unbearablyblackâ:
âItâs not that simple,â Sirius presses, shaking their head. Theyâre fighting the urge to get angry, their hands, apart from Lilyâs now, clenched into fists in their lap. Their nails dig into their palms, painfully so, and yet they donât loosen their grip. They donât want to argue with her, especially not about this, but they knew she wouldnât understand. If her words arenât enough of a giveaway already, the look on her face and the tone of her voice do the trick. Terrorists. They suppose sheâs right, but that doesnât make the word sting any less. They wince at it, like a slap in the face.
All their life, they were conditioned to believe that blood was thicker than water. Even with their love for their friendsâ they would do anything for them, even before all thisâ Sirius believed it to be true. Above all else, they were a Black, the Black, the once-upon-a-time heir to an ancient line of witches and wizards.Â
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Thatâs what they were. Thatâs what Sirius was, could have been. Theyâve lied awake many nights since James died thinking about how easily they mightâve been on the other side of the war, fighting alongside their brother and cousins. Perhaps if they hadnât met James, standing in line for the Sorting Hat thirteen years ago. Perhaps if theyâd been Sorted into Slytherin, like the rest of their family. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Theyâve run a thousand likely scenarios in their head. It scares them how easily one little trick of fate couldâve made them someone else entirely.
Sirius is realizing only just now how much they and Lily donât know about one another. Then, immediately after: how much sheâd hate them if she did.
Is it vengeance? Absolutely. James was ripped from them, Sirius and Harry and Lily all at once, unfairly and far too soon. But itâs much more than that, too. Fighting this war is redemption, for not being there to protect their friends, their own twisted way of asking James for forgiveness, to assuage their guilt, to protect Lily and Remus and Harry and everyone else left in Godricâs Hollow from meeting the same fate. Maybe, after all that, theyâll feel whole again.
âNone of it is.â Sirius has already admitted they were wrong. If they could tell Lily whatever she wanted to hear, they would, but they donât know what that is. âI wish I had such clear an idea of right and wrong as you did,â they say instead, uncurling their fists, âbut I didnât. Iâm sure whatever it is you grew up learning, I was taught the opposite.â They sigh heavily, their shoulders slumped, looking like a defeated dog. âI donât know what to say, Lily. I know Iâve made a lot of mistakes. Iâm trying my best here.â
The poetic thing: to soften, to stave off the argument and reclaim their hands in hers, to accept the effort and forgive the mistakes. Thatâs what might happen if this were a book, or if Lily were someone else, James perhaps. Lily is not soft. She used to want to be.
But sheâs like Petunia: flinty, with sandpaper where a soft palate should be. She rises to anger too easily; motherhood and grief may have dampened her reaction time, but the reaction itself has not changed.
By now, James would have stepped in. Clarified for her what Sirius was saying, put it in terms that made sense for her, a Muggleborn with no concept of being raised in a pureblood supremacist household. To Lily, it is like hearing my parents are racist, and even after I learned that was wrong I chose not to stand up to them for you. Itâs like hearing Mudblood from your best friendâs mouth.
And sheâd turned her back on Severus then, and itâs only Jamesâ ghost at her shoulder keeping her from doing it to Sirius now.
âI know youâre trying,â she says, and sheâs trying too, trying to keep her voice gentler than she feels. Sheâs failing and her throat hurts from the tension. âCan we--can we keep talking about this when you get back?â There, something: something for them to hold onto. Something for them to come back for.
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flongbottomedâ:
Frank isnât planning on answering the door. Sure, he hears the jarring sound of knuckles against wood, but heâs fairly certain itâs either Charity or Amos, so why bother? The fact is they come for Alice. If Frank sounds bitter, itâs accidentalâtruly, heâs grateful for what they provide even if he doesnât voice it. His wife is listless and lonely; he notices, he swears, and more importantly heâs working hard on reconciling her grief, but at the current moment that requires more than he can give. Even after all this time and all this effort, heâs still where he was back in November: at a loss for words, answers, and any feeling except righteous indignation.Â
With nothing left to do, he gradually begins to recede back into his study, but he realizes Alice has slipped away for the day, so whoever it is will have to settle for him. When he opens the door heâs shocked to discover that his earlier prediction is incorrect; itâs neither Charity nor Amos. Instead, the face belongs to someone thatâs not quite a friend but far from a foe: Lily.Â
Thereâs a dull pang in his heart as his mind automatically conjures up James, unable to disassociate him from her. The only real knowledge he has of Lily arises from James so itâs biased, colored by the boastful descriptions and high praises he divulged during arduous sessions when it seemed as if they had all the time in the world. Frank had trained him and perhaps in an indirect way thus contributed to his death. Whatever residual guilt he feels lingering compels him to open the door wider to let her in. He canât recall the last time he spoke to herâlikely, it was at the funeral.
âWhat can I do for you?â He asks, aiming to avoid the monotony of pleasantries. He finds that heâs losing patience with each glib encounter and though he knows he should act better, Frank canât bring himself to care at this moment.
