chapter one,
edge of seventeen

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  DAPHNE JUST WANTS TO CRY!

  To say the very least, her day has not been going all too well. Starting things off with a bang: she couldn't catch even a wink of sleep because of the incessant anxiety about what the day would bring rattling about in her cranium, leading to a day full of droopy eyes and particularly hearty yawns. Then, her father had gone berserk and pulled her out of bed as soon as the bloody birds began to sing so that they weren't late to the station — despite the fact that they still were — and she didn't even get to latch on to as much as a piece of toast before they left! Apparating on an empty stomach is never a good idea. Never.

  Daphne can already feel the grief bubbling up in anticipation, that awful inevitable geyser of her sorrows preparing to burst from deep within her chest. Perhaps she's being dramatic ( she's definitely being dramatic ), but even as she desperately squashes down the trembling fatigue that piles on top of her and tries to drag her down, she can only sit in the middle of the train station and hold her head in her palms pathetically. Daphne's tears are glittering on her waterline and everything is growing to be far too much, but she keeps trying to swallow the lump at the back of her throat and compress that bitter little feeling down into the depths of herself.

  Bloody Mercury retrograde. . .

  As she sifts through her foggy head helplessly, held captive by weariness and the overwhelming desire to have a meltdown, she's grounded by the touch of her sister's fingers snaking around her own.

  Guilt pangs at Daphne's heart. Moving all the way to England and transferring schools had been hard on the both of them, not to mention the uneasiness simmering between them and their father. This wasn't easy for her, either, and Daphne had been neglecting that.

"Il pleut des cordes," she says, her mind having gone blank.

  Stevie laughs at that. "Ça m'est égal."

  "Eh, ce n'est pas ma tasse de thé."

  Stevie squeezes her hand and smiles weakly. "Comment tu te sens?" she murmurs, exhaustion tainting her pretty face as she changes the subject.

  "Assez bien," Daphne lies. "Et toi?"

  "Comme ci, comme ça. J'ai la dalle et on crève de froid."

  Daphne laughs a hollow laugh, turning her head to look at Stevie properly.

  She's the spitting image of their late mother, with golden brown curls and enchanting eyes like aquamarine jewels. Her striped polo neck is tucked into her tatty old flares, a brown belt looping around her waist. Golden jewellery twinkles on her as though she has the Midas touch, an ( excessive ) myriad of rings, bracelets and bangles dancing over her freckled arms. However, a cosmos smudges dully beneath her eyes, tiredness painting her rosy skin a variety of purples and blues.

  A small Crup is nestled in her lap, sound asleep with his three tails wagging every so often. His collar is navy and covered in sparkly stars, the golden name tag reading, Romeo. He was a sort of a bribe from their lovely grandmother after a gargantuan argument that Daphne's not willing to summarise, but she can't bring herself to feel anything but adoration for him. He's just so precious!

  "Well, where's Atlas run off to?" Daphne asks all of a sudden, slipping back into English. "He can always buy you something to eat."

  She couldn't bring herself to call him Dad.

  "I'm not sure," Stevie replies with her eyebrows knitted together. "Maybe to get coffee or something? He hasn't really spoken to me properly this morning. I think he was sort of avoiding me, actually."

  Daphne can't fight the frown that scrunches her face. What's got his knickers in a twist?

  "Oh, speak of the devil," Stevie whispers, scratching behind Romeo's sandy ear as she cradles him close.

  Atlas Montgomery is wriggling through the crowd to reach them, his mop of caramel hair falling over his emerald eyes. He's swallowed up by a big brown coat, his shirt missing a few buttons at the top and his boots scuffed all over, a hazardous pair of shoelaces left untied. His shaking hands are covered in burns, scars and callouses, his job as a dragon handler for the Ministry evident in his many gruesome marks. An uneasy smile purses his mouth, uneven stubble scratching his complexion.

  "Hello," he says rather awkwardly. "How's everyone doing?"

  His tremulous voice holds the same Scouse accent that the sisters share whenever they speak in English, though theirs are admittedly less noticeable. It's edged with anxiety, his eyes darting about as if he was deathly allergic to eye contact.

