature that he had always told her she was too reckless in sharing, sacrificial to the point of blatant disregard for her own wellbeing.

[isaacdavies-blog1]

Glancing back at the blonde woman trailing behind him, he gave her a raised eyebrow. “Hey, don’t be upset. We’re both going to be alright. Just keep up with be, okay?” He gave her a friendly and gentle smile, hoping that what he was saying reassured the upset and frightened woman at least a little bit.

“Oh, I understand. I’m terrified, too,” he confessed, his cheeks flushing red. “It’s alarming. I mean, all of us think that the world of the Muggles can’t affect us at all, but it turns out it totally can.” He gave her a nervous smile and fumbled out in his pocket for a handkerchief, holding it out to her.

[vcroniques-blog]

     The mere sight of a friendly smile eased a few of the churning anxieties in the knot in her stomach, feet carrying her without her brain’s wise guidance in direction. Instead she followed behind the glowing wand, determined to keep herself upright. She had lived through a lot, and while it would certainly require most of herself, she would live through this too. At least, she hoped.

     Veronique could only nod in agreement, careful as to not let the dam of emotions spill over as she took the handkerchief from him graciously. “Yes,” she stated, her voice thick as she meticulously chose her words. “Z’he Muggles have more power z’han we like to give them credit for. At z’he end of the day, we are all z’he same — men killing men over dominance.”

[natasharybakova-blog]

At the sound of that voice, of seeing those golden locks that were so recognisable even in the darkness, Natasha could have broke down in tears. Of all people, Veronique was one she would have given anything to see, and a part of her believed it must almost be a dream of sorts, to be here with her now. To have her here. Her friend was the person who knew exactly how to calm her down, to understand her fears and worries, her tinkling voice like wind chimes, soothing her almost like a mother’s touch. Without that, Natasha was sure she would have drowned in her thoughts and her emotions that were overwhelming in that moment, hiding alone in the shelter.

“ Veronique? ” her voice was husky, cracking as she spoke. She blinked several times, almost as if the girl before her would disappear in a moment, a fairytale princess in the tower.

When her friend was in fact still sitting there, watching her with those glazed over eyes, her expression most likely matching Natasha’s perfectly. Her breath was ragged, coming out in burts and leaps, and without even thinking she immediately jumped forward and ran into her friend’s arms, wrapping herself around the girl’s shoulders and pressing her lips into her hair. She could not describe the emotions that were coursing through her, the strength of the relief that seemed to overwhelm her, feeling those familiar arms around her, offering her comfort and safety. It took her back to being thirteen years old, crouched in a polished room, their foreheads almost touching as they hid from storms outside, whispering stories to one another and planning their future. It was with a strangled kind of melancholy that Natasha realised that this was far from what they could have imagined. She was so overcome she turned back to Veronique’s native language, their own secret way of words, just for them. “< a title=“You don’t know how happy I am to see you.”> Vous ne savez pas combien je suis heureux de vous voir, ” she whispered, her voice quiet against her friend’s hair.

Pulling back slightly, she gripped Veronique’s arms and looked into her eyes, imploring her to answer. “ Que faites-vous ici? Vous devriez être dans Diagon Alley, vous devriez être en sécurité. ” In the back of her mind, Natasha could only imagine the terror her friend must be going through; to see Muggles being murdered before her, to be reminded of Richard so clearly. She had only heard brief, rare stories about the Muggle who had captured her best friend’s heart, and had been conflicted over her emotions regarding the relationship, her own views on Muggles clouding her thoughts. However, in that moment, all she could do was feel her heart break for Veronique. “ Quelqu'un at-vous vu? ”

[vcroniques-blog]

        She certainly wasn’t expecting the flurry of her best friend engulfing her, but Veronique didn’t realized how desperately she had needed the gentle touch of someone, someone like Natasha up until she was breathing in her natural perfume. Natasha suddenly became the lifeline, Veronique clinging to her as the tears brimmed in her eyes on command and her hands trembling as she tried to gather as much of the woman into her palms as humanely possible. Loss was a concept Veronique was all too familiar with, and often times the thought had popped in her head how she could possibly go back to a world that no longer had her Natasha in it. Now, she no longer wanted to go back to a place where Natasha wasn’t within fingertip length. This was how she operated in her moments of panic — holding everything she loved dearly close to the chest, in the hopes that if they went she’d go along too. 

