hp_bunintheoven

Title: Raise to Breathe Fire (1/2)
Author/Artist:

crazyparakiss
Pairing(s): Teddy Lupin/Dominique Weasley, Dominique Weasley/OMC (not terribly explicit)
Prompt: H36
Summary: “You should Owl him,” Mum reasons, after the hostility has calmed a bit.
Word Count: 13,700 +/-
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Contains: Recreational drug use (some while pregnant), allusions a past rape (not main character), allusions to past abortion (not main character), angst with a happy ending
Notes: Curi Love always helps me find my magic, and I thank her for it always. I enjoyed writing this so I hope you enjoy reading it. As usual, I took a lot of liberties with the prompt.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. The poem throughout is not mine, it is by Daniella Michalleni and is called “Persephone Speaks”. The italicised poem during the poetry slam scene is not mine, it is “fault” by Nayyirah Waheed.

I asked him for it.
For the blood, for the rust,
for the sin.

The fall does not hurt as much as it humiliates, and Dominique’s face burns with shame when Laurent hisses at her, “Are you gaining weight?” The stage floor, so near her face, is pungent. Dominique takes comfort in the familiarity of it while Laurent throws his long, dark arms up in frustration. “Opening night is in three days time, damnit, Nikki.” The hand that wraps around her upper arm is painful, and she winces when he adds, “Don’t prove Colette right--she’s running you through the mud with all the shit she’s talking.” Dark brown eyes search her face, and with a sneer Laurent mutters, “I’m starting to wonder if she’s right.”

“Fuck her,” Dominique seethes, “I will not fail when the curtain rises.” And she pulls herself to her feet; even though she’s exhausted Dominique commands, “Again.”

The wood of the stage gleams beneath the light of a thousand candles, that burn overhead, and Dominique breathes in the fresh wax and cedar that permeates the air--grounding her spirit in the comfort of her surroundings. Opening her pale eyes, after a deep breath, she locks gazes with Laurent--determined. Again she moves with him, his body synchronising with hers--their forms feeling the music together--melding. Large hands trace the line of her body, leading her against a rushed, angry sound. Allowing her mind to go weightless Dominique jumps into Laurent’s lift, and moves gracefully through the flip before ending in a fish position.

“You’re still heavy,” he accuses when he sets her down. Then with an assessing glance Laurent frowns, “You’re looking thicker, too. Will the costume fit?”

Dominique sucks her teeth in response.

*

Roxanne is wearing an expression of pure disdain when Dominique finally enters Café Bella. She’s half an hour late, as is usual, and Gran, along with Mum, shoots Dominique a disapproving glance. “Did I miss anything,” Dominique whispers, giving a cursory look about the gathered guests. The afternoon is going to be awful, she believes, seeing as how half these women tormented her during school. Victoire certainly knows how to pick friends, Dominique thinks, and summons the waitress to bring her some champagne.

“You missed them talking about the horrors of birth,” Roxanne shudders, scrunching up her entire face in disgust. “Did you know that it bangs up your box forever? Not only do you have to have the parasite in you for months, it disfigures you for life.” Roxanne is absolutely horrified. Dominique shouldn’t laugh, but she does anyways. And her laughter grows louder when she notices all of the irritated stares of Victoire’s friends. “Whoops,” Roxanne doesn’t sound apologetic in the least when she adds, “Terribly sorry.”

Dominique watches Mum, after her first two glasses of drink slip down her throat. She hates feeling jealous of the way Mum is grinning at a few of Victoire’s recently married friends, the ones who are telling Dominique’s delighted mother about the children they want to have soon. The children who will have nannies named something exotic, frolicking in summer homes in far away paradises, and will go to elite primaries. The idyllic sweetness makes her teeth ache. So she doesn’t say something she regrets, Dominique downs another glass of champagne and demands more. “Might as well bring a couple of bottles,” she warns, “That way you don’t have to keep coming over here.” The young woman gives her a nervous glance, but Apparates away to fetch the order, and is back before Dominique can miss her.

