Like everything in the Scottish highlands, Hogsmeade village appeared to have grown right out of the earth itself, all mossy-greens and earthy-browns as if its architects had been garden gnomes and fairies. Rows of precariously leaning shopfronts lined the cobbled streets, their facades reaching toward the sky like twisted tree trunks, crooked and uneven. Aurélie would not have been surprised to learn that Hogsmeade hadn't been built at all, but grown from the soil up.
Where she'd come from, everything had been pink, not green. Her home of Toulouse, whose magnificent terracotta buildings had given it the nickname La Ville Rose, was a far cry from the rugged wilds of Scotland. Though, much like Hogsmeade, Toulouse was a maze of narrow streets, there was nothing organic about the Pink City; everything within it had been meticulously crafted, a living fairytale, a refined work of art that glowed pink and gold whenever the sun set over its stunning facade. A rose quartz city, her mother used to call it.
More starkly still, Beauxbatons had been clean and white, adorned with trimmings of gold and powder blues. Grand and imposing with its seven stories of gleaming alabaster marble, soaring windows and endlessly high ceilings, it had surely been built by angels, not garden gnomes. Taking in her surroundings, Aurélie was certain there were no Baroque carvings or gilded mirrors in the Highlands; no silk curtains or velvet sofas, no marble fireplaces or tapestries woven with unicorn hair, and surely when the sun set over the tiny magical village, there was not a shade of pink to be seen. And yet, for all its ramshackle structures and muddy roads, Hogsmeade was not without its charm; uneven and loud, yes - but alive.
The boy who walked beside her, who was just bending down to scratch a small brown cat behind its ears, was no exception; Sebastian, with his unruly hair and scattering of freckles, his green jumper and brown trousers, seemed as much a part of the landscape as if he, too, had simply sprouted out of the ground. There was nothing refined about the way he swaggered through the village, broad-shouldered and confident, but he wasn't entirely graceless, either. Like Hogsmeade, he had a certain charm that was hard to overlook, brimming with enthusiasm as he pointed out his favourite shops and landmarks. Aurélie's mother, who, much like Beauxbatons, had often been dressed in gold ribbon and blue silk, would've thought Sebastian a little too rough around the edges for the likes of her daughter (which was ironic given that she'd married a man who spent most of his time with his hands in the dirt), but Aurélie found that she didn't really mind it. Outside the confines of the castle walls, away from the attention of sharp-eyed students and worrisome gossip, Sebastian seemed... different. Grounded. Calm.
She studied his profile as they navigated the bustling village together, noting the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth as he talked, and how his eyes darted constantly as if eager to take in everything all at once. How could someone who'd lost so much - his entire family - be so full of... well - life? Aurélie was barely hanging on by a thread, exhausted by the heavy burden of her grief.
'... And that's Tomes and Scrolls,' Sebastian said, pointing out a double-storey shop that leaned too far to the left not to be held up by magic. 'Don't bother going anywhere else for books, Thomas Brown is the best proprietor of literature in the country. And over there,' - he motioned toward the corner, where another precariously leaning shopfront looked in danger of toppling over, - 'that's Ollivander's - the wand maker, of course, but you knew that. And across the road is Spintwitches. Albie Weekes is immensely knowledgeable on all things Quidditch and Broomsticks should you ever find yourself in need of professional advice. Do you fly?' He paused just long enough for Aurélie to shake her head. 'Ah, shame. Perhaps I can teach you. What's your wand core, by the way? Wait, let me guess. It's unicorn, I bet, I've something of a knack for — whoa, look out!'
Being so focused on his face, Aurélie hadn't noticed the rapidly approaching carriage until Sebastian yanked her out of its path, his swift reflexes honed by years of chasing bludgers around a Quidditch pitch. He shoved her unceremoniously against the nearest shopfront, sandwiching her between the wall and his body as several sets of hooves pounded the spot she'd just been standing.
'Oi, slow down!' he shouted at the driver, but his voice was lost beneath the clatter and rumble of the carriage and the four great black horses that pulled it.
No, not horses: Thestrals.
Dread pooled in the pit of Aurélie's stomach at the sight of them; gastly and dreadful with sinewy wings folded flat against their bodies and hairless skin that gleamed midnight-black like oily leather. Cantering across the cobblestones, they might have been graceful if only they weren't so awfully skeletal; if only their eyes had pupils; if only they weren't a jarring reminder of everything she'd lost. She sucked in a sharp breath as they passed by, only vaguely aware that she was gripping Sebastian's arm as tightly as he was gripping hers.
Aurélie was no stranger to four-legged beasts; in fact, when it came to magical beasts, her dearest aspirations centred around studying and caring for those of the equine persuasion. Back at Beauxbatons, she'd spent every spare moment tending to the school's herd of winged horses: the giant Abraxon palominos that pulled the school carriages, the spirited Aethonan and speedy Granian that roamed the nearby forests. Sometimes, she even cared for the occasional Hippogriff or Centaur, though only when their equine halves were involved. Her greatest love, though, above all else, was the Unicorn; the most gentle of all creatures, symbols of innocence and purity, not death and suffering, whose coats weren't oil-slick-black but so white that even the snow greyed in comparison. Sebastian had been right about her wand core; it contained the tail hair of the first unicorn she'd ever befriended when she was nine years old - a gentle mare she'd named Neige.
But for all the time she spent among her beloved hoofed friends in stable and forest, she'd never once tended to a Thestral. In fact, until her parent's funeral, she'd never even seen one before.