     Composure was a foreign concept, and at the minute her friend withdrew from what had to be an iron grip, the familiarity of being a young girl with ribbons falling from braids and late night conversations under blankets in the dormitories vanished like the very smoke filling the streets. “Je pourrais dire la même chose de vous,” she whispered hurriedly, like time was no longer a luxury either of them had. Veronique pushed some of the fallen wisps of hair from her irritated eyes, hands still trembling as she reached for Natasha’s. Natasha was safe, Natasha was familiar, Natasha was strength and god, how weak she was in this very moment. The rumor stood that love was vulnerability, that attachments only meant more to lose and if that was the case, certainly Veronique was on the cusp of losing all the stars adorned in the sky above. 

      “Je ne sais pas, il me semblait avoir obtenu balayé dans le chaos de tout cela. Perdu le contact avec le monde pour un moment, tout se trouble.” Words fell past her lips in a frazzled confusion, trying to keep her thoughts in somewhat of a line (even if it was curving in every possible direction) as they spilled from her throat. She shook her head quickly, reaching up to wipe an escaped tear from her cheek. “Non, personne ne m'a vu. Le manteau distrait les cheveux blonds manifestement hors de propos,” she answered quickly, the edge of a laugh still lingering in her tone. Classic Veronique, always trying to add a ray of light even in the darkness — a quality in herself that had taken much patience to regrow. 

      Something in her chest dropped, the swelling of the lump in her throat telling her brain that this was certainly not an ideal circumstance, no matter how she liked to think that fate still carried some torch for her. Civility against someone that carried the same darkness in their hearts as those who stole the light from her Richard’s eyes was a hard thing to do, not when those tender nerves were always being pressed against, but Veronique would do it for one reason and one reason alone: Natasha. She almost didn’t dare to ask the question brewing in her mind, but she needed to know. “Vont-ils viennent chercher pour vous? Le Dolohovs?”

[coral]

She thought she was independent and strong, but she got one small taste of love and she was hungrier than anyone. She was ravenous.

Ann Brashares, Girls In Pants: The Third Summer of the Sisterhood (via feellng)

[vcroniques-blog]

DATE: 16 may 1945 TIME: 02.13 LOCATION: underground tunnel AVAILABILITY: open

        The world above had fallen silent, and the world below was drowning in white noise — or, at the very least, Veronique was. 

        Sleep danced around her, a dangling string barely out of reach from her fingertips and she had all but given up on trying to snatch it from whatever taunting force. She hardly slept nowadays anyways, with a dozen or more troubling thoughts constantly parading on a loop throughout her brain, and now was certainly not an exception. Adrenaline was still coursing through her veins from the moments in trying to escape the streets from the curses being hurtled around — Veronique would always head in the opposite direction of a duel, it was her personality and had come around to bite her in the ass as she tried to weave in and out of charms and spells, and then there was still the real, very threatening fact that the Muggles were unleashing hellfire on one another. It was enough to leave the woman drained, and drained she was. She couldn’t bare to head home and face what would certainly be a terrible memory all over again, so she made herself at home in the damp tunnels filled with an utter darkness.

        Fingers absentmindedly rolled her wand in between them, merely keeping idle hands busy as she tried to stay alert. It was only a matter of time, she thought, until a levy broke and something spilled down into the safe haven she’d momentarily found. Whether it was more Muggles searching for a place away from the bombs or wizards bringing their conflicts to new terrain, she was fully aware of one thing: whatever twisted peace she’d composed would be shattered sooner rather than later. Her head was still spinning, most of her emotions reeled back in but they were the looming storm cloud on the horizon, threatening to bring rain at any given moment. 