Roxanne snickers, then running heavily tattooed fingers over the flowy arms of her blouse she frowns, “I wore appropriate clothing, so does that mean I have to stay here longer than necessary?”

Popping the cork out of one of the champagne bottles Dominique shrugs, “I’m hoping this gets us kicked out.”

“It’s not like your sister wants us here. She thinks we’re the antithesis of female.” Roxanne mutters, pretending she doesn’t see Aunt Angelina trying to wave her away from Dominique. “I already had my ovaries burnt closed, and if that makes me less of a woman then I am damned proud to be less.”

A smile stretches across Dominique’s crimson painted mouth, but there is little joy in the motion--rather it is full of doubt.

*

The crowd is white noise and a haze of endless colour that Dominique takes little notice of when she makes her final bow. She cannot remember much of dancing for opening night, her mind has been elsewhere and Dominique is sure that Laurent, Jacob, and Michel will have plenty of complaints about her performance.

For now, Dominique does not care. She’s too focused on peeling herself out of her sweat-soaked costume. Tossing the pearl and flower encrusted monstrosity to the ground before she pulls a thin dress over her bare skin.

There is a message from Dad that comes in the form of a silvery patronus. “We’re celebrating at The Burrow. We are all so proud of you.”

Pride that rings hollow in Dominique’s ears. She sends a message back, lying when she says, “I’m going out to celebrate with the others, I’ll be by late.”

Where she ends up is in the expensive Knightsbridge borough of London, and it’s not two knocks on the door before he’s opening it up, pulling her urgently inside.

*

Bath water sloshes over the rim of the ancient clawed tub; he says pay it no mind when she moves to summon a towel. His hands slip like oil over her, coating her, leaving behind a residue she will never escape. A brand he never intended to make.

“The tournament will begin in Germany,” he informs, after Dominique’s settled over his lap and drawn him within her. They remain like that, unmoving, and she searches his face--committing him to memory because he could come back changed. Her fingers seek the long scar on his shoulder--the one he received a few years back while he was fighting for his international title, the victory that Auto Pensieves replay, on loop, in shop windows--especially at Ollivanders. Our wands win duels. So much blood. All that vermillion. Filling her with fear.

He never promises to return, but his kiss is a comfort she clings to--mapping his mouth with her tongue, trying to crawl inside of his senses.

Dominique’s lower back curves over the hard edge of the tub, while he presses over her--into her, deeper. Her long legs wrap around his slim waist, holding him like a possession.

After, he runs his fingers over the bruise in the hollow of her back, and reaches for a balm.

“Leave it,” she commands--the sting of it will bring her comfort, later, when she finds herself in the hold of another.

*

Dawn spills pink and orange across the sky, and she blinks at the busy world beyond this window before she turns back to the naked man beside her. Dominique is sure to receive a Howler for ditching her family, but as she traces the scar on his shoulder she believes it’s worth the tongue-lashing. He’s off in a few hours. Gone for months, and she’s not sure when or if he will return.

“How long’ve you been up,” he mumbles, burrowing against his featherdown pillow, and she tries not to look smitten when she smooths a hand through his bright turquoise hair.

“Only a moment,” is what she admits--truth is she’s been awake since the sky was still dark, trying to draw out the inevitable.

“I’ve got to pack,” he complains, and Dominique doesn’t offer to help. Helping him choose clothing would feel too intimate. She’s allowed enough intimacies as it stands.

*

“I’m off then,” he grins, cheeky, and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. They are standing close together, in his narrow front corridor, his heat radiating through her thin dress--tempting her skin. “For luck,” he quips when she playfully shoves his arm.

“As if you need luck,” Dominique rolls her eyes, her fingers gripping at the lapels of his black leather coat. She pulls him closer, her tongue seeking as soon as he opens his mouth for her--invading him. When she pulls back a string of saliva is the only thing that connects them, and even that breaks when she whispers, “You can have all of my luck.”

“You might need some of that luck for yourself,” he reminds, his clear grey eyes going soft. “Thank you for selflessly giving it all to me.”

He doesn’t ask her to join him, and Dominique doesn’t ask to go.