Seeing them at a funeral service was one thing; after all, dreadful spectres of death were to be expected at such a sombre affair. But seeing them here, so unexpectedly in a place where she ought to be safe, brought forth every awful memory she'd fought so hard to suppress — a stark reminder that her nightmares were not just contained to sleep.
Suddenly, she wasn't standing in Hogsmeade pressed against the warm body of a boy who'd just whisked her to safety, she was back in France, following a procession of four Thestrals who were taking her parent's to their graves.
As it had done on that terrible day back in France, the world around her began to shrink, and shrink, and shrink, until it narrowed down to a singular point of painful memories and distant echoing screams.
A flash of red. Two dark shapes on the floor.
Perhaps it was Sebastian's presence beside her that drew her back to reality, but as the Thestral-drawn carriage rounded the corner and disappeared, Aurélie became aware of several things all at once: a slight ringing in her ears, a familiar tingling in her palms, and a voice.
His voice.
'It's alright, they're only Thestrals.'
Her sphere of perception widened just enough that Sebastian's calm tone cut through her anxiety like a perfectly cast Severing Charm. His hand lingered on her elbow; warm, somehow, even through her cloak and knitted jumper and the several layers of undershirts that kept the Scottish chill from her skin.
'Have you not seen them before?' he asked gently, gazing down at her with an expression as soft as his voice.
'They're native to France,' she babbled, dry-mouthed and trembling. 'But I... I've never seen... Not until...' Her words caught in her tightening throat, but her fingers remained fastened around his forearm: a silent plea to please not let her go.
'Your parents?'
She offered a short nod in reply, holding back not just tears, but the magic that flared in response to her fear. Magic that wanted to protect. Magic that wanted to destroy. She whipped her hand away from Sebastian's arm, afraid that he might feel it coursing through her palms.
'I'm sorry,' they said in unison before breaking apart half a step.
'It's fine,' she mumbled, rubbing frantically at the spot where his hand had just been. 'It's fine, I'm fine. Everything - everything is fine. Can we go?'
Not waiting for an answer, she tucked her hands under her armpits and headed on - where to, precisely, she had no idea, but the greater the distance between her and the Thestrals, the better. Sebastian stumbled along beside her, all his prior enthusiasm dampened by the tension that had settled around them, thick and heavy like a storm cloud.
'Were you born here?' she virtually demanded, desperate to steer the conversation into safer waters.
'What, in Hogsmeade?' he replied, absently scratching the back of his neck.
'No, um.' She let out a shaky breath. Distract me, she wanted to beg, please just prattle on about Merlin knows what until I calm down.
'In the Highlands, I mean.'
'Oh.' Sebastian shoved his hands into his pockets and slowed his pace until they were meandering deeper into the village. 'Um, no. I moved here after my parents died. Why?'
'No reason, really. You - you just seem at home here.'
She shot him a sideways glance, catching the edge of a smile on his face.
'Ah, well, my father was born here - in Scotland. I'm a halfie like you: half Scottish, half British. 'Spose the Highlands is in my blood.'
'Scottish, really? Do you speak any Gaelic, then?' she asked, perking up at the change of subject.
As if responding to her sudden interest, Sebastian launched into another emphatic spiel about all the languages he could speak, the list of which was rather impressive: Gaelic, Latin, enough Greek to get by and even some German as well.
'And a tiny bit of French,' he finished with a wink. 'But admittedly, I'm much better at reading languages than I am at speaking them. Oh, and I can say the word no in Parseltongue, too. At least, I think I can, it's hard to tell. Bit hard to distinguish words in a language that's entirely comprised of hissing.'
This revelation stopped her so abruptly in her tracks that a group of witches following close behind them almost bumped into her.
'How do you know Parseltongue?' she asked, eyeing him with renewed interest. She'd heard mention of Parselmouth's from her father, but she'd always assumed the language of the snakes was a myth; something the Slytherin's had made up to bolster their nefarious reputation.
'Ominis,' he replied with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder. 'It's a Gaunt thing - you know, descendants of Slytherin and all that. All the Gaunt's can speak it. In fact, Ominis and his older brothers used to speak it together all the time. Drove me bonkers not being able to understand them, and half the time I suspected that Ominis was just whining about me, so I tried to learn it to spite him. Course, you can't just learn Parseltongue, it's an inherited gift that I, unfortunately, do not possess.' He rolled his eyes as if he couldn't quite believe something existed that he wasn't good at. 'But that never stopped me from trying.'
Aurélie laughed. Whether he was doing it intentionally or not, she was grateful for Sebastian's distraction. Above her, the storm cloud of tension dissipated a little, allowing her some room to breathe.
The pair had reached the town circle, a central point around which more crooked shops were grouped like a forest around a fairy clearing. The space was abuzz with activity; squealing children weaved through legs and carts, cauldrons bubbled and cats mewed, vendors shouted and witches gossiped. The sound of soft hooting drew Aurélie's attention to the nearby post office, where a number of nervous-looking owls were being eyed off by a small army of stray cats; beneath them, a man selling the Daily Prophet declared the latest headlines in a voice magnified by magic.
In the centre of it all, Sebastian turned to face her, grinning as he spread his arms wide. 'Good, isn't it?' A ray of sunshine touched his hair, igniting auburn undertones. 'So. Where to first?'
Aurélie glanced down at her feet, grimacing at the sight of her dragon-dung-stained shoes.
'Thérapie par le shopping,' she said. 'I need new shoes.'