        Echoes, of course, had been no shy presence in Veronique’s company, only this time, it didn’t seem to be coming from above on the streets, but rather down here, with her. So far, this part of tunnels had been abandoned (it was, after all, why she’d nestled down here), and sooner had suddenly become now. Her brain began to jumble again, an all-too-familiar sensation of adrenaline spiking in her system and the hairs on her arms starting to rise as the noises grew closer, and in which direction she couldn’t be certain. Scrambling to pull herself together, she held her wand out as a mere defense mechanism with her knees drawing towards her chest. “Hello?” she called out, voice rough and husky from the damp environment and a sore throat that would surely grow worse in the days to come with smoke inhabiting her surroundings. Silence followed, and Veronique found herself growing impatient. “Bon Dieu, si vous êtes ici pour me tuer, faites vite?” The words flew out of her mouth in a heated irritation, a threat made out of frustration that she would probably regret if whomever followed up on it, but it had been a long enough day. No longer was she in the mood for games.

[isaacdavies-blog1]

time: 11:53pm date: may 15, 1945 location: underground (air raid shelter) availability: open

Normally, Isaac preferred to stick to the rules of his job, as he didn’t exactly want to get fired, but, in his opinion, saving dozens or even hundreds of ordinary people was far more important than protecting just one man. Ushering families and groups of friends towards the nearest air raid shelter, he finally headed underground himself after ensuring the safety of everyone on the streets.

Hearing a faint sound behind him, he jumped, startled, and said softly, “Lumos.” Light shone upon the other person’s face, and he somewhat recognized them. “Are you coming?” he asked them. “Come on, let’s get to the air raid shelter.” He held out a hand to them, and, after a few moments of his hand hanging awkwardly in the air, simply took their hand and pulled them along with him. “No time to dawdle.”

[vcroniques-blog]

       Veronique seemed to be frozen in time as the rest of the world moved around her, merely getting lost in the shuffle and her feet moving without her brain coming to terms with the action. Truth was she was caught up in a daze of familiar sounds and emotions, heart pounding in the cage. She wanted to be much stronger than this, admittedly, but she was still glued china on a wobbling shelf. Still on the verge of breaking at any moment, and if there ever was a moment it happened, surely this was it. Words floated in and out of her ears but did not stick in her brain; glassy eyes of a storm brewing over the sea stared blankly at whomever had addressed her, processing still a defunct operation.  

       Shaking from her trance at the sudden tug on her hand, her feet seemed to fall in line in their headed direction. “Sorry,” she softly apologized, eyes cast downwards. “Z’is is a bit much for me, I am afraid.” The watery smile on her face sold out the emotions she was trying to keep under wraps, or at the very least, disguised. She was in pain emotionally, hurting on the inside more than she was scared of the things swarming her surroundings.

[natasharybakova-blog]

DATE: 15 May 1945 TIME: 23:43 LOCATION: Underground (Outside the Ministry of Magic) AVAILABILITY: Open

BANG——

The sound, no, the feeling, of an earth-shattering collision that seemed to leave the ground burning inside with an energy that would leave even Mikhail cowering in fear was the sight that greeted a shivering, frightened Natasha below the streets of London. She had been ever so careful leaving the Ministry, having completed overtime in order to be able to have the weekend of Mikhail’s monthly transformation at home with him; she had wanted to be there this time, to soothe him and comfort him and be there, instead of Vladimir. She could not have imagined that the evening she spent studying Love Potions and examining the side effects would lead her here, to be stranded from a safe Portkey and underground.

When the first bombings had happened, she had immediately sought for the nearest shelter, running as fast as she could; there had been a certain factor of safety involved, considering she wasn’t above ground, a ‘sitting duck’ as the British called it. That feeling of comfort had died within the hour, when it became clear that no matter where they hid, they could be eliminated as easily as moths were burned by flame.