*

“I think I want the baby,” is the first thing Dominique admits, after she takes a deep draw of the spliff Roxanne hands her. Taste heavy on her tongue, unpleasant yet wanted--like the bitter salt of the bloke she sucked off hours before. Dominique held him prisoner within her mouth as he muttered devotions in Latin. She smiles at the memory of his face, now; even as she wonders if he will find another to worship in such a way.

“You’re the picture of motherhood,” sarcasm bleeds off of Roxanne’s reply. Smoke curls out of her mouth in the form of a heart, Dominique watches as it cracks open--spilling more smoke from its wound. “Motherhood is grief,” Roxanne informs, her eyes full of scars and memories, “The books never tell you that.” Then after another puff, and a pass, she adds, “You’re a fragile soul, Nikki. Don’t hurt yourself anymore than you already do.”

London is awash in grey. Lonely and cold as they watch over the other rooftops from atop Roxanne’s. Winter is due soon, Dominique feels it beneath her bones. The cold creeps into her, diving into her soul; never really leaving once spring arrives, and--just once--she wants to find the warmth she’s always craving.

I didn’t want the pearls other girls talked about,
or the fine marble of palaces,
or even the roses in the mouth of servants.

“You will dance,” the creative director--Jacob--hisses, “I made you the star.” Dominique does not remind him that he made her the star in exchange for her mouth on his small cock. There has been many a deal made with devils who directed her to her scuffed knees. Dominique danced better than Colette during the audition for Swanhilde, but this man wanted more of her--as many men before him have. Her body a commodity they believe they deserve.

“How badly do you want the part?” Of course Jacob had asked her that, after he waved the others out of the studio--their eyes knowing and disgusted. Demeaning smile curling across his thin lips while he looked her up and down, like a piece of fine meat.

Going to her knees is instinct by now--has been for years. Sometimes Dominique wishes she could change her past, but accepts what she’s done when she watches Jacob throw a pair of pointe shoes in frustration. He’s showing her the colours he hadn’t shown the night he took advantage of her dreams.

Jacob’s smile was feral back when she opened his fly, then looking up at him with hooded eyes Dominique had whispered, “Do you want to paint my skin or colour my throat?” She’d had her hand around his cock for only a moment when he spilled across her cheek, and now she wants to remind him of that humiliation. Wants to remind Jacob that she holds her own power, but it dies in her throat when he looks at her with raw hatred and desire. Something unpleasant squirms in her belly. Leaden fear weighing her down.

She can recall the words of her great-grandmother each time men look upon her as if she owes them something--the way Jacob watches her now.

Men crave our bodies. To be Veela is to be lust. They tell us that we are made for them, but remember, mon petit chou, you are more than your mouth and your body.

She's never felt like more than her body. Nearly every silver haired woman before her has taught Dominique that she is the seductress. This is her punishment for being born a siren. Unfulfillment, leering men who pant out disgusting jeers, and constant loneliness. Every Veela other than her great-grandmother has told her:

Your lure is too strong; so he felt up your skirt--couldn't hear your ‘no’ through his lusty haze.

You forgot your scent creates madness. Men are slaves to their animal nature. Next time don't forget the soap that covers the heat your body always screams it is in.

All men want to possess Veela; this is normal.

You were built for enjoying sex. Our bodies demand it, why say no?

“I won't dance,” her voice trembles, but her resolve is firm. “My body is not yours to command.” All of them treat her like a marionette, pulling strings they never asked for permission to touch.

*

Blank. That is the expression her mother wears, as the kettle sings a shrill song for her attention--yet, Fleur stands motionless, watching Dominique with something akin to disappointment. Which is nothing new. Mum has has always been less proud of Dominique than she is of Victoire and Louis.

“How long,” she finally demands, once the kettle has finally called Mum back from her shock. Dominique has never had a steady boyfriend, so of course her mother is horrified. Birthing a bastard is still frowned upon in the Wizarding World, after all.

“A month, maybe longer,” Dominique honestly cannot remember. The days tended to blur when she was wrapped in his arms. There was a long rest period after the preliminary dueling rounds--which were more formality than anything for him, and when he’d returned from Edinburgh they’d stayed trapped in his London flat. Sex, sweat, shower--then when they remembered they were hungry there was take-away from the Chinese shop up the road.

