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CHAPTER i:
❛ MARGUERITE IN THE MIDDLE ❜
MARGUERITE BLUMENTHAL HAS ALWAYS THOUGHT OF LIFE IN TERMS OF FLOWERS. You start as a seed, you sprout, you bloom, bloom, bloom, and then — one day, hopefully a great deal of time later — you die. A simple worldview, perhaps, but she likes the simplicity of it. Flowers aren't complicated. All they need is a little bit of sunshine, soil, and rain to grow. ( Of course, her mum would argue that plants need a whole lot more than that, but that's just because her mum is her mum and she tends to fuss over things like that ... which is why she plays harmonic classical Indian music through the mega-speakers in her greenhouse to promote growth. ) Marguerite thinks people aren't that different from flowers. Sure, their mechanics are different ( her six-year-old self was absolutely devastated when she realized that she wouldn't ever be able to photosynthesize ) but people need a few things to bloom, too. They need love, family, shelter — all the important stuff — and, just like flowers, a little bit of sunshine and music never hurt anyone, either.
Her parents have just about gotten the Flower-Child Formula for Parenting, as Marguerite likes to call it, down to a T. To be fair, they've had seven chances to practice, but even from the beginning they did alright despite the fact that: 1) both their families were properly fucked up, 2) they eloped at eighteen, and 3) had their first child, Basil, a few months later before proceeding to crank out six more kids after that. Marguerite's dad was the one who came up with the idea of naming all the baby Blumenthals after plants. As someone who literally cannot resist the opportunity for a good pun, what else was he supposed to do — not name his children after flowers when his wife is a florist named Dahlia and his surname is Blumenthal? It'd be absolute blasphemy!
But, odd name preferences aside, Marguerite's parents are absolutely the bee's knees. ( And that's something she doesn't say lightly because she thinks bees are the fucking best; the entire planet owes those funky little pollinators their lives. ) If there was a recipe for practically perfect parenting, her parents could probably patent it. And though some might argue that it's just good genetics, there's a reason her older brother Basil is on his way to becoming an Auror and her older sister Violet is Head Girl and her other older sister Primrose is the most beloved girl in school and her younger brother Aster can achieve anything he puts his mind to and her younger sister Poppy is a future quidditch prodigy and even little Daisy might be magically gifted because at four years-old she can enchant her stuffies to put on fully-choreographed shows ... which perhaps leads to the question of why Marguerite would say her parents are practically perfect instead of perfectly perfect in every way.
The short answer is: it's because of her.
To be fair, it's not her mum and dad's fault that she is so incredibly ordinary in a family full of extraordinary people. And raising six incredible kids out of seven is certainly nothing to be ashamed of. It was simply as if the universe decided that no, that's enough exceptionalism for one family when Marguerite was born and decided that there needed to be one boring Blumenthal to make up for all the others. It's why her grades are so average ( except for Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology, but that's mostly 'cause she likes living things and her mum is so good with flowers, so Marguerite has been gardening since she learned to walk ) and she doesn't play quidditch or have as many friends as her other siblings.
Marguerite thinks that it's sort of like when you plant all your flowers too close together. If there are too many of them in the same spot at the same time, only so many of them will be able to blossom when it's blooming season. Some sprouts stay small forever. They don't get to grow tall and bask in the sunlight like the others. Marguerite would say that she is that little sprout in her family — the one that will never bloom. Her mum and dad don't agree with that philosophy, though. They just think she's a late bloomer ( "... and in the garden of life, Maggie, the late blooms are especially beautiful!" ) and that eventually someday she'll blossom just as brilliantly as the rest of her siblings.
Margeurite isn't so convinced. For a long time, everyone thought she was a squib until she hit six years-old and finally started showing signs of magic. Her life might have been better if she was a squib, though. At least she'd have had a reason for being unremarkable. And she wouldn't have had to go to a magic school. Instead, she could have gone to Muggle school, lived at home with her parents year-round, and found non-magical hobbies to practice like geocaching or interpretive dance or slam poetry ... But life has never been that simple, so Marguerite Blumenthal is headed back to Hogwarts for her fourth year of school and that's that! No further discussion.