  "Ve te faire foutre," Daphne mutters scornfully, arms crossed together tightly as though she were an admonished toddler.

  Atlas' face twists in confusion.

  "Never mind her," Stevie intervenes. "When's the train departing?"

  "Oh, very soon." He pauses for a deafeningly silent moment. "Erm, actually, you should probably start getting on now, 'cause I think they're about to leave. Maybe. Yeah, they're leaving, I'm certain. Sorry."

  Cradling a snoring Romeo to her chest, Stevie jumps to her feet and ends up yanking Daphne off of her seat, her hand fiercely clinging to her elder sister's. "Merde," she whispers as she watches the steam train release a shrill cry.

Atlas shrinks back into his collar. "Sorry," he murmurs again, patting her on the shoulder awkwardly. "Have fun at school."

"Yes, yes. We'll see you at Christmas, dad," Stevie says dismissively, ignoring the way he tenses up. "Enjoy the rest of the year."

  Daphne yawns, hand loose on her luggage. "What's happening, mon coquelicot?" she manages to say.

  Stevie begins pulling her along the platform, rushing another goodbye to Atlas from over her shoulder. "No time! The train's leaving."

  "You're cutting off circulation—"

The pouch of crystals in Daphne's jacket rattle about furiously as she's dragged: a shaking galaxy full of tourmaline, aventurine and garnet held within her thin coat pocket. Her tarot deck is hidden away in her bra, bound by thick purple thread and foretelling things that fray Daphne's nerves. Anxiety pools in her gut all of a sudden, her fingertips shaking at the realisation that she's diving headfirst into a completely different environment, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and a new life that she isn't too sure she's prepared for — not to mention the frizzy state of her hair thanks to the rain. A torturous migraine begins to build in her cranium. Fucking fabulous!

  She stops abruptly, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes and taking a deep breath. "Mon dieu, I need to go to sleep," Daphne whispers solemnly.

"Yes, that's wonderful and all, but we really have to get a move on," Stevie says as she grabs her shoulders gently. Her eyes soften. "You can get some rest on the train."

Romeo yaps inspirationally.

Daphne goes willingly after that, tripping over her knotted shoelaces and wincing as she inhales the vicious tempest of steam rolling onto the platform.

Unsurprisingly, the train is packed. Friends embrace in doorways and excitable chatter depicting their many summer adventures courses through the claustrophobic halls. Chaos runs wild as reunions ensue, clawing through every inch of the Hogwarts Express with a rabid vigour that nearly knocks Daphne off her feet. A maelstrom of squeaky First Years come whirring past, bouncing off the walls with an admirable sort of energy considering it's only about ten in the morning. Amber lights hang from the ceiling, rocking from side to side as the train begins to speed up along the rickety tracks. Owls screech as they're balanced haphazardly on seats and cats mewl in complaint whenever they turn a corner or coast over a bump in the road. Daphne shares a look with Stevie, and they sigh.

   Outside, spindly rays of sunlight began to break through the overcast sky, lightening the stretching canvas of pure grey to a diluted blue colour. As they speed out of London in ( ridiculously ) record time, the rolling fields up ahead shudder in rain sodden misfortune, graciously soaking up the golden beams that tickle the grass and kiss it with warmth.

After trekking through the hall for countless minutes, they eventually make their way towards a compartment where there only are two boys roosting inside — not quite Daphne's definition of ideal but better than the bloody congregations of students in the other ones. They're multiplying, she swears!

The first boy is balancing a journal on his left knee and a book of poetry for inspiration in his other, his hands lathered in navy ink. He's swallowed by a plain dark green jumper, as well as a mangled pair of ripped jeans. Mousy hair flops down over his forehead, as unruly as a thorny briar. The boy opposite him isn't as tense, relaxing back into his scarlet cushioned-seat, tuning a black guitar with trancelike concentration. A slender cedar-wood wand pokes out of his shirt pocket, dangerously close to blowing his pierced ear off. His eyes are the same raven as his curls, and his teeth are clamped down on a thin cigarette.

   The door makes a screech akin to nails on a chalkboard when Daphne wrenches it open, capturing their attention instantaneously. Romeo broke from the haze of his slumber and began to bark eagerly.