Another silence drags between them, and Dominique wishes she had taken Roxanne up on her offer to tag along in telling Fleur about the pregnancy. This is a hell she’s not sure she should’ve taken alone.

“Who is the father?” This is the question Dominique’s been dreading. The father isn’t a happy topic in this home, and hasn’t been for some years. Especially after leaving her sister behind. Their breakup caused a ripple of divide in the family dynamic--mostly between Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron.

“You don’t know him,” she lies. There is another displeased moue curving her mother’s mouth; Dominique wonders if Fleur will ever look upon her with any other feeling.

*

Without work she has no money, and returns home despite not wanting to. If she’d been half the adult her sister is she’d have been saving, but she’s not a saver. Dominique lives hour to hour. Moment to moment. Roxanne would've kept her, Dominique does not doubt her cousin would walk through fire for her. However, she cannot place financial burden upon someone else. This is her choice, after all, and Roxanne has never been fond of small children.

Home looms like a nightmare before her, despite the warm look of it--a lovely cottage, at sea, with a bright blue backdrop and copious amounts of sunshine. Fitting.

Mum isn't there to welcome her, but Dad does his best to seem chipper.

“Let me help you with your things.” He tries for a smile, but the expression is brittle. She doesn't have much for him to carry to the second floor, and so they stand, painfully awkward, in her old room.

Her eyes take in her small desk--from a youth that feels ages ago--littered with ballet playbills and a few opera books. Dad follows her line of sight, and there's a shift of something like pain that flickers across his scarred, yet handsome, face. There is disappointment in him for her, too. It makes her more weary.

“We're going to make up Louis’s old room into the nursery,” doing his best to make the idea sound fun, but all Dominique hears is his silent I was looking forward to seeing you dance another lead. Everyone, with the exception of her, was looking forward to another, presumably, hard earned success.

“I'd like to sort my things, if you don't mind.” She casts her gaze to the driftwood that makes up the floor, and manages to keep her tears in when her father goes ‘Ah, I see’. Then he is gone, and Dominique falls apart alone on the bed. Wishing she could find warmth within it.

*

Gran has very loud opinions on Dominique’s choice of lifestyle.

“Pregnant women need husbands,” and it’s the closest she’s ever come to sneering--coming out of her mouth every time Dominique is forced into her presence. Which is often now that she’s living at home. Mum and Dad force her into the bi-monthly family dinners. The only thing that makes these functions bearable is that Roxanne actually bothers to show. And they are both miserable together.

“Why do pregnant women need husbands?” Roxanne asks, with thinly veiled contempt, at the most recent family function, and the room goes quiet. Uncle George glances between them, before releasing a sigh and pressing his long fingertips against his closed eyelids. Dominique isn’t sure who his weariness is for: his overbearing mother or his headstrong daughter. Aunt Angelina appears apprehensive, her gaze staying on Roxanne--almost like a warning.

A warning that goes largely unheeded.

“I want to know why everyone in this room keeps acting like Nikki being up the spout is the end of the damned world.” There is a definite edge to her words, and a defiance in her hazel eyes that ruffles more than a few feathers. No one talks to Gran like that; it’s the unspoken rule. She lost a son in war and it has made her infallible. To her children. Even some of her grandchildren.

Never to Roxanne. There’s a chip on her shoulder when it comes to this family submitting to Gran’s sometimes tyrannical tongue. She probably means no harm, Dominique doesn’t believe her grandmother is hateful out of spite. Rather, Dominique believes her harsh comments come from a place of love.

Doesn’t make the words right.

“Roxanne,” Uncle Harry tries to defuse the situation, and she cuts him off with a loud huff and roll of her eyes.

“You don’t have to fix every fucking thing,” she snaps, much to everyone’s horror, then with a sardonic laugh turns to Gran. “Bet you think I’m awful because of my mother. Even now, after all these years, you want to believe that she’s only with him because he looks like Fred.” It’s a sore point no one wants to bring up; one of those many things they brush under the rug--like the fact that Uncle Percy was a practical Death Eater at one point during the war.