"Marguerite! Where are my Mary Janes? I can't find them anywhere —" her bedroom door comes flying open, revealing her sister Primrose, whose hair is only half-curled and makeup is only half-done despite the fact that they're meant to leave for the train to school in twenty minutes.
"I don't have them!" Marguerite replies indignantly, sitting up from the spot on her bed where she'd been lying down and staring up at her ceiling. Her dad had painted it himself when she was a little girl, imitating the swirling blues and yellows of Van Gogh's Starry Night before charming it to move. It's one of Marguerite's most favorite things in the whole wide world. "Have you checked Poppy's room?"
Primrose stomps her foot. "It's impossible to find anything in there," she whines. "That place is a black hole!" Her bottom lip juts out in a pout. "Could you look for me? Poppy likes you more."
Marguerite groans, covering her face with her hands. "Why can't you ask Vi to do it?"
"Because she's already going absolutely mental about us not being late and I know that she'll be cross with me if she finds out I haven't finished packing yet." Her sister widens her eyes, fluttering her lashes dramatically. "Please, Maggie?"
"Fine!" She sighs, rolling off her bed. "But next time, try packing your things the night before. And don't call me Maggie!"
"Maggie dearest, what would I do without you!" Prim sings as she twirls into the room and engulfs Marguerite in a smothering embrace before pulling back. "Is ... that what you're planning on wearing to school?"
She looks down at her outfit — a pair of faded dungarees with a striped t-shirt beneath it, cinched around the waist by a thick leather belt, and her favorite pair of black high-tops on her feet — before looking back at her sister. "... Yes?"
"God!" Her sister huffs. "It's like you want everyone to believe that we actually live on a farm! Do you know how hard I've worked to get people to stop saying that?"
Marguerite resists the urge to roll her eyes. In her sister's mind, nothing is more important than appearances. It is the sole principle that she built her reputation upon at school. Nobody cares that Primrose Blumenthal is the daughter of a blood-traitor and a Muggle when her hair is always perfect and her outfits are always chic. Her sister had utilized the power of prettiness to establish herself as the Slytherin Princess, despite the controversy surrounding the name Blumenthal in high-wizarding society, and maintaining that status was of the utmost importance to her; lest the illusion should shatter and leave her friendless.
"It's not like we're going to sit together on the train," Marguerite grumbles irritably.
She has very little tolerance for her sister's "friends" who are some of the most rotten kids in school, in her opinion, and they don't care much for Hufflepuffs, either — which just so happens to be Marguerite's house, naturally.
"I'll have to change into my robes before we get to school, anyways. I don't think it's that big of a deal! And besides, I like what I'm wearing. Farmer chic is kind of my brand."
Primrose rubs her temples before storming into the hallway; a whirlwind of her pleated, plaid miniskirt and pink faux-fur coat. "This family lives to embarrass me!"
Marguerite makes a face as her sister disappears into the bathroom. "You know what? Find your own shoes!" The whole house seems to shake as Prim slams the bathroom door, jostling the pictures hanging from the walls. "Bitch."
"Bitch." Someone echoes behind her and Marguerite freezes, eyes bulging before she whirls around.
Her youngest sister sits on the floor of the hallway, grinning up at her like a Cheshire Cat. Only four years-old and a tutu-wearing genius, Daisy is always searching for something new to learn. Her big brain absorbs information like a sponge and stores it away for, like, ever. And ever. And ever. Which is a really fucking bad thing, considering that Marguerite accidentally just taught Daisy her very first swear word.
"No, no, no," Marguerite tells her sister, shaking her head back and forth so hard that her own hair whips her in the face. "Daisy darling, we don't say that word!"
Daisy's brow furrows. "Why?"
"Because it's a bad word."
"But why?"
"It's not nice."
Her sister points accusingly. "You said it."
Marguerite winces. "I know and I shouldn't have, but you really can't say it."
"Bitch!" Daisy repeats, louder this time.
"No!" She exclaims, throwing her hands up in the air. "Don't say that. Please, Daisy!" Desperate, Marguerite decides to resort to bribery. "I'll get you a juice box if you promise not to say that word ever again."
Daisy taps her chin as she considers the offer for a moment. "Two juice boxes?"
"You're pushing it," Marguerite warns.
