GRIEF IS NOT A WOUND. 

  It does not rip through you like a violent gash, spilling your crimson-tinted blood with no remorse. It does not bleed you dry, slowly waxing and waning your strength like the pulsating moon, pulling at the tides of your heartstrings and pushing at your resolve. It does not kill you from the inside, hemorrhaging your soul, tearing down your walls, crushing your memories, tainting them with red-stained anger. 

  Grief is an ache. 

  It gnaws at your insides, constantly wearing you down, tearing you to pieces. It weakens your spirit, thinning you to the bone, striking at your weakest moments with venom and acid. It rises to the surface when you are alone, when you dare to dream of blissful peace, when you lie awake at night and stare at the stars, wondering if your loss is documented up there. It grasps the fragmented soul of your heart and gnaws on the glass, shatters it, and lets the pieces slice your body until you are nothing but tendrils of blood and bone, ribbons of muscle and sinew, a mindless, soulless, ache-filled monster with only memories to console you. 

  And then grief strikes. 

  Cecille Delacroix-Lestrange does not grieve. She does not feel the constant ache of loss, the never-forgotten sense of doom, the blood spilling from her broken soul. She does not cry crimson tears, or drown her sorrows in bloody liquid that dulls her sorrows and allows her a brief reprieve. Close her eyes and sink to the bottom of the sea, suffocating, saline water filling her lungs and scratching — eroding the chambers of her heart. 

  Instead, she rages. Fire gnawing at her stomach, coursing through her blood with bloodthirsty vexation, curling, spinning, choking until she can think of nothing else but anger. Her mind thuds and aches, begs for the one thing that will give it relief from sorrow. Lips curl, pressing together to summon hellfire to rain upon the earth and wreak vengeance on those deserving.

  The natural weather of Scotland is torrential rain — cold, icy, almost as if it is not September but February, as if they are not waving goodbye to the outside world but drowning in the tears of the clouds above. Cecille tilts her head back, allowing the cold rain to wash over her silken cheeks and drip onto her back, chilling her to the bone. 

  "Lestrange!" 

  Cecille hates every word that spills from Draco Malfoy's mouth — no, she hates Draco Malfoy with a burning passion. Draco would call it envy, Cecille would name it common sense and morals. It's a wonder she survived living with him for so long —  multiple times she was sorely tempted to rip out his heart, just to check if it really was all coal and hate. 

  "Delacroix-Lestrange," she corrects him, unable to muster up enough energy to deliver a toxic retort. Instead, irritation flames in the pit of her stomach, waiting for her to allow it to rise up away from her. "Or is that too many syllables for you to remember?"

  There's a snicker from his crowd of Slytherins — she doesn't care enough to identify them, to place names to their faces and remember them. Draco, white-blond hair glistening in the light of the carriage, stiffens. "I'm a Prefect now," he sneers, lip curling in vindictive pleasure. "Once you're sorted, I'll be there to make sure your life is miserable."

  He doesn't really need to try too hard, Cecille reflects glumly. Her life is pretty miserable already. But it's sweet that he thinks he can make such an impact. 

  She isn't sure why he detests every inch of her so irrefutably. She has a theory (the train journey here was too long for her to wait without some sort of nonsensical hypothesis)  that it is only because Narcissa Malfoy hates Cecille with such vehement disgust that Draco follows in her lead. The first time Cecille laid eyes on her distant aunt, she knew that Narcissa did not appreciate taking care of a distant cousin — especially one who had such traitors blood. 

  But that's alright. Cecille can live with having a treasonous reputation and perfidious blood, if only to cleave herself from the Malfoy family and their murderous associates. Is it better to be hated or loved by monsters? Better to be abhorred with passionate dissent, cursed with the intent to destroy. 

  Cecille wipes away a stray drop of rain, saline, slipping down her cheek, borne from the mist-like clouds of her eyes. Thinking of Narcissa fills her throat with choking, suffocating anguish, curses her mind with violent envy. Draco has it all.  Her voice slips — she shakes the doubt away. "Is that all you wanted to say?"