A few years ago, when he was arse over tit, he’d argued with Uncle George that he wasn’t an actual Death Eater.

But you stood silent and watched, Perce--silence is a reinforcement of oppression.

One of those nasty, dark clouds that hung over them; one that was never resolved. Dominique wagers the argument never will be; just like the horrible treatment Roxanne’s mother suffered under the lash of Gran’s tongue.

There’s a contrite expression on Gran’s round face, true remorse shining in her eyes, but even still Roxanne twists the knife. “My mother loves my father, and there you are, still doubting her when you think noone is watching.” With a more violent hiss, Roxanne adds, “I won’t stand idly by while you repeat your bullshit with Nikki.” When Gran begins to open her mouth Roxanne snaps, “Save it.”

“Roxie,” Uncle George finally speaks, his voice trying to suppress hers. Little does he know, Roxanne cannot be subdued.

“Com’on, Nikki,” her tone is gentle, even as her gaze falls hard--full of fury--on her father, “I’m tired of dealing with people who act as if they’ve never sinned.”

I wanted pomegranates—
I wanted darkness,
I wanted him.

Clove cigarettes and rose water.

No matter how she tries she cannot recreate the taste. Her tongue aches from loss.

In this man’s mouth Dominique finds hints of the flavour, but wonders if it’s missing the spice of raw magicks. Compatible magicks that sought the space between them and crackled like fire.

“More,” she moans, but her voice is hollow, and she doesn’t mean it. “More,” tears fall gently from her lashes, but the man behind her cannot, or does not, care to see.

*

Love takes little effort to begin, and a lifetime to forget.

Or so she is learning.

“Dominique,” the way her name became a sacred prayer as it fell from his lips--against the faint stretch marks that were like white-lightning, mapping the transition from child to woman, in her skin.

She has known many lovers, and is sure she will know more yet, but only one has struck Dominique’s soul.

Even when others touch her, when they speak her name--none of them scratch the surface, and she feels empty in their hold. “Harder,” she gasps, desperate to feel.

*

Scarred fingers trace the line of her body, but there was always a hint of question--is this okay--in the callouses that learned her. Dominique would’ve let him take it without question. Would give herself for nothing, but he never takes.

“May I,” ghosting her lips, each time, grey eyes watching--waiting--for her nod before a warm mouth pressed against her own.

While he lay abed she danced, nude save for the satin of her scarlet pointe shoes. “Is it alright to watch,” his words wrapping around the black filter of his cigarette, his cheek pillowed in his palm, and eyes at half-mast.

Another thing on the long list that makes her miss him; especially when some bloke at the bar invades her space as if it’s his right. Puts his rank breath on her lips and tries to force his tongue into her mouth.

“Bitch, don’t dance like you want it then,” he yells when she shoves him, and her ‘no’ is lost in her throat--her reprimand dies as his glare fills her with shame.

*

“There is Rigel,” he’d whispered, his lips tickling her ear as he pointed to stars he’d magicked onto her ceiling. Gestured to another star in the constellation Orion, “And there is Bellatrix--I’d a mad aunt by that name.” He’d mused against her hair, “Apparently she and my mum looked quite a bit alike. Ironic since she’s the one who killed her.” She’d linked their fingers, brushing her thumb over the scars on his knuckles--the ones he got in school, during fights he should’ve walked away from. In the silence, Dominique had wondered if those fights were about more than wounded pride--she’d watched the magic star Bellatrix as it twinkled, and thought perhaps everything he did was more. Deeper, like this universe he’d put into her ceiling.

They were still in their clothes, the ones they wore out to a pub--where they’d listened to his cousin’s band and drank cheap whiskey while they’d laughed with friends she didn’t know they shared--and there was nothing hurried in the way he had wrapped his arm around her shoulder, stroking his fingers through her hair, while he’d continued talking about stars.

That was how Roxanne found them when she’d Flooed in, unexpectedly. Her bright red hair bouncing around her head like a fiery halo, and her eyes wild with excitement. Until they had land on him--then they were full of shock, confusion, and doubt.