"Bitc —" she begins before Marguerite covers the younger girl's mouth with her hand just as Violet exits her room, casting a suspicious glance at the two of them.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," Marguerite says quickly just before her little sister sticks her tongue out and licks the back of her hand, causing Marguerite to make a disgusted noise and let go.
"Juice boxes!" Daisy shouts, barreling down the stairs towards the kitchen.
Marguerite reluctantly follows her. "Are you ready to go?" Violet calls as she passes. "We need to leave in fifteen minutes, Marguerite! I need to get to the platform early; I'm —"
"— Head Girl, I know," she finishes. "But I'm not the sister you should be worrying about, considering that someone hasn't even finished packing yet."
Violet's face grows tight with anger before she turns on her heel and marches down the hall, banging on the bathroom door. "Hurry up, Primrose! We're going to be late —"
"Marguerite!" Prim shouts from the other side. "Thanks for ratting me out!"
Marguerite doesn't stick around to hear the rest of their argument, slipping into the kitchen where her brothers are already sat down at the table with breakfast. Basil is almost dressed for work, tie hanging from his neck and a piece of toast dangling between his teeth as he scours the newspaper headlines for anything of interest. He'd been on high alert ever since the incident at the Quidditch World Cup involving alleged Death Eaters tormenting Muggles.
( Only half their family had been there to see it since her mum had to work that weekend, so Violet, Aster, and Daisy stayed home with her. None of them were sad to miss it, though. Half the Blumenthal household preferred Muggle sports to Quidditch, regardless of the fact that Tristan Blumenthal used to be a beater in the big leagues before he took a desk job at the Ministry of Magic. Secretly, Marguerite had been glad that the others weren't there to witness the attack. It was downright terrifying and she was still having nightmares about the way that poor Muggle family had been tossed in the air like ragdolls. She shudders to think that it might've been her mum if she had been there ... )
But, as an Auror-in-training, evil wizard shenanigans are right up Basil's alleyway despite the fact that the Blumenthal family has a somewhat complicated history when it comes to the dark arts; something involving Tristan's father, Orestes, being sent to Azkaban for supporting You-Know-Who during the First Wizarding War. Marguerite doesn't know many details about her paternal side of the family — her father never talks about it and when he does, he just gets angry and then he gets sad, and no one likes to see him sad.
Speaking of her father, Marguerite is nearly accosted by a flying plate of scrambled tofu, fried tomatoes, and hash browns that whizzes past her. "Heads up, Maggie girl!"
She ducks just in time, narrowly avoiding an assault from her enchanted breakfast before retrieving two juice boxes from the highest shelf in the pantry and discreetly handing them off to Daisy, who shakes Marguerite's hand before climbing into Basil's lap and sitting atop his knee as he finishes reading the paper.
"Good morning to you, too," Marguerite tells her dad, sliding into the seat next to Aster and ruffling his hair before he shoves her away with an ew gross stop. "Where's Mum?"
"Feeding the geese," Tristan replies, referring to the family of feathered friends that had been adopted into the Blumenthal household after Marguerite rescued a stray gosling with a crippled foot.
She'd done her part to nurse the baby bird back to health, but by the time he was fully healed, he was quite content to live in the confines of her mum's garden. And once Webster decided to make his residence permanent, it wasn't long after that Bill, Beakley, and Quacker came along to keep the other goose company — hence: geese, plural.
"And Poppy?"
Her dad sighs, setting down his spatula and resting his hands on his apron-clad hips. "Sulking, I assume," he says. "She wants to be going to school with you lot."
Aster scoffs. "She'll have her turn next year. Nothing special about this one."
A knowing look enters their father's eyes, gleaming with mischief before he shrugs and turns back to the stove. "I don't know," he says, feigning ignorance as he strokes his beard. "This year could be special. You never know."
Marguerite arches a brow at him. "Oh, so we're back to being cryptic again?"
Her father had been hinting about something special happening at Hogwarts all summer long, but had kept his lips sealed about what that something special was — much to the aggravation of his children, save for Basil, who was in on the secret and refused to spill the beans. For someone so incredibly nosy, her oldest brother was annoyingly good at keeping secrets when he wanted to. Regardless, whatever the so-called surprise is, Marguerite is sure she's going to hate it. She's learned to be weary of surprises where Hogwarts is concerned since they usually wind up being fucking terrible.
