The perception of time depends on the thinker. Is it circular, vertical, or horizontal—forwards and back? It even depends on the field. Is time simply the progression of everything, the measure of motion and 'before' and 'after.' Or does the definition of time depend entirely on the object's velocity relative to the observer? The term is gravitational time dilation: an object falling into a black hole slows the closer it draws to it, taking an infinite amount of time to reach it. Can you separate the onlooker from the event?
None of that mattered at the moment. The sun's rays touched the girl next—and before it reached her the moonlight did, the soft grass below her, the water nearby that pushed forward and receded, the hare that brushed past her at one point, the sound of the songbirds' chirps, and metal between her ribs. There was a rhythm to it. This had happened before.
After all that the cities would fall into the sea, the sun would rise in the west, and some books, flung open by the strong winds, would have their pages blank. All of that would come later. But now there was only a girl, and it took an hour for her to begin to breathe.
She opened her eyes. The world turned.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋
Every person was made of the following things: an appetite, a deep-seated desire, good reasoning or otherwise, thoughts, and old relationships.
Some of the most twisted relationships were between old friends—those who have watched each other, loved each other and grown close to the point where they lived inside the other. Their proximity, both physical and emotional, caused them to join and melt. As a result, there came false encouragement, false pity, innuendos upon innuendos, destructive jealousy, and the use of previous trauma in new arguments. A habit formed. A pattern, a trend. Ancient, mental libraries were filled with stories of girls born in meadows who stood up and thought of one thing before anything else: to find the capital's train station (or airport, if there wasn't the former), and wait.
The girl was naked but there was a red cloak in the hollow of a nearby tree, and she put it on without thinking too deeply about its origins and its purpose. She was operating on autopilot now; anything else would have caused her stomach to churn.
She couldn't discern her raison d'être nor any memories before the field. She only allowed herself to reflect once she found a map in a tourist gift shop.
"Estavayer-le-Lac, Suisse; 1976." The problem with this country was that Switzerland lacked a specific capital, therefore her journey's end could be absolutely anywhere. There were roughly nine contenders, which only increased the difficulty of her task. The nearest partial-capital was Neuchâtel, but she discarded that option since Bern was quite close and more important. The problem was that she was sure she didn't speak a word of German. To test this assumption, she greeted a tourist and received an incomprehensible speech in return. The time it would take to reach Lausanne was shorter. Roughly nine hours by foot. Three by bicycle. Only one if she found a station.
She wondered if she could sneak onto a train. That would take less than an hour. The girl began to plot there, leaning against the wall of the gift shop, before she discovered a few notes in the cloak's pocket.
As she hailed a taxi, she allowed herself to analyse her own mind. She had been single-handedly focused on reaching the capital, for a reason she didn't understand. Her memories were unclear; all she saw were hands tending to a garden and a house beside a lake. Both seemed like they were from a distant time; she assumed they were from an old television show.
"Where to?"
"Lausanne's train station, please."
He glanced at her momentarily, searching for companions that were not there. "You look too young to be travelling like this. What's your name?"
Without hesitation: "Juliet."
The taxi driver had magazines in the back seat, and she could identify the various plants on the cover. Ixora, orchid, baby's breath. She knew an abnormal amount of information regarding aeroplanes, but couldn't tie her knowledge down to a specific point. She knew her name. Juliet could read the French advertisements when the taxi slowed ("Magasinez chez untel aujourd'hui! Appelez ce numéro et effectuez votre achat dès que possible. Veuillez visiter la boutique à l'adresse suivante ..."), and knew her name, and could speak Arabic to the driver, who told her he was from Egypt when she asked. She couldn't remember studying either language. Her English was passable, since she could speak to herself without many delays and pauses. She knew her name. Where did this come from? Who was she before?
Juliet attempted to calm herself with the following thoughts: the ideal human existence was private and kept to oneself. What was more awful than letting your identity be derived from the public? It was better to exist in isolation, without onlookers—even yourself.
The station appeared in the taxi's window. Juliet braced herself—her musing time was over.
She thanked the driver, gave him more money than he requested, and hurried into the station. The people inside were too busy peering into newspapers or engrossed in their chatter to take any notice of the tall girl in a red cloak searching for something she couldn't name.