“I should go,” he’d muttered, detecting tension, and Dominique didn’t try to stop him.

Silence remained in his wake, and when Roxanne finally spoke there was something hollow in her tone, “This isn’t going to end well. Someone’s going to get hurt.”
“Victoire should be long over it by now, and Teddy’s a big boy,” Dominique had defended, snappy despite not wanting to be.

“I was talking about you, Nikki,” Roxanne had sighed, and flopped onto the bed beside her.

*

When he slept over, on the nights she was too tired to fight the need of wanting him closer, she would feign sleep.

Between the hours of three and four--the witching hour--his sleepy voice would brush her cheek, her eyes, her lips, her ear, “I wish you'd let me love you.” Teddy always managed to sound wounded, as if her resistance was a physical attack. Maybe it was. She’d rather hurt than be hurt.

How easy it could have been, she had thought while her eyes stared at the tip of her wand--glowing faintly purple--telling her what she already knew.

How easy it could be, if she were to pick up a quill, write him home with her news. But she didn't. Dominique doesn't want a baby to be what binds them. She doesn't want to be the reason Teddy gives up a dream.

“Maybe he wouldn't quit,” Roxanne reasoned when Dominique finally confessed to wanting the baby. Still doesn't confess the child was intentional. A way out of the world of men who look upon her as their own Jezebel. A metamorphosis from whore to mother.

“He would,” Dominique’s words came with a cloud of pungent smoke.

She knows he would; he confessed as much when she spoke in hypotheticals.

“I’d quit dueling,” Teddy had whispered against her stomach--his words in quiet French, seducing her with her heart’s native tongue. “I don't want to leave any child; the way my father tried to leave me.”

So she didn't tell him. Won't ever tell him. Because nothing lights Teddy’s face the way his work does. She's seen him on the Live Penseive; there's a certain madness about him. One that screams of love.

So I grabbed my king and ran away
to a land of death,
where I reigned and people whispered
that I’d been dragged.

Mum and Dad don’t drag her to future dinners. Instead they’ve decided to ask, and Dominique turns them down. Every. Single. Time. She figures they will eventually quit trying.

They always bring news: Lucy is getting married, Molly gave birth, Freddie’s got his fiancé up the spout. There will be a hasty wedding.

Every person’s news is happy. Unlike hers. Her condition still the elephant no one wants to address. She’s the cataclysm they cannot bear to acknowledge.

Louis comes and spends time with her when the family gathers at The Burrow. At first, she thought he was only coming because Mum and Dad made him, but he’s let it slip that he hates the house cramped full of Weasleys.

“I’m a grown man. I can decide who I’d rather spend time with--and I’d definitely choose you over any of the cousins,” his breath is heavy with his lager, making her stomach roil, but even still Dominique appreciates him. Tells Louis as much and he pulls a disgusted expression, “Now you’ve gone and made it weird and feely.” To which she shoves his face with a smile that is not forced. Feels like it’s been months.

He fetches the magic screen with a quick Accio, and Dominique watches him in askance. “Ted Owled, told me he was dueling in China this week--I thought we could watch it together.” Louis is too busy Accio-ing the popcorn and more of his foul lager. As a result, he does not see the shock that’s frozen Dominique’s face.

“You still talk to Teddy?” She tries to keep her tone even and nonchalant.

“Yeah,” Louis responds while he tinkers with the screen, his focus still preoccupied. “I mean, I don’t go announcing it to Vic--she’s a right fucking terror on a good day. But it wasn’t his fault they didn’t work out, and it wasn’t hers.” Louis sets about grabbing the Live Pensieve Projector--the one thing he knows better than to Accio, because Dad will skin him alive if he breaks that expensive piece of equipment. “I mean, they were both kids, you know? Vic was in love with the notion of love, and Ted was interested in what most eighteen-year-old boys are interested in.”

Dominique rolls her eyes at his broad back, “Not all boys are only looking to get their willy wet, at eighteen, Lou.” It never fails to surprise her that she’s not bothered by the reminder that Teddy fucked her sister years before he ever touched Dominique.