Natasha had finally reached an old air raid shelter, set up by wizards who most likely would never have dreamed of a situation such as this. Wizards had never quite taken the threats of the Germans seriously, considering them inferior purely due to being Muggles—— it was quite clear, however, that they could cause as much harm as needed, Natasha thought, her stomach sinking. Fear for her loved ones trickled through every ounce of her being, and she could not help the tears that overflowed as she yanked open the door to the shelter. She squinted into the darkness, immediately fetching her wand and whispering, ‘Lumos,’ her accent thicker through her tears. The light was dim, but she could hear the intake of someone’s breath, and her eyes widened upon realising someone else was in there. Trying to mask her fear, trying to be as strong as her babushka would want her to be, Natasha peered into the darkness, asking, “ Hello? Is there anyone there? ”

[vcroniques-blog]

       As far as Veronique Moreau was concerned, the sky was crashing down for the second time in her life.

      Once was enough. The dreaded anticipation of Hitler reaching Paris had only been beaten by Grindelwald’s attack on the streets, and while the sounds of curses being thrown weren’t as earsplitting as the bombs crashing overhead, they were unsettling all the same. This was all too reminiscent of the morning the world went black. She had been on the streets when the ambush had started, minding her own business and trying to enjoy a night to herself where she could clear her head away from her work and all the other thoughts that seem to worm themselves to the forefront of her troubles. The sound was unmistakable, something she’d only heard in nightmares of hers that she woke up from in a cold sweat and tears staining her cheeks, except she was wide awake and no amount of pinching her forearm would alter the facts of reality. History was repeating itself, except this time, it was the Muggles bringing about war on anyone that resided in London, discrimination against magical blood nonexistent. Veronique, of course, had ice flowing through her veins as opposed to warm blood, and the panic almost immediately kicked in.

     Taking shelter in the first place she could find with a mind running on overdrive and predominantly adrenaline that was sending her stomach into backflips, she nearly collapsed in the floor the minute she got the door to a pitch-black hallway shut, hyperventilating consuming her. Her hands instinctively wrapped around her robed knees, bringing her as close together as possible in a vain attempt to calm herself down. Calm was merely an imaginary concept at a time like this, when all that was appearing in her head was Richard and Grindelwald and the blood on her hands, oh the blood, and the unbelievable pain she had felt ripping her in half. Instead, she just kept panting almost, her mind taking control of her body in a full-fledged hysteria. 

     Tendrils of frazzled blonde hair flew into her face and mouth when she heard the door open, a quiet spell following and the shadows of a familiar face dancing along the wall. This was a cruel joke, ghosts parading around her and there in the midst was a face she recognized, the eye of her storm and for a split second, it seemed as though the crashing sounds were farther away in the distance than before. “N-Natasha? Is ‘zhat you?” Her voice was tearing at the seams, anxiety the dominant emotion that had begun to bubble out from the cage of her ribs and uneasy churning of her stomach. 

[fervidusrp-blog]

“ My eyes are damp from the words you left, ringing in my head. ”

FULL NAME: VERONIQUE MOREAU

AGE: TWENTY FOUR YEARS OLD

OCCUPATION: DIVINER AND MUGGLE ‘FORTUNE TELLER’

