grasping straws | dahlia

[Deleted]

vouloir, c’est pouvoir.

summer, 2024

LONDON WAS LOUD. The hustle and bustle making Jean feel like he was going in slow motion. He loved it. The simultaneous melding of magic and non magique living side by side. It was everything he ever wanted. He could get drunk beside a wizard and a muggle at a club. And the non magique had no clue. It was fascinating. But, his mother wasn't in London. That much Jean knew for sure. His internal compass leading him farther from the city shores of London. Hy-Brasil, they called it. An island of druids that were being exceptionally difficult about letting Jean inside.

Cradling a brown bag filled with things Jean had bought to ease his frustration. Using money he did not really have to spare. Jean had sold most of his wares the moment he'd set foot in the city. Odd jobs were the only thing keeping him from sleeping on the streets. Pulling a satin neckscarf from the bag, Jean had stopped to examine it when he spotted a familiar face passing directly by him. Her face in profile, rounded nose pointed in the air. "Dahlia..." Jean muttered under his breath, dropping the scarf back in to his bag before he took off after her.

"Dahlia!" He yelled, elbowing his way past a sea of commuting bodies. His bag rumpling in his grip as he shuffled after her in a flurry of excitement. Lately, Jean had been feeling extremely lonely. Without the familiarity of Beauxbaton, or even the careless attitude of his foster parents. For some reason, Jean knew that he had to catch up to her. It wasn't as strong as his urge to get to Hy-Brasil, but that ticking clock inside of him was going in to overdrive. He reached out to grab her arm, digging his heels in to the sunbaked concrete. "It's me!" He declared, as if she should know him by voice alone. "Que fais-tu ici?" He asked with bare faced delight.

translation: what are you doing here?

dahlia jade leloup

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Only a day or two had passed since Dahlia had made her way from her home in Marseille to London. She was currently living out of her suitcase at some dingy hotel above a pub in Diagon Alley, and while the owner was welcoming, she didn’t want to stay there any longer if she was going to commit to living in the new city. A few questions later about cheap rentals for magic-kind and she had a small list of places to check out later in the day. She didn’t need anything elaborate – just a place to keep her few possessions that couldn’t travel with her and somewhere to sleep. The plan was to get a studio flat and find one of those fancy pull-out couches she had seen before. That way it didn’t matter if she passed out on the bed or the couch, because she would still be in the right place regardless. She was used to small rooms after dealing with Beauxbatons and the girl’s home she was placed in following her mother’s death. Apparently staying in their old apartment wasn’t negotiable for a teenager at the time. It was too bad, because she liked the location of the place despite having horrid memories of it.

London was a completely different animal though. It smelled and was loud, and while Diagon Alley and the magical part of the city were things she had always dreamed of, the non-magique part was far from it. She was already missing the seaside breeze of home, instead getting wafts of indescribable vapors from the Tube every so often. Thankfully this wasn’t New York City. She had heard horror stories of the smell there.

The scrap of paper tucked tightly in her pocket read off the first of three flats she was supposed to be viewing today, though she was planning on snagging whichever ended up being cheaper, regardless of size or location. She pulled it out again to double-check the address, only to hear her name called from somewhere nearby. It was unnerving because she was positive she didn’t know anyone that was currently in London (nor would she have cared to know if there was someone), and she also didn’t recognize the voice calling her name. Yet the guy pushing through the crowd towards her unfortunately was someone she knew. Jean something or other – who had been younger than her at school and the target of numerous pranks and was generally weird from what she remembered – knew her name, which in and of itself was creepy because she was positive she had never held a conversation with him outside of trying to act like she was friendly.

“Merde…” she swore under her breath, trying to figure out what the correct way to approach this situation would be. “Pardon? Je vous connais?” she asked him, feigning her ignorance by trying to keep it more formal. In her defense, she hadn’t been near Beauxbatons in two years. She had seen maybe a former classmate or two since then, and personally she hadn’t been planning on seeing any of them again outside of chance encounters. It was starting to look like her time had run out already on that.

translations: "shit" & "sorry? do i know you?" - using the formal conjugation versus a friendly one

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vouloir, c’est pouvoir.

summer, 2024

SCAMPERING UP TO DAHLIA LIKE AN EXCITEABLE puppy, Jean was grinning from ear to ear. His pale face peaking up over the top of his brown bag full of silk and sweets. She had a sophisticated air that Jean had always admired. Her hair glossy where it fell around her shoulders and face tan where his was ivory. She did not look pleased to see him, Jean noted that immediately. Her eyes shifting around restlessly, like she was trying to find a reason to disappear from his attention.

