Cecilia’s fate
Cecilia was five when she first felt she wasn’t like the other kids. On a warm Sunday morning, she was sitting in the garden, observing and drawing the plants. Much to her dismay, she was interrupted by Vanya and a man wearing funny clothes. A priest, of course, the little girl thought.
“Chérie, cet ami à moi veut parler avec toi.” the older woman said, almost in a whisper.
“Je suis occupée.” Cecilia muttered without looking up from her drawing.
“Ça va être rapide.” the man said firmly, walking towards the chair next to her.
She couldn’t believe his audacity. Whatever this was, it was not more important than her painting. When she finally looked up, his eyes met hers, and he gulped. That gaze carried too much wrath for a girl her age. He had seen that look many times—a malignant presence, he concluded. Just as he was about to speak to Vanya, the sound of glass shattering made his head turn—just in time for his eye to get hit by a small piece of it.
“Ne m'interromps plus jamais.”
Cecilia got up and stormed off to her room, slamming the door behind her, while Vanya pledged her apologies to the priest.
Rendezvous between the girl and priests became a recurring event in her house. They prayed her curses away, but that only seemed to make her angrier. To Vanya, there was nothing too extreme when it came to educating the girl—the scars all over her body were proof of the cruel punishment she was enduring.
On New Year’s Eve, Vanya got drunk with her friends in one of their houses, while a girl soon to turn eight was waiting for her to bring dinner home. At midnight, Cecilia realized she had been forgotten, and that was the perfect opportunity to leave. With only a small suitcase of her best clothes, she wandered through the streets of Paris, looking for a place to stay. She settled in an alley crowded with homeless people, though they didn’t look like the junkie kind. They appeared to be Sorbonne rejects. They looked at her and immediately shifted their eyes in other directions. Her dark eyes, full of rage, were unsettling—even they could feel it.
Just as she closed her eyes, she felt something tug at the edge of her coat, now serving as a blanket. It was a snake—a green snake with bright yellow eyes.
“Don’t bite me.” She begged her.
Maybe the cold was making her delusional, but she swore the snake answered her. And just like that, they had an entire conversation.
With her newfound ability, Cecilia made her own money playing an instrument one of her roommates had managed to get her, while the snakes danced when she whispered to them. After a few months, she could buy herself clothes, treats, and, to her delight, books and paper for her drawings. However, she had no desire to find herself a home. Right there, she had company that didn’t care about her manners, and she didn’t have to answer to anyone.
Another—and the last—song of the day ended, and she began to organize her things before being interrupted by a woman’s voice.
“Belle performance.”
“Merci.”
“Comment tu t’appelles?”
Cecilia didn’t answer. Instead, she rushed her movements when the woman whispered something.
“Cecilia. Quel beau nom.”
She froze. How did she know her name?
“Qui êtes-vous?” her voice was shaken.
“Je peux t'aider. Sais-tu ce que tu es ?”
"Do you know what you are?" Cecilia understood she wasn’t asking where she came from—she was asking about her nature. Still, she answered:
“Je suis née en France, mais mes parents étaient anglais.”
“Comment s'appellent-ils ?”
“Ma mère s'appelle Cecilia, comme moi. Mon père… je ne sais pas.”
“Je suis Vinda Rosier. Je suis comme toi, tu vois. Tu es une sorcière.”
A witch? It was like everything finally fell into place. She was indeed different, but not a freak. She was powerful. Her magic made her special, and she knew she was destined to be a great witch—one who would not only live but also leave a legacy.
“Viens avec moi et je t'aiderai. Tu apprendras à utiliser ta magie.”
With that, Vinda Rosier found an apprentice—young, willing, and eager to learn everything about her world. She could shape the girl into whatever she pleased, and Gellert would need a new generation to stand with him.
Cecilia finally felt like she belonged. Even though Vinda was usually busy, she spent her time at home teaching her spells, jinxes, and all sorts of magical things. Cecilia could never get enough. She would practice even when she was alone, and Vinda could see her effort.
Three years later, Gellert had other plans for Cecilia.
Hogwarts.