STATUS: HALF-BLOOD

FACECLAIM: BLAKE LIVELY

AVAILABILITY: TAKEN

Paris in the 1920s was the stuff of dreams. The Golden Age. Perhaps that was what made it so fitting for the golden girl to be born there; Veronique Moreau, beautiful even as a screaming newborn, was welcomed into a small family in Montparnasse, on the Left Bank of the River Seine where bohemia reigned. Her parents raised their little girl in the midst of this lifestyle, each night spent at dinner parties and and walking the streets of Paris in midnight, singing about life and love and everything in between. Veronique was surrounded by magic at all turns, and not just from the Wizarding World; to be in the same vicinity as people such as Zola, Manet, Degas—— it would have been blind for her parents to have shielded from the art that was being created in her midst, and so she grew up with one foot in the Muggle World and the other in the Wizarding World. This was only made further by her mother, who worked as what the Muggles called a ‘fortune teller’, a ‘psychic’, who would use her natural flair for Divination to read palms and tea leaves for money. They lived hand to mouth, struggling artists, but Veronique loved every second of it, moving from place to place and watching her mother bewitch people with her charms. Her golden hair would fly as she ran through the streets with her younger brother, Auguste, musicians situated on the corners who would play their sad, sad songs for them and bring her to tears, staining her beautiful skin as her heart wept for them. Things couldn’t have been better for the girl who lived with her heart on her sleeve and glitter in her hair.

Life has been so good to her in Montparnasse, she didn’t quite want to leave when she reached the age to attend Beauxbatons. Why would she, when she had everything she could have wanted right there? She didn’t need a home, nor did she need education, not when she had a life here. At Beauxbatons, Veronique could immediately tell that she would not fit in; she hated the regiment and schedule of the school, she hated the strict rules and the lack of creativity. She hated having to act like an obedient little girl, crossing her ankles when she sat and being reprimanded when her hair became dishevelled, the ribbons trailing down her back. She couldn’t help that she was so animated, so adventurous, that the pristine and delicate life she lived in Beauxbatons was simply not enough. The only part of the school she loved, more than anything, was when she met Natasha Rybakova, the dark haired girl with the soulful brown eyes and the thick accented French, betraying her roots in Russia. The two quickly became inseparable, causing mischief wherever they went and giggling into the late night. Natasha was her constant, and it caused her heartbreak when she announced that she would be returning to Russia once they graduated from Beauxbatons. Veronique felt like a part of her had left her soul, but she plastered a smile on her face, even when she found herself watching her best friend marry a man who was a monster. Natasha’s grandmother had approached her, telling her about Mikhail Dolohov, and it had shocked Veronique, knowing she had lost her sister to a beast.

Returning to Paris, she had pushed herself to move on, to keep herself going despite the hurt in her heart. She pushed herself into her studies of Divination; while Veronique did not possess the Sight, not in the slightest, she could learn. She excelled in Tessomancy, reading tea leaves, and began to make a life out of moving from street to street, usually attracting Muggles who were taken in by her otherworldly presence, slipping into her character so easily it became a second skin. She’d even began dabbling in Crystal-gazing, which seemed to earn the most for her. Veronique enjoyed the life she had created, enjoying being driftless, a free spirit with nothing to hold her down or keep her. She wasn’t made to be restrained, wasn’t made for the mundane life others led; she was a wanderess, a lone piece of starlight, shining too hot to be held. That was what made it so much more frightening when she looked into the eyes of one of her Muggle customers, a man so out of place in her world he stuck out as if he were for her alone, and found herself unable to breathe. He had been drawn to her, he said, spotting her in the streets and finding himself unable to keep from moving towards her, worshipping her in his gaze. His name was Richard, and the two fell into a love affair that left Veronique breathless, her adoration and hunger for him refusing to die, despite the long hours they would spend together, never getting enough of one another. He loved the fact that she was so strange, that she wasn’t of his world. In the small hours, Veronique could imagine a life for them, something like a dream. 