"Bien sûr," He replied, though his smile had lost some of his cheer. It was colder, but stubbornly in place. He reached a hand up to slap her arm in camaraderie. "We were best of friends, non?" He said with a hint of sarcasm. Dahlia had not actively been cruel to Jean in school, but he took a personal offence to her dismissal. Jean had liked her, but he was beginning to reconsider. Had it not been for the fact that he was so utterly lonely and Dahlia was a familiar face, he might have trialled a much ruder reply. "What are you doing in London?" He asked in English, though his accent was noticeably thick.

translation: of course

dahlia jade leloup

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The click of her tongue as she stared back at Jean, already irritated by his confidence in her knowledge of who he was, wasn’t hidden in the slightest. Her escape from France was supposed to be a peaceful transition, and yet she hadn’t even been here a full week and someone she knew had popped up. There was the possibility that Jean had been here for a while (Dahlia couldn’t recall how much younger the kid was from herself), where she would then technically be the intruder in London. It wasn’t like she thought magical London would be completely devoid of French witches and wizards; there was a supposed shop in the town of Hogsmeade, near Hogwarts, which had been started by a Beauxbatons alumnus, and she had been told to visit there if possible. But that was different. Having Jean of all people suddenly appearing before her meant she was never going to see the end of it. She always felt like he had attachment issues, like Velcro, and didn’t know when he wasn’t wanted around. Better yet, he didn’t even know when he was being bullied. Either he was socially starved or stupid. Dahlia liked to think it was a bit of both, considering what she had seen over the years.

“Je n’ai pas d’amis. I don’t know why you would assume that,” she looked up at him. When had he gotten so freakishly tall? When he had come running towards her through the crowd, it hadn’t really clicked yet. No wonder he managed to pick her out so easily. Hopefully she didn’t look too lost amongst the non-magique. She had seen magical folks walk around cities before, standing out like tourists did, and always gawking like fools.

He then asked her what she was doing in London. Dahlia wanted to shrug it off and leave then and there. That was none of his business. But at the same time, she realized she could use this to her advantage. Whether he was here for vacation or to work, if she grandstanded about having a good job, his blabby mouth would eventually get it back to other Beauxbatons alumni. It was unfortunate that her former classmates would have to be subjected to his tales of her triumph (and maybe they would find them just as unbelievable as the rest of his fantasies), but she could live with that.

“I have a job,” she chose English this time, because their conversation in their native tongue would eventually draw curious ears and wandering eyes, even in London. If they were going to be discussing magic related things in the middle of the street, she was going to be more tactful and cautious with her words. “Working for the bank here. Asset retrieval.” A white lie, for now, though she was more than positive that she would have her dream career in a week or so. The difference between now and then meant nothing to her.

translation: I don't have any friends.

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vouloir, c’est pouvoir.

summer, 2024

IT WAS A FAMILIAR GAME DAHLIA WAS PLAYING. One Jean had seen countless times in the halls of Beauxbaton. Always donning the impression of a roughened loner-type. Jean hadn't believed it then, and he certainly didn't believe it this time, either. "Nnf," He grunted, pressing a hard hand to his chest as he pouted his bottom lip at her. "Please don't say that," He said in accented English. "Makes me so sad." Blinking large, dark eyes at her before he broke out in a large grin.

Though her declaration gave Jean a gasp of triumph. An unwarranted hand coming up to grasp her shoulder and shake it once. "Un travail!" He reiterated in enthusiastic French. "I always knew you were so smart." He tapped the side of his head, his grin consuming the lower half of his face. "Is why I would use your papers to cheat, eh." He quirked his brows at her, as if he were revealing a secret. It wasn't, Jean was notorious for cheating in glass. From charmed bird-shaped notes peering over students shoulders, to switching parchment hexes. He was only ever punished for the ones that failed.