“If you had a Galleon to your name, I’d bet you for it and then we could invite Al, Hugo, and James round to prove it to you.” Louis appears entirely too smug when he glances over his shoulder at her, pulling her back from her musing. “All boys.” If Roxanne were here she’d fight Louis, til death, over that generalisation.

“So you don’t hate him,” she steers the conversation back to Teddy--who has remained a delicate topic at Shell Cottage for years. Dad catching Vic with her knickers round her ankle and Teddy up her skirt was a war Dominique is surprised never made it into the history books. To this day Dad still believes Victoire lost her “innocence” to Teddy Lupin. What a laugh; Mum, Dominique, and Lou all know Victoire lost it to Collin Ashwind between her fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts. Dad’s so ridiculous that he still believes Victoire’s only been with two men. Teddy and the one she married, but Dominique knows her sister. Like she knows her mother, her brother, and herself. Sex is in their blood and they give it freely. That’s why they all fight shame--Wizards are the ones who created shame in sex, and having both a Wizard and a creature for parents has filled them all with conflict.

“Nah,” Louis shrugs, bringing Dominique back to their conversation once more, “Everyone has a puppy love that breaks their heart.” Dominique knows for a fact Vic never loved Teddy; she spent most of their relationship getting stuffed by Teddy’s mates. She doesn’t tell Lou this, however, because the Weasley in him prevents him from accepting that his sisters are slags. Once the Projector is in place he flops back down, on the sofa, beside her. “Besides, Vic isn’t my favourite sister.”

A laugh startles its way out of her throat, “And I am?” That’s surprising, Dominique has never felt like she was anyone’s favourite in this place. Roxanne’s, sure, but none of her immediate family members.

“Course,” he knocks his shoulder with hers, “You were the one who told me working to be a head chef wasn’t a waste of time or magical ability, after Vic took the piss.” Dominique can vaguely remember Victoire being unreasonable when Louis told them all his plans. Sometimes their older sister forgets she is their sister and not their mother.

“She’s such a pain,” Dominique huffs, and Louis readily agrees with a bright laugh.

“You’ve always believed in me,” he reminds her, voice solemn, “You’ve never once belittled me, and anytime I needed someone to get me out of a tight spot--it was you. You and your constant tagalong, Roxie, but I’ll never forget who has my back when the water grows dicey.”

“Thank you, Lou,” she whispers, truly touched.

“There you go, making it feely again,” he scowls, with little heat to his faux annoyance.

Teddy’s mug is on the screen then, his smile bright and wide--eye-teeth always looking just a tad too sharp--and Dominique wears a subdued smile her brother doesn’t notice. Louis cheers, as if Teddy can hear them across the space of what feels like an endless distance.

It’s an hour into Teddy’s match--when his cheek is freely bleeding, a mistake on his behalf that was born from a miscalculation and a delayed shield--Dominique is eating on Louis’s popcorn, that he’s drizzled in caramel, and she throws out an offhanded thought.

“Would you still talk to Ted if I said he broke my heart?” Louis is so absorbed in the match she doesn’t expect an answer. Typical Weasley, blind to all else when sport is happening in front of them.

“No,” his voice is calm, minutes after she first posed the question, but she can detect a note of fury--as if he’s imagining the hypothetical as real. “I’d kill him.”

“He’s got multiple international dueling awards, Lou,” she laughs, leaning into his side. As if to punctuate her words, Teddy hits his opponent with a hex that pulls an unholy scream from their throat.

“Don’t care; I’d kill him.” And Dominique believes he would. What a foolish man; doesn’t her brother know, she can kill for herself.

*

The nursery is grey and turquoise. No one asked her why when she watched them paint it. No one questions anything she does these days; always silent acquiescence.

Lou snores from where he’s draped over the downstairs sofa, and the sound reaches her when she leans her changing form against the doorjamb of the nursery. The crib is the ancient one Dad brought down from the attic, wrought from iron with a flaking cream painted overlay, and she moves into the room--pressing her palm to the cold feel of it.