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That dream never came to be. Grindelwald had made sure of that. He had moved to France swiftly through his conquering of several European countries, coming closer and closer West; Veronique was caught in the middle of both the Dark Arts beginning to threaten her, and the fear of Hitler growing closer, Richard signing on to head to the Western Front despite her pleas. He had been on leave, a small piece of time they could spend in their bliss, when Grindelwald had attacked their town, ordering his followers to find every Muggle and end their lives. She had tried to fight back, had tried so hard, but it hadn’t been enough; she’d been left holding Richard’s body in her arms, her tears mingling with his, stuttering through any spells she could think of to save him. She did the only thing she could do, apparating as far as she could manage. This led her to the middle of London, a place Grindelwald had yet to reach, and she dragged his body through the streets, screaming for help. It was a Healer, Maya Sarr, who found her, and tried to save the dying man who clung to the blonde, muttering his love for her. However, it was too late. The damage was done. Veronique spent the night lying next to his corpse, her mind numb and hazed, hearing the jabbering English her that she didn’t understand and the cold hands of someone trying to seperate her from Richard. No, she fought back. However, she wasn’t strong enough, and she had been left alone to drown in her sorrow and her loneliness. Somehow, there had been something, something so small, that had kept her fighting.

It has been two years since she has found herself in London, and life has slowly resembled something that can be described as ‘normal.’ Veronique returned to her line of work, opening her fortune-telling business in the midst of the city, attracting both Muggles and wizards alike. The first day had been difficult; the first time a Muggle man had approached her, so very like the way Richard had, she’d had to mutter through his tea leaves, tears streaming down her cheeks as she refused to look at him for fear of seeing those same beautiful eyes. The silver lining has been finding Natasha again, her dear friend, and letting her help her through the grief. Seeing her again is as if they had never left one another, even if it means having to spend time with the dangerous Dolohov brothers, too, considering they flock about her like bodyguards. However, as long as she focuses on her friend, she doesn’t mind, letting her laughter and kindness light Veronique up once more as if they were thirteen years old again. Having experienced firsthand the terror that Grindelwald has inflicted on people, Veronique has a deep hatred for those who support him, and tends to avoid them. When she does find herself in a room with them, it only takes a few words from them before she is unable to hold her tongue and lashing out at them, usually in quick French. While she keeps herself out of violence and duels, having always been against it, she is more than willing to support those who do want to defeat Grindelwald and would be willing to join the fight if necessary. Not just for herself, but for Richard.

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DAMIAN VULCHANOV ≡ Brother. Veronique had never been particularly close to her brother growing up; she had enjoyed playing with him when he was very young, pretending to be gods and goddesses and using their natural liking for Divination to spook their peers. However, as they grew older, they grew apart from one another, and eventually lost contact entirely. When she opened the Daily Prophet to see him, under the guise of another name, as part of the National Quidditch Team, she was shocked and confused as to what could have led him here. At first it didn’t seem possible, but she would recognise his face anywhere. They haven’t seen one another in years, but Veronique wants to build her relationship with him once more, in the wake of knowing how much they need each other. 

NATASHA RYBAKOVA & MAYA SARR ≡ Close friends. Veronique and Natasha have been as close as sisters since they were children, and their bond has never faltered, despite the distance between them. She considers Natasha the other piece of her, and would do anything for her, even through the darkest periods of her life. Maya has been a source of comfort in the aftermath of losing Richard, having seen her in her lowest and most vulnerable moment when she arrived in London, and Veronique can’t put into words how grateful she is for Maya’s attempt at saving her. In this period of her life, her friends are the most important thing to her, and the thought of losing them too is enough to make her heart falter and crumble in agony.

ELEAZAR YAXLEY ≡ Customer/acquaintance. The first time that he had walked into her makeshift shop and asked to have his future told to him, Veronique had almost Hexed him, she was so furious to find a fervent Pureblood and Grindelwald supporter in her midst. Her anger could not be contained, and so she had ordered him to leave. To her horror, he seemed to have taken this as an invitation to continue coming back and speaking to her, trying to sweet-talk her and understand her, telling her he’s not like the rest. Veronique is not a fool, and she refuses to allow herself to be treated as if she will bend under his will. She tells his fortune, reading his palm and his tea leaves and telling him everything she wants, but nothing more. To her, pretty words mean nothing. The word is in the deed.

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this character is currently TAKEN.

[wonderstruckheart]