"Well..." He declared, rocking on his heels restlessly. "Feel free to retrieve me a very large bag of gold." He said with a smile, only marginally joking as he jerked his chin up the street. "Do you want a firewhiskey?" He asked her hopefully, desperate for conversation of any sort. He'd even let her sit and insult him, if only she would sit with him. Jean had no friends on the mainland, and barely any on Hy-Brasil. Dahlia's sudden appearance left him desperate to cling to her. To cling to any sort of extended conversation. Even as short as Dahlia's was. 

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Passing his clear loneliness off by attempting humor only had Dahlia staring at him with a disgruntled look on her face. She hated all of that. The entire act that was put on whenever she happened to be unfortunate enough to bump into someone she knew from home or went to school with. No one at Beauxbatons had been kind to her, and it had been like that before she was turned. She was from a non-magique mother and not even close to being in the same social standing as most of her classmates had been. Beauxbatons was beyond her element by a long shot. Having learned more about the English equivalent in Hogwarts, she now desperately wished that she could go back in time and do a do-over there instead. Then she would have bumped into some of her half-siblings at the very least. At the French school, she was alone and out-classed.

Whatever she had done around Jean had apparently created something memorable for him though, and she could only regret her passive ability to pretend like everything was fine for that. She had given in too much and rolled over her last few years, choosing to pretend she was happy and fine with her mother dead and the werewolf that was now lying dormant in her. It was the only way to make people treat her closer to normal than she actually was. Even though it had been only a few years since she last ran into him, it seemed Jean remembered a lot more about her later time in school than she cared to ever reminisce about.

She wanted to ignore him, as he went on about school work, and then his weird comment about gold had her rolling her eyes. Every time he talked brought back more and more awful memories of trying to shake him in the corridors at school. Why he took interest in her was beyond him, but she thought that had ended years ago. The last thing she needed was to see him waiting around like some sort of stalker every time she came back from a work trip. That would be beyond exhausting. “Yeah sure, fine,” she relented, turning on her heels and starting towards the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. They weren’t far away from it, and she didn’t want him knowing about the apartments that she was going to be looking at later on in the day. “But only one. And you’re paying,” she added stiffly as she briskly walked towards the magical pub without saying anything to him the entire way.

[Skip ahead to the Leaky Cauldron?]

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vouloir, c’est pouvoir.

summer, 2024

THE LEAKY CAULDRON WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN Jean's first choice, but he was just desperate enough not to complain. Tailing Dahlia like an excitable crup as they manoeuvred through the busy streets. The difference in atmosphere between muggle to wizard almost startling as Jean cradled his paper bag in to the dingy little pub. He'd been in it before, but there had been nothing particularly exciting about the place, bar the booze.

Her acceptance of his company was cautionary, Jean knew this. Silent in his pursuit as they found a short table and settled in to it, Jean disappearing to the bar to buy two firewhiskey's using money he'd squirrelled away from his shifts at the inn. He didn't have much, and he knew this. A meagre collection of coins dwindling down to the last sickle. He did not say this as he returned to the table and set the glass down in front of Dahlia.

"Do I say-" Jean began, cradling his glass with a small grin. "I'm half-Druid." He lifted his brows expectantly, leaning back in his chair. Jean had always been the orphan boy at school, a foster child of no consequence or great expectation. It was often something Jean was picked on for, though Dahlia did not appear to care about Jean's existence never mind his birth rights. It did not stop Jean from mentioning it though. "I found them..." He took a sip of his drink. "I can find many things." 

dahlia jade leloup

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At least the Leaky Cauldron had a welcoming atmosphere, because she honestly disliked having Jean hanging onto her like a bad habit. The way he followed her all the way to the pub like a lost puppy was gross, and he just had this weird thing about him. He was always present. Thinking back on school, it had been similar then as well. She had always thought that it was because they were both seen as social outcasts or something, sometimes being lumped together in the same groups. She knew why she was shunned and looked down on, but all she could glean about Jean was that he was a weirdo that didn’t know boundaries. Or at the very least, that was how he was around her.

She downed the shot of firewhisky that was placed in front of her before Jean even had a chance to sit down at the table. Just one of those wasn’t going to do much to her, but the burn would at least make it easier to listen to him for another couple of minutes. He said something about being a ‘half-druid’, whatever that meant, and how he had found ‘them’. Dahlia had absolutely no clue what he was talking about. “And I’m a werewolf. C’est super! Je ne comprends pas,” she flipped back into their native French. He was being mysterious for no good reason, and probably only wanted to drag out the conversation for as long as possible so he could waste her time.