"Can't we just have a single normal year at school?" She complains, glumly stabbing at a fried tomato. "You know, I would absolutely love just one year of peace and quiet."
"Aw, come on, Mags," Basil says. He sets his newspaper aside and bounces his knee, making Daisy giggle. "Where's your sense of adventure?"
"I think it might have run out somewhere between the giant killer snake and the mass-murderer breaking into school?"
Everyone grimaces just as the front door comes swinging open, revealing Marguerite's mother. Dahlia Blumenthal looks positively radiant as always, despite the ridiculous way that her brown waves have been piled atop her head and tied off with a tie-dye scarf. If anyone else were to try such a look, it would be comical, but her mum pulls it off like a freaking supermodel.
"Please," she says, setting down her wicker basket near the door. "No talk of killer snakes or mass-murderers. It's too early for me to start worrying about all of you when you haven't even left."
Her mum crosses the room in a few graceful strides, pressing a kiss to the top of each head seated at the table before blowing one to Marguerite's father, who makes a big show of catching it and pressing it to his face. The two of them grin at each other like lovesick teens before trading places at the stove, allowing her mum to finish cooking breakfast while her dad assembles the lunches he'd packed for them to take on the train.
"Now," Tristan says, folding up the last paper bag. "Where are the rest of your sisters?"
Somewhere upstairs, a door slams and three female voices begin shouting at one another in unison.
"From the sound of it, they're about to murder each other," Aster says in his casual way of speaking, ignoring the way Dahlia frowns at him. "Poppy has been itching for a fight."
Basil's eyes gleam and he turns to Marguerite. "Five galleons says that Violet wins?"
She stares at him incredulously. "First of all, do I look like I have five galleons? And second of all, do you really think I'm stupid enough to bet against Violet losing? To Prim?"
"Are you two actually gambling on your sisters coming to blows with one another?" Dahlia demands, bringing the conversation to a halt. "Seriously?"
Marguerite raises her hands. "Technically, I was refusing to gamble, so you can't be cross with me ..."
Basil clears his throat. "And I've got to be getting to work," he says, setting Daisy down on the floor as he starts to rise from the table. "Mr. Vance is a stickler for punctuality in the office, so I don't want to be late. You know, traffic and all that —"
"You're flooing," her father interrupts just as Daisy approaches him and tugs on the bottom of his shirt. He accommodates her and lifts her from the ground, settling her on his hip. "Sit."
Basil wilts into his seat.
"What's gambling?" Daisy asks.
"Nothing you need to worry about, sprout," Tristan replies.
She frowns. "Why?"
A sigh escapes his lips. "Because I said so, Daisy."
Daisy's frown deepens. "But why?"
"Blumenthals!" Her dad calls, ignoring his youngest's persistent line of questioning. "Kitchen. Now."
The sound of bickering grows louder as Poppy, Primrose, and Violet make their way downstairs, arguing the entire time amongst themselves. However, their shouting ceases once they've all sat down at the kitchen table; Poppy sliding into the empty chair next to Marguerite, Primrose next to Aster, and Violet beside Basil. Dahlia dishes out three more servings of breakfast before coming to stand at her husband's side, surveying their brand of broody children.
"Oh, hello. Look at all those happy faces," Tristan observes. "So many smiles this morning, I'm overwhelmed."
Dahlia shoots him a conspiratorial look. "Do we need a pep talk?"
Immediately, all the children begin shaking their heads back and forth. "No, no pep talk. Please, no pep talk."
Tristan grins. "I think we need a pep talk." He sets Daisy down and pulls his wand out from the waistband of his pants, casting a silent summoning charm before his old megaphone flies in from the family room.
"Alright, Blumenthals, listen up!" He says, voice booming through the speaker as a chorus of groans goes up amongst the kids, save for Daisy, who just claps her hands. "Today, we go our separate ways. Four of you are going back to school today, which means that the rest of us won't get to see you for a very long time. That's crazy! And I know you haven't had the easiest couple of years — I get that, I do — but you guys have something that a lot of other people don't have."
