Chapter Text
When the owl arrived, Dorcas was playing outside.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the thick canopy of trees, casting golden patterns onto the soft earth. The air smelled of damp grass and wild thyme, and her bare feet kicked up small clouds of dust as she ran. She was chasing shadows, leaping over the roots that curled like sleeping serpents beneath the oaks, her laughter carrying through the air like a melody only the wind could hold.
It was Mòyà, her grandmother, who broke the wax seal, with her gentle hands and her fingers that bore the marks of almost a century of ritualistic magic. Fingers that had stitched charms into the hems of cloaks, traced protective runes into the soil, and pressed soft blessings into the foreheads of sleeping children.
Later, when dusk had already begun to light the sky in hues of violet and amber, she called her in.
“Cassie, come here, moonchild.”
Dorcas entered the gathering room, her gaze calm, steady, dark as river stones smoothed by time. Mòyà was sitting on a chair in the center, fingers intertwined on the beads of her shawl. The fire crackled in its stone hearth, sending purple flames licking against the vaulted ceilings, illuminating the old wood and woven tapestries that lined the walls. The scent of burning lavender and orange peel curled through the air, mixing with the familiar earthiness of old books and dried herbs.
As she sat in front of her grandmother, the girl felt the silence gradually conquering the women in the room. Her aunts and cousins all fell silent, not exactly in gravity, but more so in expectation. Only the old cat dared to move, wrapping its black tail around her ankle.
“I think you know what this is.”
Dorcas’ eyes turned back to her grandmother, then flickered to the letter in her grandmother’s hands. The wax seal had been broken, but it remained unmistakable. A crest she had only seen once before, when it was Eulalie’s turn. A lion, a serpent, a badger, a raven.
She nodded, slow and certain.
“Like Eulalie last year, and like Liadan nine years ago, the time has come for the wizarding world to take you from us, moonchild. But fear not, you can and will come back. You are a Meadowes ; you were born powerful. You received the first mark, you read your page in the Grimoire des Mères.” Mòyà’s dark eyes were fixated on hers, with a tranquil insistence. Then, she extended her hands, and took Dorcas’. “You are ready to face the world. We trust that you will not get lost in it.”
At her grandmother’s words, the women rose in unison. The hum of their voices filled the room, rising and falling like the tide, a hymn older than any language spoken beyond these walls.
We trust that you are ready
The sound wrapped around Dorcas like silk, threading into her skin, filling the empty spaces inside her. The chant was not loud, not meant for the ears of men, but for something older, something watching. It was both a blessing and a tether, a reminder that even as she stepped beyond the boundaries of this place, she would never be alone.
Later, in the quiet hush of her room, her ears still buzzed with the remnants of their voices.
She lay on her bed, staring up at the wooden beams above her, tracing the knots in the wood like constellations. The letter rested on her chest, rising and falling with each breath.
She had been afraid—not of leaving, but of being left behind. That the letter would never come, that the great castle in Scotland had forgotten her, lost her name to the wind. But it hadn’t. She was going.
At Hogwarts, she would learn more about the magic that lived beneath her skin, the rituals and the craft that she had only just begun to understand. She would study potions, weave spells, and meet other witches, ones that were not her cousins.
The thought sent a thrill through her chest, sharp and bright.
For the first time, she let herself believe it. She was ready.
From this day, the summer was never-ending. Each day was a renewed lesson of patience, cadenced by the daily rituals.
Each dawn began with the morning ablutions : enchanted water infused with herbs, poured in steady, deliberate motions over her skin. Rosemary for clarity, lavender for peace, basil for protection.
She made her daily vow at the family altar, whispering promises into the candlelight.
Days were spent gathering herbs in the garden, fingers brushing against the leaves with reverence, learning their properties as she bound them into small bundles. She practiced magic beneath her aunt’s watchful eye, tracing sigils into the dirt, coaxing fire from candlewicks, feeling the pulse of the earth beneath her palms.
And at night, the final anointment—a drop of oil pressed to her temples, marking the shift between light and dark. Moonflower for sight, myrrh for wisdom, jasmine for dreams.
One day, in the middle of August, Dorcas wrote a letter to her cousin.
“Dear Liadan,
I hope you’re having fun in America. Maybe you know, but I received my letter from the school of magic. Can you tell me how Hogwarts is ? Is it true that the students fly on brooms there ? And that there are dragons ?