“Another?” she asked about the drink even though he had only sipped his. Not bothering to listen to his response, she got up and crossed over to the bar and got two more shots of firewhisky and a butterbeer for herself. Pushing Jean’s shot across, she downed her second one no problem, before washing it down with a gulp of the butterbeer. Anymore and her apartment viewing was going to be real fun.

[translation: That's great! I don't understand.]

@jean ● 325 ● Life Eternal by Ghost

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vouloir, c’est pouvoir.

summer, 2024

DAHLIA HAD DOWNED THE SHOT BEFORE JEAN'S backside had even hit the seat. He stared at it, his head rearing back a little with a slight laugh as it smacked the table without a sip left in it. He nursed his own, lifting it with mild surprise to let the burning liquid dance on his lip. After a moment of consideration, though, he mirrored her. The firewhiskey searing a path down in to his gut. He liked her company, even if she did not like his.

"I remember, you know." He said once she had returned. Having watched her retreating back with rampant curiosity, his relief counting the sickles in his pocket when she had bought the round and not expected such a thing from him. He'd have had to skim the coins from her pocket, especially if he planned to pay a ferry back to Hy-Brasil. "I was in the third year and somebody said you were uh... un sang sale." He spoke casually, though his eyes danced across her face. "They say the same thing about me, you know." His chin tilted up, as if to dare her to reduce him once again to the tail she could not shed - a mere annoyance. "That's why I like you."

Taking his glass from the table, Jean lifted it to his lips and downed it in one. She had bought herself a butterbeer chaser, which he looked at with a half smile. "Are we to share?" He joked, quirking his brows as he sat back in his seat. "I say I can find things, you say you do not understand." Jean reiterated, his foot bending to rest on his knee as he lounged in his seat. "I have uh... special skill." He was grinned openly now, bragging. "Not to frighten you, but..." He rolled his neck. "You could disappear to the very edge of the earth," Jean kissed his teeth and gestured with an open palm. "I find you if I like." 

dahlia jade leloup

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She was going to need a lot more alcohol if she was going to be expected to get through this entire conversation without trying to strangle Jean first. The first shot was starting to numb her throat, in time for the follow-up one, and she desperately needed a third by the time he started talking about her ‘un sang sale’ – dirty blood. Dahlia’s attention, which had been taken up by her drinks, was immediately on Jean, her eyes locked on him and narrowing. The glare that she could now achieve was sometimes described to her as almost wolfish by the more astute witches and wizards, an attempt at intimidation without having to use her wand or words. Despite what Jean seemed to think about the two of them being the same, they were far from it. His half-druid, whatever that was, couldn’t even be compared to her lycanthropy. And she absolutely did not care if he liked her, in any sense of that word. The only similarity that they shared was that the general populace of Beauxbatons had treated them differently: her because she was a werewolf, and Jean because he was weird. Those were two completely different reasons.

He asked if she was sharing her butterbeer, causing her to pull it in closer to her, an arm sliding around the front of it to block it from him. “No.” Dahlia said firmly, an almost disciplinary tone in her singular word. If it was acceptable to growl at someone inside the Leaky Cauldron, she probably would have done so right about now. Jean’s joking aggravated her to no end. And he continued talking about how he could find things and people no matter where they were. That sounded a lot like he was a stalker. “You stalked me? C'est ce que tu dis?” She failed to see how this skill of his was of any importance, especially because it sounded to her like he had used it to seek her out (and that was assuming it was even a skill like he had said). Deciding then and there that she was done with his shit, she stood up again from her seat and started to collect her things. “Si vous me suivez, je ferai en sorte que vous disparaissiez. I have many hiding places in Egypt,” she threatened, giving him another stern glare.

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vouloir, c’est pouvoir.

summer, 2024

IT SHOULD HAVE FRIGHTENED JEAN, THE WAY Dahlia glared at him openly. The ferocity increasing the more that he spoke. Unfortunately, Jean's instincts for danger were shot. He looked at her obvious disdain and he mistook it for enchantment - or perhaps just a general lack of care for how he was internally perceived. His grin did not waver and this seemed only to incense her all the more. A woman of few words, the butterbeer snatched towards her at the mention of sharing.