  "Not quite," he sneers, lip curling, revealing pearly-white bared teeth beneath. For all they preach of purity, the Malfoys could do with learning manners. "I'm here to remind you what my father said." His eyes flicker. "You do remember?"

  Cecille remembers Lucius dragging her outside by the ends of her sleeve so that Draco would watch her humiliation. The sickly sweet tone of his voice as he whispered instructions —  no, threats into her chill-soaked ear. The vice-like grip on her wrist that left it painted black and blue, aching and sore. "No, Draco. I must have missed it."

  He grits his teeth. "Try not to embarrass yourself — or me." He waits, sizing Cecille up, his mind turning over his next retort. "And get yourself into Slytherin." His lip twitches. "Wouldn't want you to end up like your mother, would you?"

  The last time he mocked her mother, it ended with her knuckles bruised and bleeding, his nose cracking under her thunder-stroked bone. He had wept like a child, shaking and whimpering like a boy who had never been hit before, or one too many times. The line between the two . . . so narrow.  

  Cecille had felt sorry for him, briefly. Perhaps we are not so different, she had mused, at first. 

  Then Lucius Malfoy had lost his temper. Cecille had only felt so scared once before — and she had waited for those two words, that flash of green light and limitless peace. But no, Lucius had his orders. Cecille was safe, temporarily. 

  The circumstances are wildly different this time. Cecille steps forward. "What would you do if I broke your nose again?" she sneers. "Your father's not here to protect you."

  He glares. His fist clenches. They meet eyes; Cecille isn't sure what he sees there — perhaps a tornado of anger, an endless well of pain, or the hard steel of someone who is not afraid of him. Something he doesn't like, so he narrows his eyes and strolls away to torment someone else. 

  Cecille hopes he falls down the ever-moving stairs.

  "Can you see them?"

  Cecille blinks. She's not sure what she can see — can't see. "What?"

  "The Threstrals." The girl staring up at Cecille narrows her eyes. She's unnaturally pretty, with wavy dirty blonde hair that lies loose and tangled, her wand tucked behind her ear, hugging a rain-soaked magazine. Her mercurial eyes pierce Cecille's thick skin — not judgmental, but curious. "You were staring at them."

  Cecille struggles to form words. "I — not intentionally." Her eyes flock back to the empty space in front of the carriage again. "You can see them?" The girl looks as if she wouldn't know a tragedy if it punched her in the face.

  "Yes," the girl says softly, stepping into the carriage, half-skipping. How can someone be so happy on such a dreary day? "I'm Luna."

  She says her name like it explains everything. It doesn't. 

  Cecille follows her into the carriage with trepidation, wondering if there is a monster lurking in the shadows ready to leap out and devour her. Just her overactive imagination again — the carriage is empty. She takes a seat. "Cecille."

  "That's a pretty name."

  "Not really." Cecille knows she should return the compliment; she's not sure what to say. Her mind scrambles. "Yours is prettier."

  "Thank you," Luna says quietly, eyes shining like paired moons. "You're —  "

  She's interrupted by the entrance of another group of people — they trip into the carriage clumsily, lounging on the seats. Cecille struggles with the urge to roll her eyes, but Luna smiles at them. 

  Cecille doesn't pay them much attention. At least, until a boy with raven-noir hair and a lightening scar carved into his skin climbs into the carriage and settles himself between the lanky redhead and the bushy-haired girl. Cecille's mouth drops. She closes it again, and pretends she didn't notice; she's not sure what to say. What do you say to a person being named insane and delusional by the Ministry?

  Perhaps Cecille and Harry should start a club. That would certainly improve Cecille's notable lack of extra-curricular activities, though might not be quite what future employers are looking for.

  The blood-haired girl grins — Cecille can't help but compare her to Draco, how her smile holds no unspoken malice, only welcome and acceptance. "Hey, Luna." She nods to Cecille. "Who's this?"