"You have each other," their mum chimes in. "So instead of arguing about shoes or outfits or whatever you argue about, try working together. Try supporting one another. As long as you guys remember to do that, everything will turn out just fine, alright? There's nothing you kids can't do when you act as a team."
"And you're not gonna have a good year," Tristan adds, his face serious. "Right?"
A collective sigh is heaved around the table. "No."
"Why?" He persists. "Someone tell me why. Maggie, you're up."
She makes a face. "Because we're going to make it a great one."
"That's right," her dad finishes, beaming. He sets his megaphone down. "I don't want any of you to have a good year. I want you to make it a great year. Boom. How's that for an inspirational speech?"
Violet raises a hand. "Daddy?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Can we leave?"
Their father sets his hands on his hips, visibly disappointed as he heaves a sigh. "Yes." The kids all push back from the kitchen table, scrambling to leave the room. "But," Tristan calls before any of them can flee the premises, "everyone needs to give every single person in this room a hug and an I love you before they go."
There's a few grumbles of protest, but everyone concedes to their father's request. Marguerite hugs Basil first, who kisses her on the top of the head and promises to visit on one of the Hogsmeade weekends. She hugs Violet and Prim next — and even wrangles an apology from Prim about her outfit. Aster follows and Marguerite squeezes him as tight as she can, ruffling his hair and pressing a kiss to his cheek because she knows it'll disrupt his cool guy persona ( or, at least, as cool as a twelve-year-old kid can strive to be. ) Poppy is after him, still sullen-faced and teary-eyed about the fact that she's being left behind. Marguerite picks her up and spins her in a circle, swearing she'll write at least once a week. The last of her siblings is Daisy, who she tickles until she shrieks with laughter and runs away.
After that, it's just Marguerite and her parents; both of whom are already looking teary-eyed at the prospect of sending their kids away, which is totally unfair, because it makes her start to tear up and she really hadn't wanted to cry today even though she's a very easy crier. Neither of her parents had happy families growing up. They were born and bred from people without a lot of warmth in their hearts, so they made it their mission to make their family the happiest for their own kids. And despite the sometimes overwhelming and slightly suffocating nature of her chaotic family, Marguerite knows she's lucky to even be a part of such an extraordinary bunch of people.
"Oh, bug, I'm gonna miss you so much," her mum says, engulfing her in the tightest of hugs. Marguerite hugs her back, inhaling her mother's earthy scent. "But don't you worry about a thing, alright? You stress yourself out too much, Maggie. Just try and let yourself be a kid this year."
"You're gonna be fine, Maggie girl," her dad chimes in, cutting in to steal a hug from her. "And you never know — this could be your year."
She pulls back, making a face. "Yeah, that's doubtful."
"I mean it," her father insists. "You never know, Mags!"
"Sure, Dad," Marguerite says for the sake of placating him. "Maybe you're right."
"That's the spirit," he says, chucking her under the chin. "Now, Blumenthals: let's go! We don't want our Head Girl to be late!"
The house is engulfed in a flurry of activity after that, with trunks being floated down the stairs and everyone's belongings being crammed into the back of their Volkswagen Vanagon. Basil makes his exit just before they hit the road, disappearing through the fireplace with a wink and a wave and a flash of green flames. Everyone else heads outside after that to where the car is waiting and they begin to pile into the rows of seats.
Just before she climbs into the middle row, Marguerite stops and spots a half-blossomed flower sprouting amongst the tall grass outside. Leaning down, she plucks the daisy from the clutches of the weeds and tucks it into the front pocket of her dungarees for safekeeping. Then, she hops into the car and squeezes into the middle seat between two of her siblings before strapping in for the ride. She doesn't notice when the flower falls from her pocket as she makes her way onto the platform at King's Cross. The daisy — a white marguerite; the flower of her namesake — is now fully bloomed instead of just half-blossomed as it lies on the ground. In her haste to keep up with the rest of her family, Marguerite leaves the flower behind without a second thought.
It remains on the ground overlooked and trampled underfoot until someone picks it up in passing — a boy with wild dark hair, wiry round glasses, and bright green eyes.
.❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。
a/n: first chapters are always weird but i love one (1) disaster family