"Mon, Dieu!" He scoffied, hands up in surrender. "I was joking..." He hadn't been, but it was funny to see the way her face twisted in disgust. How she nursed the tankard possessively, as if he might just reach over and pluck it up anyway. He fished around in his empty pockets, finding a few spare sickles and cradling them in his palm as he collected. Just enough for a half pint, he reckoned, which he ordered with a shameless flourish. Handing the barkeep the change as if it was far more impressive than the rusted coins he'd actually handed over. "Keep the change..." He joked, and the bartender did not laugh, turning away to retrieve his drink.

Shifting his attention back to Dahlia, Jean appeared entirely unmoved at the sudden tension. He'd been bragging, certainly, but it had not landed as he'd intended. "Stalking you?" Jean's head tilted back and he released a belly full of laughter, pointing an accusing finger at her as he added, "And they say you have no humour!" Still chuckling merrily, though Dahlia did not share in his sentiment. "You miscommunicate what I mean," He shrugged exaggeratedly, turning to tilt his chin and wink at the bartender as they pushed the half pint towards him.

Relaxed and flushed with laughter, Jean realised Dahlia was a deeply mistrusting person. He could imagine why, but it still surprised him nonetheless as she stood up, rattling the chair behind her in the hurry. He watched it shake and settle, disappointed it had not dramatically fallen over, before he slowly lifted his chin to regard Dahlia in all her glory. Eyes glinting dangerously, face darkened in flush and mouth twisted unattractively so that her lips wrinkled. He leaned back in his chair, lifting his glass and taking a slow, thoughtful sip. Decorating his upper lip with a fine, delicate foam from the top of his glass.

"Serious... why would I look for you?" He asked her plainly, a merry crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he licked the foam from his lip. "You are not rich, you do not have anything I would like." He cast a critical eye at her person, the first hint of disapproval as he spotted the ill-match of her clothing. "It was merely a... a show." He settled on the English warily, clicking his fingers before he added, "Par exemple!" He took another sip from his glass, watching her loom over him. As if she hadn't quite decided whether she was leaving or not.

He sat forward in his chair suddenly, determined to catch her intrigue once more. "Egypt is... overrated." He shrugged, fingers drumming on the table. "I have a better place to disappear." He winked at her, teeth glinting in the low lighting of the bar. "Have you been to Hy-Brasil?" 

dahlia jade leloup

NEVERLAND at ADOXOGRAPHY 2.0!

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She didn’t like jokes and she didn’t like Jean. And she especially didn’t think Jean’s jokes were any good. The only joke here was him, in her opinion, and his pitiful attempt at keeping her attention. Mentally kicking herself for even entertaining his follies and getting dragged along to the pub, Dahlia finally decided this was enough. Leaving France meant leaving it all behind. Jean included. The second she was in the clear to disapparate, she would be free of his incessant chatter. “Yes. Stalk. That's creepy. C'est louche. Vous êtes perturbé.” Dahlia had collected herself and was already walking away from Jean, as he seemingly paid the barkeep for the pitiful drink that was just ‘shared’. Whatever he was miscommunicating, he was doing a horrible job at clearing it up with her. Then again, she wasn’t sure if she even wanted to know what he was really getting at here. Finding stuff on the other side of the world? Was this some jab at her career because she was always traveling? How did he even know what she did anyways?

Jean probably saved himself from some sort of bodily harm or verbal lashing, because he finally spit out what he was getting at. His angle, or whatever, wasn’t that he was looking for her in particular (supposedly) but had used her as an example. That didn’t change the fact that he picked her out of a crowd of non-magique in the middle of London. Trusting him on his word was impossible for her to do. And yet she still stopped and listened to him. The only person she could blame now was herself, assuming it got weirder.

Of course it did, because this was Jean. He was prattling on about disappearing to Hy-Brasil. Obviously she knew where that was. “Not allowed. I have un sang sale,” Dahlia used his own words back at him. Cursebreakers weren’t exactly looked kindly on there either, as their reputation was the kind that came with breaking and entering. She let the authorities decide if it was legal or not. The added bonus of being a werewolf meant she absolutely couldn’t go there. Why would she want to go somewhere where the people actively hated her for something she couldn’t control? If she wanted that, she’d go back to Beauxbatons again.

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