Near a wall close to the platforms stood a young woman in an identical cloak to hers, clutching a slim book in her right hand and looking directly at her. Her skin was dark, her lips matched the colour of her clothes, and several thick braids framed her face. The woman straightened as she approached her. She didn't regard her warily or with the careful detachment that strangers usually possessed. She put her hands onto her shoulders like she was an old friend.
"We go on like this," the woman told her in fragmented English. She continued in French, "It's only a small vice, and it shouldn't be too difficult to recreate and continue. What is your identity now?"
Juliet could only stare.
"We look different enough to avoid..." Her voice faded out. When she spoke next, she sounded tentative: "You don't remember, do you?"
"I don't think I've ever seen you before, no."
What could be heard of their exchange had already started to draw some attention in the form of a sharp-eyed businessman. The woman ignored his gaze and lowered her voice. "Did you wake up floating in water?"
"Not floating, but I was near a lake, in the grass."
"You are my daughter," she said firmly, louder than earlier, but doubt still crossed her face for a moment. "I nearly didn't recognise you, when you were standing across from me—still, I'm glad you remembered to come to this station and look for me. It was your older boyfriend," she added after a moment, "he convinced you to run away two months ago, and I've waited for you ever since. Your name is Juliet Aidara."
She took her hand. Juliet wondered if time had a shape. Earlier she supposed it was either circular or horizontal or vertical. Now she guessed it might be a shapeless, vast thing like water. You don't look along it, but through it. Juliet faced the woman and felt no recognition.
"Let's go home now," she said, releasing her hand.
It seemed too similar to a kidnapping—and the gawking crowd seemed to know it too—but the woman did know Juliet's name, and so there must be some truth in that. "And what is your name?" she asked.
"July Ndione." Her smile, then, was bitter and sharp. Her expression grew cold. "I named you after myself."
So Juliet was driven home.
July was silent in the car, which was understandable in her eyes. It must be disturbing to find your daughter visibly confused and being increasingly convinced of being kidnapped (by her own mother!). They were caught in traffic at least twice, and during each incident she would turn and look at her, like she was skinning her, dissecting her, cracking her ribcage open and laughing at the state she was in.
Switzerland's beauty kept her distracted for a short period of time. Some parts were too familiar, like the rolling green hills, while the general atmosphere of the country was alien to her. She didn't fancy being one of those people who had no ties to a particular thing—no specific country, an accent in every language they spoke, every sight being a new discovery—but it was difficult to not feel that way. Especially since July drove through Lausanne as if she knew the road like the lines of her palm and could navigate it faultlessly in her sleep.
Once the silence grew heavy, Juliet confessed her lack of memories and asked if she could tell her about herself.
July passed her a tangerine before she began. "You were always a sweet enough girl, but it's easy to get on your bad side. You're very cheerful, good at taking things in your stride, and excellent at learning languages and things that interest you. My twin sister called you 'pure of heart' at some point. You're very honourable and known for your moral code."
When she only nodded, July continued. "You have a little bird at home—I can't remember the type, but it's orange and very bright. You're attending Hogwarts this fall. You said you'd prefer to be homeschooled, but it's easier this way. Sorry, if you want to hear it again."
"I start what?"
"It's a magical school in Scotland," she said. "It's apparently the best in Europe, so not very good at all. I don't know much about it, I confess, but my sister told me they were very... lax. It should help you hide your magic. There's advantages to everything, I suppose."
Juliet glared at nothing in particular. Juice trickled onto her palm. Looking down, she realised that parts of the tangerine had burst in her fist. "Why should I need to hide anything about myself?"
July laughed. "There's my girl! Just to avoid being the centre of attention, which is great in moderation but can quickly get out of hand. British wizards use wands and incantations—good for control, which they value, but painfully limiting. It's almost representative of their entire culture. They attend Hogwarts for seven years, choose among six job options in their government, have children and then die. Their entire families become known for one specific personality trait that in most cases not all of them necessarily share."
What a cynic. It did sound like something Juliet herself would say. "Your magic is more logical. While they perform movements and recite incantations, there's meaning behind your every intention. To perform a silencing charm, you could intercept the incoming sound energy and redirect it, or convert it into different sensations. It requires more control."