She was leaving for England in September. There, she would report everything to him, like a spy. Even with her initial excitement about the mission, she wasn’t too happy about living in another country—she loved her home in Paris. But Vinda didn’t sugarcoat it. Instead, she made Cecilia loathe the place with her lessons about wizarding society. It all seemed exhausting.
“Remember to maintain your story. We don’t want people paying too much attention to you.”
“I hate that we talk in English now. I don’t want to go.”
“Don’t argue. It’s for the best. I’m sure you’ll end up enjoying that place. If you miss French, talk to your ‘cousins’—without mentioning me, obviously.” She made air quotes with her hands when she said cousins.
“They sound insufferable.”
“They are. Just like all teenagers. Dominique is in his third year, but Druella is a first-year, like you.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yes, you’re very lucky, Cecilia. You’re smarter than most of them, but don’t let that get to your head. You always have to improve.”
“She’s right. You have all the means to be great, but you need effort.”
Gellert’s voice came out of nowhere.
Vinda bowed and told Cecilia to grab her coat. She did so without questioning, even though it was sunny outside. When she came back, he was staring out the window as if it were the most entertaining thing in the world, while Vinda cleaned the dishes from their tea.
“Dear, do you fancy one last trip before you leave?” he asked.
“Of course. Where to?”
“You’ll see.”
He held out his arm for her to grab, and in the next moment, they were standing outside a wrecked house, hidden by bushes, trees, and dead flowers. It was a beautiful place—a shame no one took care of it. Cecilia tried her best to memorize it to turn into a painting later.
“You see this house? That is where your father lives.”
“If he manages to live like that, I can only imagine what he’s like.” Her voice was cold, as if the mere mention of her father was a burden.
“Morfin Gaunt. Last heir of the Gaunts. Your family descends from Salazar Slytherin. For centuries, they were influential, rich, and respected. Yet, within a couple of generations, the fortune was gone, and they were reduced to this cottage.”
“Is that why I speak to snakes? Like Salazar?”
“Yes. That’s a common trait among his descendants.”
Gellert pointed to a well-kept house nearby.
“Your father had a sister. She had a son with that man.”
Cecilia sighed. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but I don’t care about these people. They are not my family.”
Gellert smirked. “Well, dear, their son will be your schoolmate.”
“ Well, Cecilia, their son will be your schoolmate, and so I thought you should know your family, your story. The Gaunts were powerful, but they let themselves crumble. You ought not to do the same. Remember: blood holds no meaning. Neither family nor legacy can buy you greatness. Your life is to be built with effort. Don’t waste your time on distractions."
“What’s his name?” she asked, as if she had only heard the first part of his speech.
“You’ll know when you see him.” He grabbed her arm, and they appeared at the Rosier estate.
Cecilia spent her last week in Paris reminiscing about Gellert’s words. What kind of distractions did he think she would engage with? Why warn her about her cousin? She knew it wouldn’t be wise to question him. He told her everything he considered necessary. Her heart sank when she found out the story of her mother—how she had no choice but to give her life for her daughter. Even though she appreciated the abilities she inherited from the Gaunts, she despised them. She valued much more what her mentors had taught her, like Occlumency.
“It’s time, dear. Take care and keep our recommendations in mind,” Gellert said as he organized her trunks.
“I’ll miss you. Be good.” Vinda wrapped her arms around Cecilia in a loving hug.
“I will deeply miss both of you. Je vous aime.” Cecilia looked at them with loving eyes.
She had to go to King’s Cross on her own, of course. They couldn’t show themselves in public like this. Cecilia understood that, but still, she pushed her cart while fighting back tears. Once she boarded the train, she looked around for an empty compartment and was surprised to see a familiar blonde face—Druella Rosier.
“Est-ce que ce siège est pris?” Cecilia inquired politely.
“S'il vous plaît, vous êtes française?” Druella answered vibrantly, excited to have a French colleague.
“Oui, je m'appelle Cecilia Boucher.”
“Druella Rosier, enchantée de te rencontrer.”
Cecilia and Druella chatted the whole way to Hogwarts. Cecilia could tell Druella was a classic pureblood; entitled, but nevertheless, she was clever, and that could make her tolerable. When both of them got sorted into Slytherin, their friendship was sealed. Cecilia’s fate was also sealed when she caught the gaze of a handsome boy as they approached their house table.