"Can we sit in here?" Stevie asks demurely. "The other compartments are full."

"Yeah, I don't see why not," the black-haired one says kindly, puffing wispy smoke out the open window.

However, his friend stays firmly in a cloak of ( judgemental ) silence. They share a non-verbal argument consisting of icy glares and leaping eyebrows, a few threatening gestures tossed into the mix for variety. Daphne feels as though she's intruding on something.

  Alas, she decides to sit next to the guitar-wielding boy with her own safety in mind. He smells of oranges. Sorry Stevie!

   "You're being dodgy today," the poet complains, airing his grievances at long last. "First, you bash the Wigtown Wanderers outside of Greggs and now this? I mean, inviting strangers to sit with us is well weird because—

   "To be fair, the moon is in Gemini, Cian."

   "—they could be axe murderers or something!"

  "I never should've shown you muggle horror films," he sighs. "Anyhow, don't be daft. You're just being paranoid."

  "You won't be saying that when you star in a reenactment of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre because you were feeling a wee bit more friendly than usual."

A beat of silence strolls past before the black haired boy asks begrudgingly, "By any chance, are either of you lovely ladies axe murderers?"

Daphne shrugs. "We dabble."

A hand swats at her. "Arrête ton cirque," Stevie whispers under her breath, grinning widely.

  Daphne rolls her eyes playfully. "Je pensais ec que j'ai dit," she says back quietly.

  'Cian' adorns a nosy expression, side-eyeing them with silent intrigue. "You're French?"

"Allegedly," Daphne replies dryly, quirking an eyebrow.

   "You don't sound very French," he accuses under his breath.

   His friend kicks him in the shin, hard.

"Merlin, are you coming all the way from Beauxbatons?" he exclaims, acting as though he hadn't done anything. "To here? You poor things."

  Stevie nods, cherry lips pursed in a friendly beam. "Oh, c'mon, I'm sure it can't be that rubbish."

  "You'd be surprised," the poet grumbles, rubbing his leg miserably.

Something dawns on his friend. "Oh, fuck me, I completely forgot. I'm Roger and that's Cian. Hope I don't seem too rude," his crooked grin is as warm as the sunbeams outside.

  "No, you're alright," Daphne laughs cordially. "That's my sister, Stevie, and I'm Daphne."

Roger shakes her hand with bone-crunching vigour. "Lovely to meet you."

Stevie seizes the opportunity to lean forward in her seat, a telltale glint of mischief in her narrowed eyes. "So, what was this you were saying about the Wigtown Wanderers?"

"Oh, he was talking absolute shite—"

"I think it was perfectly reasonable!"

"Reasonable? You should be locked up in Azkaban for a lie like that, mate."

Romeo begins to bark enthusiastically, his tails wagging with so much energy that Cian has to inch away from him in fear.

"Moral of the story, lads," Stevie resolves when the chatter dissipates, "the Tutshill Tornadoes are undefeated."

"You what—"

An argument rattles the compartment furiously, a silly thing such as quidditch managing to spark wrath in their hearts, but even as they debate heatedly with ( to put it simply ) complete strangers, broad grins constantly illuminate their faces.

Maybe this won't be as terrible as I thought, Daphne muses to herself, smiling brightly into her collar, a girl with hopeful eyes and too many dreams. Maybe I'll actually manage to survive the school year.

Maybe.

authors note!

i'm projecting my negative emotions onto daphne bc there's a mercury retrograde just now and it's killing me !!

soz if it's rlly obvious (to French speakers) that I don't speak French 😭😭 I'm using all of the knowledge that I have from s2 french + lots of different websites and trying at all costs to avoid using Google translate bc that's not how I roll 🤩🤩 so in short im sorry if their convos sound super robotic or make no sense lol 😍💋

i could go on and on for hours about how much i loathe first chapters bc for some reason i have such a hard time executing them well like??? it's not that hard babes??? + the very short lived atlas cameo was rubbish but I'm still trying to work out what his character's going to be like so it's probably for the best that i don't do too much yet bc i'd embarrass myself 😭

anyways, ty for reading x