Beauxbatons [Charlie Weasley]

Graveyard

"We're at a graveyard," Charlie whispers, his voice barely audible.

Isabelle turns around to face him solemnly. "You said you wanted to meet my friends."

The red-haired man inhales sharply, staring at Isabelle. Dead. Her friend, or friends, are dead. Is that why she never talked about her friends back in France when they were at Hogwarts? Is that why she used to sometimes zone out, her eyes turning sad? Is that why she hesitated before she entered the Forbidden Forest with Charlie on Christmas morning?

Charlie looked down at the golden-haired girl and gave her hand a little squeeze, realising that this was her first time entering the Forbidden Forest.

"Don't worry," he said quietly, "it's not as bad as it seems. It's a little—"

"I am not scared," Isabelle interjected quietly, looking into the trees, "I 'ave always loved zee forest. It eez just zat I will never be able to go into a forest wiz zee person zat I used to."

Charlie realises he's still staring at her as she pushes open the creaking iron gate, stepping into the graveyard. All he can do is follow, his mind still swirling with so many thoughts. So much stuff is starting to make sense now.

He follows Isabelle as she walks slowly between the crumbling gravestones; she clearly knows this place like the back of her hand, no doubt having visited several times before. Charlie can't help but feel awful for her. Awful that he didn't know, didn't bother to ask when he knew something was up. He curses himself silently. This is just another way he's been a shitty boyfriend. But, he supposes that if she didn't say anything, then she wouldn't have wanted to tell him.

Isabelle stops, staring down at the crumbled grave in front of her. She sniffs, kneeling down in front of it. Charlie sits down beside her, eyeing the jagged words etched into the stone in front of him in an untidy scrawl, as if the carver was in a hurry.

Clara Allard [1972 - 1988]

To Isabelle: Keep dancing

Charlie stares at the words. He can't help it. Clara was only sixteen when she died. That's so young. Way too young. And Isabelle knows it.

The young woman beside Charlie wipes her eyes ferociously as she looks at the grave in front of her, before slowly reaching into the pocket of her skirt. Isabelle pulls out her pearly wand, pointing it at the eroded grave.

A wreath of white flowers shimmer into existence, standing stark against the dark stone above them. They glimmer as they come to rest at the base of the deteriorating gravestone, replacing the previous disintegrated symbol of love.

Sitting back, her eyes trace once again over the harshly etched words on the crumbling stone. So do Charlie's. He still can't believe he never knew about this girl. About this Clara who clearly meant the world to Isabelle.

"She was my best friend," Isabelle speaks, her voice soft, tentative. "Ever since we were very little. Our muzzers were friends before zey 'ad us, so 'er family used to take care of me all zee time. I lived wiz zem, actually."

She pauses, and Charlie frowns, more and more questions arising in his mind. But he stays silent, and Isabelle starts talking again, slowly answering them one by one, even though she causes more to arise as she does so.

"My parents are sick, you see. Zey are in zee 'ospital at zee moment, and 'ave been ever since I woz very little. I will go visit zem after zis. You can come along if you want to, but it will not be a pretty sight," she whispers, her voice getting quieter and quieter the more she talks. But Charlie can still hear her. He's still listening. In fact, this is the most intently he's ever listened to anyone before in his life.