Please answer me before the end of summer. I love you.
Dorcas”
She sealed the letter with a practiced hand and sent it off with the family owl, watching as the creature disappeared into the hazy blue sky. Then, all she could do was wait. The anticipation settled in her stomach like a coiled serpent, patient but ever-present. What if Liadan didn’t answer in time ? What if she was too busy, or—worse—what if she had forgotten ?
But two days before her departure, as the summer heat finally began to wane, the owl returned. Dorcas untied the letter with careful fingers, heart pounding a little harder than she expected.
“Dear Dorcas, sweet cousin,
Do not fret about Hogwarts. It will seem strange at first, because it can be quite different than home. But soon you will adapt, you will make friends and please your teachers. I think that you’re going to like it. But be careful when you walk the stairs – I swear that they are like the ones that lead to aunt Zénaïde’s room, only worse –, and do not forget the password of your common room. We do fly on brooms at Hogwarts, and even play a game called quidditch, although it never was my passion. However, I’ve never seen a dragon.
Good luck at school, cousin. Remember to always do as the teachers say, and try not to make waves ; everything will be fine.
With love,
Liadan”
Dorcas read it twice, then folded it neatly and pressed it to her chest. It didn’t answer all of her questions—if anything, it left her with more—but it carried a warmth that settled her nerves. Liadan had been there first. She had walked the same corridors, climbed the same treacherous staircases, and she had found her way.
And with that, the summer finally came to an end.
Dorcas packed her bags in the quiet hush of early morning, the soft light filtering through the curtains as she folded her clothes and nestled her books between bundles of dried herbs. The house felt different, as if it, too, was holding its breath, waiting for her departure.
She said goodbye to the garden, brushing her fingers over the rosemary bushes, inhaling the scent one last time. She bid farewell to her aunts and cousins, their embraces firm, their whispered blessings pressing against her skin. And finally, she made her last vow at the altar of her ancestors.
Kneeling before the candle, she let the familiar words slip from her lips, steady and certain.
"I walk with those who came before me. I am guided. I am protected."
She took an instant, and got up.
“It is time, moonchild.”
Mòyà’s voice was steady, gentle as the tides, yet firm in its finality. She stood in the doorway, framed by the warm glow of the gathering room’s ever-burning fire, her shawl draped over her shoulders, the beads woven into its fabric catching the light. Her dark eyes, wise and knowing, held none of the sadness Dorcas felt twisting in her chest—only trust, only love.
Behind her, Aunt Zénaïde stepped forward, cradling a jar of neon green Floo powder between her hands as if it were something sacred. The fine grains shimmered like crushed emeralds under the candlelight. The scent of myrrh and rosemary, ever-present in their home, clung to the air, mingling with the faint traces of smoke from the hearth.
Dorcas inhaled deeply, as if she could preserve the feeling of home within her lungs. She rose to her feet, her movements slow, deliberate. Her legs felt heavier than they should have, her fingers trembling as she reached for her grandmother. Mòyà pulled her into an embrace, warm and strong, her hands pressing gently against Dorcas’ back in silent reassurance.
“You are ready,” Mòyà whispered into her hair.
Dorcas squeezed her eyes shut, holding onto the moment, engraving it into memory. The feeling of her grandmother’s steady heartbeat against her cheek. The distant sound of wind chimes outside. The flickering shadows on the stone walls, cast by the eternal purple flames.
At last, she let go.
She picked up her suitcases, their weight grounding her, anchoring her to the present. Aunt Maeva uncorked the jar, letting the fine green powder shift like sand between her fingers. Dorcas stepped closer to the hearth, watching as the purple flames roared in greeting, licking up the stone walls, casting shifting shapes onto the ceiling.
She took a handful of the shimmering powder, feeling its strange, silken texture against her skin.
She turned back one last time. Mòyà stood still, watching her with the same quiet certainty. Aunt Zénaïde offered her a small smile, though there was something in her eyes, a flicker of longing, of pride.
Dorcas did not trust herself to speak.
Instead, she threw the powder into the fire. Instantly, the violet blaze turned a vibrant shade of green, swirling like a storm contained within the hearth. A rush of warmth flooded over her as she stepped forward, letting the flames envelop her completely.
For a moment, the world blurred. Colors twisted and stretched, the familiar walls of her childhood home spinning away into nothingness. Wind roared in her ears, a thousand voices whispering past her as she was carried away.
She did not look back.