The Veela Witches

The Glittering Rosebush

he atmosphere in the room was heavy, and the magical flame of the fireplace cast dancing shadows around. We stayed silent for a few minutes, and that's when I noticed my mother silently shedding tears from her beautiful blue eyes. She held a photo where she stood between the two twin brothers, all with serious expressions. Tenderly, she caressed the part of the image where my uncle Frederique was. She had never shared this story before and rarely mentioned her brother.

Suddenly, she stood up and murmured:
- It's already too late. I knew it wasn't a good idea to relive old memories.

Without wishing us good night, as usual, she went upstairs. My father looked at me and began to tell a story I had never heard before.
- I've always been in love with your mother, Emma. I did everything to help her overcome this pain. After the Second Wizarding War, I managed to be admitted to St. Mungo's and studied Muggle psychology to apply to your mother, helping her through this grief. Undoubtedly, it was one of the worst moments of her life when her mother left home, followed by her father. Fleur's wedding was one of the last times she saw the family, and then came the loss of Frederique. She never managed to hold a wake or a proper farewell for him. We returned to the Weasley's Burrow, which was abandoned three days after the events, and found no trace of Frederique's body.
- I'm sorry for Mom. I didn't want her to remember that episode. Some things must remain in the past for us to move forward well in the future! - I said in a low tone, standing up with my father. He just muttered:
- Come on, Emma. Perhaps she wakes up tomorrow willing to finish telling us the rest until it reaches you.

He hugged me, and we went upstairs to the bedrooms.

I had a turbulent night with everything that was said during the early morning. I woke up very late the next day; my father had prepared lunch, and the delicious smell of empanadas and rice and beans, which my father learned from a Brazilian governess, filled the air. I went downstairs with my stomach growling, but I noticed that my mother was not at the lunch table, and some butterflies fluttered in the air. I knew she was sad to recall the events. My father noticed my entrance into the kitchen, looked over his shoulder, and said:

- Today's lunch is Brazilian-style. Mrs. Huper showed up this morning and said she needed her help to rehearse a song for the Church choir. I told your mother to go; I'm thinking of staying with you today and finishing telling you some things that she wouldn't tell herself, despite still being my little eleven-year-old troublemaker, she's already a mature teenager for the Veelas, and I hope this is a father-daughter secret.

Mrs. Huper ended up renting my mother's patience for the entire day. I spent the whole afternoon with my father, enjoying his company. The competitive atmosphere between my mother and him, about which school I should attend, took a break since my mother shared her past with us. Despite some dense points in the narrative, her openness brought us three closer. We spent that afternoon in the kitchen, preparing cookies with vanilla essence and chocolate chips after lunch, waiting for my mother's return. Amidst the flour and chocolate, my father shared a bit of his story during the Second Wizarding War.

He told me that shortly after Frederique's death, Louis lost control, consumed by the desire for revenge against Armand. However, I understood that this anger was just a phase of the grieving process. My mother, in turn, remained silent for several days as the three of them took refuge in Glasgow to protect themselves from imminent attacks. Fleur sent subliminal messages, providing a fragmented view of the events. The radio in the small cottage remained incessantly on, broadcasting information about missing and dead wizards during this turbulent period. My father recognized some names of old friends from Hogwarts; all of this created a dark and tense atmosphere.

As the days passed, my father, through a colleague, found a way to offer solidarity in St. Mungo's. After the war, he was appointed as the head nurse. My mother devoted herself to caring for Louis, but isolation began to take its toll, gradually weakening both of them. One day, sad news shook the cottage even more. My father, returning from St. Mungo's, brought with him a letter left in his office, carrying messages that plunged them into an abyss of despair.