"I'll gain control, so don't worry about that part," said Juliet. "I'm more interested in how I'd get by without knowing things about their magic and culture—"
"Quite poorly, I'd imagine."
"—and I'd like to know more about myself."
She shook her head. "It's best if you left that part of yourself behind. The best thing about living is the ability to repair past mistakes or create new ones." Her fingers trembled around the steering wheel.
"So dramatic," said Juliet under her breath.
When they reached a red light, July took a cigarette from her pocket and held it to her mouth without lighting it. "It's why you like hanging around me so much, angel."
They skipped over discussions regarding their identical cloaks, and didn't mention how Juliet found hers altogether.
The house was not as small as Juliet expected. It was three-stories high and soft blue, though it lacked the turrets and large porch typical for houses of the style. Its interior was far less simple. The wallpaper was dark green and adorned with faded blue flowers, the stairs curved, and at least one wall in every room was covered with paintings. A large cage hung from underneath the stairs on the second floor, and it held the golden birds she spoke of earlier. There was a sunroom, then a wide space for training (the details of that were unknown, but July spoke of it so casually it must have been a staple in their household), and a small lake at the back which was full of koi and surrounded by cattails.
July seemed unconcerned that her daughter couldn't remember what she did two days ago. Perhaps she was a good actress and so an even better liar— but that would only invite even more anxiety in regards to Juliet's self.
"Your bedroom is the third one to the left on the second floor," July said, as she picked up her car keys once more and reached for her bag. "Go to sleep soon and don't leave the house. I left a potion on your nightstand since you suffer from migraine attacks every night. Please drink all of it. I might be back late."
"Sure," she said, watching her go. She moved gracefully, as if the eyes of an audience followed her.
The kitchen was the next place she tackled. It was far smaller than the other rooms. There was a spice rack and various (admittedly interesting-looking) fruits in tiny wicker baskets, but not much was of importance. A few plucked tulips floated in the sink, and two pale ceramic mugs sat on the small circular table in the centre of the room. Some sort of beverage remained inside them both. One appeared to be coffee, the other most likely tea. Lipstick, red and violet, stained the rims.
Juliet searched for a bin and dropped her tangerine peel into it, then attempted to speak to the bird, which cocked its head curiously and inched towards her.
"What's your name?" she asked, desperately hoping magic would activate it somehow so that it'd speak a language she understood. That would be the highlight of her day. When the bird only squeaked, she repeated the question in two more languages.
It chirped, then said: "Jul! Jul! Jai! Ring, ring!"
"Oh, fascinating." A small bag of seeds hung on a platform outside the cage and she picked up one and fed it to the bird. "I'll see you soon. Say bye-bye."
"Ring, ring!"
When she entered her bedroom, she was greeted with such a powerful smell of perfume that she ducked her head out and coughed until she grew dizzy. It was extravagantly decorated. Two walls were painted dark blue, whilst the others were cream. A divan and a round table full of teapots and candles stood behind a sheer curtain. The bed was utterly crowded by an array of items ranging from quite useless to completely purposeless—mostly flowers, mirrors of varying size, half-sewn clothes and lamps.
She hurried to open the window to allow fresh air to flood into the room and push out the suffocating perfume. Movement in front of the house caught her attention. Two women had just met. Juliet peered at them to make out their identities but came up with nothing.
Whilst both were unfamiliar, one bore striking resemblance to July. She must be her twin, the one who called her pure of heart.
The other woman wore an oversized blue jacket that swallowed her entire body, and some sort of hat that obscured her appearance. She had the same build as the twin, and was speaking to her. They stood too close to each other. It didn't look like an infrequent midnight rendezvous, a trade of information for cash. It was almost intimate.
The twin gave the woman a letter. They exchanged a nod, turned, and both went their separate ways.
-͓̽-͓̽-͓̽-͓̽
"it doesn't matter where it started.
pause for a second—this is not a dream."
-͓̽-͓̽-͓̽-͓̽
Juliet woke up before July and made her way to the living room. She uprooted the white poppies that grew near the window with her mind, and planted them again. She did this several times until she was satisfied with her control, and decided to explore her abilities further. Juliet stood in the upper right corner of the kitchen, vanished, and reappeared in the lower left. When she attempted to materialise in her bedroom, she made it to the staircase and her sleeve caught fire.