  "Cecille," Cecille says. "Delacroix." 

  She leaves out the Lestrange part. She isn't sure why — it's futile, really, for they'll all hear her name when it's called out in the Great Hall at the Sorting, anyway. But when has anything ever needed to make sense? Not now, in a time of resurrected demons and corrupt ministries. Sometimes a little insanity is necessary.  

  "Ginny Weasley." They shake hands. Both hands are freezing, but Ginny's are much warmer than Cecille's — both girls jump at the shock, one hand burning, the other ice cold. Cecille almost glares at her for the shock. "You're freezing." 

  "I was outside," Cecille tells her. Nobody is convinced by that answer. 

  "Are you new?" The curly-haired girl sitting besides Harry pipes up, brown eyes narrowing. "I've never seen you here before."

  Cecille swallows. "Yeah, I'm new. Transferred from Durmstrang."

  Harry elbows the girl beside him in the stomach —  she flinches away, sending him a glare that could piece a wall of diamond. Beside Harry, the unreasonably tall redhead's face turns redder, almost matching his hair. Ginny smirks.

  "Why'd you transfer?" The blushing girl with curly hair asks, her eyes narrowing in an attempt to divert the conversation. "Hogwarts isn't really the place to be right now — " Harry glares at her. She ignores him. "— for no particular reason."

  "Yeah, Hermione." Harry coughs. "No reason at all."

  Cecille shrugs, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back into her seat. "Just fancied a change of scenery. It's always raining there."

  Hermione squints outside the carriage at the torrential rain that is drenching the first-years. The water spills from the clouds like sobs from the sky, hitting the carriage with rhythmic batterings. It's so much more noticeable now — before, she could almost forget that it was raining. 

  "It's always raining here, too," the taller redhead says. He holds out his hand; Cecille shakes it awkwardly. "I'm Ron." 

  "So," Ginny asks. Cecille guesses that she's the social conversationalist in their little gang — words seem to slip through her silken lips smoother than you'd expect, especially for a Gryffindor. Cecille always heard that they were clumsy and erratic, with little common sense and no realistic view of the world around them. "— Cecille?"

  Cecille blinks. She'd been lost in her thoughts for a moment. "Sorry?"

  "I asked which house you want to be in?"

  Cecille blinks. She can't remember the last time she was actually asked what she wanted — not what her mother wanted, not what Draco wanted. But Cecille own opinion and dreams, the one she's supposed to agonise over at nights and see in colour when she closes her eyes — they simply don't exist. Cecille has always dreamed in rather dull greyscale. 

"Slytherin," Cecille says finally, after wracking her mind for something to say. She wouldn't remind Ravenclaw; their creative aura and open minds have always seemed desirable. "But I think I'll be Slytherin. My parents were." And their parents, and their parents before them.

  The Gryffindors in front of her scrunch their faces in an attempt not to seem too disgusted. Cecille finds her skin growing a little thicker, diamond-lined and ivory-stained. She should be used to this. She should get used to this. 

  "I'm in Ravenclaw," Luna smiles. Cecille smiles back. 

  Ginny grins. She's the only Gryffindor to not look horrified at Cecille's proclamation — Cecille feels herself thaw a little. "I don't think you'll be in Slytherin. I'm going at predicting these things— tell her, Hermione —" Hermione nods. "— I think you're a Gryffindor."

  Ron and Harry grin. 

  Cecille hopes not. That would be an awful way to die. 

a/n: first chapter  

lol the piece at the top brings back bad memories of embarrassing myself at a concert last year but it's a lovely piece so let's just go with it. i was so surprised when this came up on my playlist, forgot i'd added it lmfao  . . . . maybe i'll put another piece i recommend at the top of every chapter ? it's kinda fun heheh

anyway idk why writing some scenes are so hard. i know i need to replan this but idk how to do it so im sort of winging it which is useless because the whole point of the rewrite was so that i'd have a plan 

going to go plan flowergirl now haha

lyra x