A kick flutters in her belly; she moves her hand from the cool metal to the heat of her stomach.

“Were you impressed with Daddy this evening?” She chuckles, the sound almost tragic, when the rolling beneath her skin grows more persistent.

I’ll tell you I’ve changed. I’ll tell you,
the red on my lips isn’t wine.

Poetry Slam is something Roxanne had to drag her to the first time--when they had been sixteen, with fresh wounds--but after she saw the woman on stage speaking. More like crying. Dominique felt free.

She can still hear the words, spoken like a scream:

the stars
will begin falling
from your mouth.
the moment.
you forgive yourself.
for the silence.
you
did not create.

Now, Roxanne stands at the microphone, the single light a soft glow of gold over her--crowning her like the queen Dominique knows her to be. She wears a barely there ensemble. Lace bralet dripping with glittering stones, and tight leather trousers with lacings up the side--exposing her mocha dark skin.

“Tell me I deserved it,” she commands the audience. Defiance in her eyes, raising her heavily tattooed arms in a silent I fucking dare you. “Tell me that he had the right to my flesh. Because my ancestors coloured me dark as chocolate. Tell me that my exotic mouth lured him like sin. Because he’s never seen a creature as wanton as me before. Tell me his hands were not violence. Because they touched me gently.” Her hazel eyes are bright beneath the light, wet with remembrance as they always are, but Roxanne’s voice does not waver. Her white teeth curling around a snarl when she enunciates with full, crimson lips, “Tell me I deserved it. When he put his body over mine. Without consent. Told me it was love. Tell me that was love. Tell me I deserved it.”

After. When the audience is gone, and a house-elf is the only one left, besides them, cleaning away empty bottles that litter the tables. That is when Roxanne’s voice finally trembles.

“I can still feel his mouth on my skin, like sandpaper,” Roxanne murmurs, before she puts her leather wrapped flask to her plush mouth. “He told me I should feel blessed to be plugged by him.” Dominique knows, she’s heard the story a dozen times, or more, but each time she listens as intensely as she had the first. “He told me I was made less worthless, and that he would breed the blackness out of me.”

She links their fingers, and Roxanne turns to her with sparkling hazel-green eyes, “I took his evil out of me, Nikki.”

Dominique doesn’t validate her words, Roxanne doesn’t need validating, she just needs to scream her story because she wants the world to know. Aunt Angelina always watches Roxanne with a torn expression--when Roxanne forces her mother to finally look at her. A mother’s eyes torn between understanding and revulsion, and Roxanne wears the gaze with pride. She has to, or she would crumble.

Most of the family watches her like she’s damaged, all of them whispering things behind their hands. Roxanne’s rage at silence is her armor against their judgement--she’s the strongest and most fragile woman Dominique has ever known.

*

Her feet swell in the satin binding of her pointe shoes, but Dominique doesn’t care. She moves with the same grace as she had nearly eight months before. Dominique smiles when the child moves, excitedly, within her as she turns.

Laurent is the one who claps, calling her out of her private world and Dominique feels self-conscious when his eyes go to her stomach. “You’re graceful even with the weight of a baby in you,” he praises. “Jacob should've never let you quit.” He takes her into his hold with ease, as if it has not been months since they paired up like this. “Colette doesn't anticipate my movements the way you do, and the show is suffering.”

“The critics have been praising you,” she replies ruefully. “Do not try to create a sense of pity in me. I'm not so hormonal that I've grown stupid.” Laurent lifts her, spinning her in a careful circle, her legs split across his palms. They don't need the music; their bodies recall the notes the way lungs naturally know to breathe.

“Why did you quit,” he enquires when the tips of her toes return to the studio floor. “You clearly miss it.”

“Don’t put words into my mouth like you know me.” His self-assurance rankles.

“I do know you,” his voice goes husky, and he presses closer--unwanted--his large hand cups her cheek and she jerks her face from his touch. “I learned you for months, remember?”

Dominique leans in closer, her lips near his ear, to hiss, “You were learning yourself--I’m a mystery you never bothered to solve.”

Continue to part 2