She made a ruby out of the red paper she found in the room under the stairs. She turned it into a ring, its sides engraved with: "大吉大利." She transformed a strawberry into a teaspoonful of syrup, a petal into a miniature and white tree, thread into wool. For her final act, she draped the scarlet cloak around her shoulders and sat on her doorstep.
An elderly white couple were nearby, painting a pale yellow flower onto their door. The wife oversaw it while the husband painted, and they both waved at her but didn't approach. Juliet tentatively waved back. She sat there until they completed their task, then began to conjure different parts inside her mind. Bright eyes. Somewhat fluffy. Something that preferred to not bite; at least not her. She was as vague as she could.
After a minute or so of stillness and wishing, a white rabbit came, mere feet away from her.
Warmth rose from the base of her feet to her neck. It was paralysing. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.
She wanted to tell July about her newfound discovery but it might have a negative effect. Judging by the ease of which she did all those things—the manifesting, the levitating, et cetera—this must be something she was able to do previously. It might upset her to be reminded that she didn't remember anything beyond names of flowers, so she kept it to herself.
Juliet had a light breakfast: a cup of green tea with lemon, a few croissants and a fried egg. July flicked through her newspaper and sipped from her glass of water whenever she remembered it was there.
"A friend of mine sent a guide on Hogwarts and the general European magical world for you to read." July pushed forward a thin leaflet. "Karamoko is clever and an excellent author, although she has yet to publish anything despite having the opportunity to do so. I suffer so much for her," she added, with a weary sigh. "It's in French, for your convenience, and I assume it's quite thorough. Finish it by the end of the week."
She glanced over the first few pages. "Right."
"I sent a form to have your supplies delivered." July read a sheet of parchment aloud, "three sets of plain work robes, a pair of protective gloves—dragon-hide, faux I assume —one winter coat—black with silver fastenings—three sets of black skirts or trousers and three plain white buttoned-up shirts. Then you need a wand, a standard size 2 pewter cauldron, a set of glass phials, a telescope, and a set of brass scales. We also need to send a separate form for the book list since you haven't chosen your subjects."
Juliet frowned. "The leaflet says I can bring a cat."
"I don't want another demon in this house. We already have Bird."
The bird in question squawked, almost indignantly.
"You'll be going into fifth year, so you need first year books to play catch-up. Defence Against the Dark Arts would be too difficult to handle so I sent a letter requesting an exemption. We should get a reply tomorrow. The mandatory subjects are Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, History of Magic, Astronomy, and Herbology."
"No offence, but this sounds made-up."
"It's the scourge that plagues the English. Unfortunate for them, hilarious for normal people," said July. "You can choose three additional subjects, but it's least likely that you would remain in the wizarding world after graduation considering you don't... fit in." This was said with a slight twist of her mouth. "So I'd advise you to make practical choices. One humanity, mathematics, and a science —then you're sorted."
She filled in two circles with a nearby blue pen. "Mathematics, International Relations, and..."
"A science," encouraged July, "pick a science."
"Something easy, I hear you!" said Juliet, nodding. She shaded the circle that stood beside 'French Literature.'
"You are so aggravating."
"It's a loveable trait.". She set her mug back onto the table and willed it to wobble perilously. It did it, albeit a little too severely, and she posed her next question. "Can I get one that's built better?"
July waved a hand. "Go ahead."
Juliet nodded and opened the cupboard beside the one that held the mugs. Inside were various medications: a packet of lozenges for a sore throat, some plasters, vitamins, iron supplements, insomnia pills, antibiotics for the flu, and some eye drops. Nothing for a migraine.
So her mother must be lying. Her encouragement for her to study science in school and the amount of medicine in her cabinet meant that she had no qualms about her taking medication. At least her sanity and well-being would be in safe hands, but still... what was the potion, and why was she taking it? (It took ten days for her to figure out that she had not dreamed since she began ingesting it. She would stop once she reached Hogwarts, and see what happened then.)
authors' note:
💌 i swear this is actually going somewhere
💌 but slow start, huh?