She feels worse and better, somehow simultaneously, when the door finally opens and itâs Frank staring down at her. At least the door is open; at least it is Frank and not Alice; at least she is forced to continue with her ill-conceived idea and cannot back down. The moment of decision is often the hardest, and the time that it cannot be reversed the worst to endure.
Lily has never had problems following through with her decisions. Thereâs never been a point to being unsure, once her mind is made: she has always considered her options, debated pros and cons, and then carried on forward. What is the point, after all, of making a decision if one does not intend to enact it? What purpose is there to hemming and hawing, what joy is there in wishing for uncertainty? Lily has never lasted long in that state, no: she is not a woman of the in-betweens.
Except she is, against her better judgment, against everything sheâs ever wanted for herself: sheâs spent her whole life making decisions and now she is standing in a threshold, forced to implement decisions sheâs made that she doubts. Lily Evans Potter does not, as a rule, doubt herself. Except she does.
Merlin, sheâs thankful that he skips the pleasantries, the worst part of the conversation. The part she can barely stomach these days. If she can get through the unnecessary introductions, she rarely has the ability to endure much more. Itâs easier this way: push to the meat of it, the why-are-you-here, the justifications for existing in his space.
âI want to help you,â she says, feeling calmer having spoken it, more confident than anything sheâs said or done since Jamesâ death. âWhat youâre doing. I want to help.â Avenge your son. Find his killer. Find something like closure. Make progress, accomplish something, work towards a goal. We all need that, donât we? We need a purpose. I need this to be mine.
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rcmusâ:
He nearly laughs, a bit, at her suggestions of gardening and painting. Hobbies. Itâs been so long since he had the space to think about luxuries like hobbies. He doesnât even know what he likes to do anymore, has never been the type to see himself sitting around and knitting exactly. The things he liked as a boy â reading muggle novels and playing pranks with his friends and watching quidditch on the lawn â they seem so distant, far-away things, pieces of a life long left behind. The things he liked as a man â cigarettes and drinks at the pub and sex with Sirius, patchworked around a life already lived at war⊠even those feel like luxuries now he can hardly afford.Â
He opens his mouth, though, at the mention of Amosâ the manâs name a surprise in her voice, when heâd just been hearing it in his own, in his head. Heâd already apologized for the bit with the sugar, when sheâd been sitting at the table drinking plain tea when he finally came back inside. Maybe sheâs right: maybe he ought to spend time with new people, start to fill the holes in his life with newer things. Heâs been, a bitâ tea with Xeno, working with Pandora, night-time conversations with Charity and Arabella. Maybe Amos couldnât hurt anything.
Harry plops down into his lap, suddenly, tiny fingers fumbling to put another puzzle piece into place, his mess of curly hair brushing the underside of Remusâ chin. Lilyâs hair, but cut short and still baby-soft. Lilyâs hair atop an expression of concentration that heâs seen on Jamesâ face a thousand times as they studied for OWLs or NEWTs late into the night by the firelight of the Gryffindor common room. He rests a hand on Harryâs back, steadying him in place as he shifts a little to sit more comfortably on the floor.
   âWhat, you think I ought to go round the village gardening with Amos Diggory?â
He says it with a smile, like itâs a bit of a joke. He doesnât say: gardeningâs not exactly my style, but youâre not wrong about the company. He doesnât say: then who will be here to look after you?
How many times have they completed this puzzle? Twelve or thirteen, likely; she sees it in her sleep, when she closes her eyes. Sometimes she sees James, and sometimes Harry, and, rarely, both. Her boys. She used to have more of them. It used to be four. Now she is down, it feels, to two.
Sirius is still there, in physicality but little else. He doesnât feel like heâs one of hers anymore. She hates it, the sudden, embarrassing knowledge that she has placed more value in her friendship with Remus than Sirius. Lily always expected them to be a couple, never to have to place weight on one over the other. She cringes to wonder what James would think of her. This isnât what I wanted, she pleads with his memory, his ghost in her mind. Please donât hate me for it.
If she held up photos of her Harry to Jamesâ baby pictures, she thinks, it would be impossible not to determine the resemblance. But he has her eyes, she thinks desperately. Her hair. Is it enough, she wonders, to help her through the rest of his life? The rest of hers? Will she ever stop seeing James in him?
She reaches one hand up, touching the back of her head, imagining she could feel Jamesâ lips there, the way she used to whenever he felt the need to comfort her. Lily is certain it is a figment of her imagination. Youâre in too deep, Evans. Get your mind out of the past.
Harry looks up at her--smiling, so happy, so stable--and though Lily has never been particularly religious, sheâs sent a quick prayer Heavenward before she thinks too much about it.
Remus smiles a little too quick. Maybe thereâs something more to him and Amos than she originally thought. It seems quick to develop a crush, after the breakup, but maybe heâs not aware, yet, of his budding affection. All she can trust, right now, is this: Remus is smiling, and when she searches his smile, it feels brighter than any other smile sheâs seen from him since Jamesâ death.
âDrinking tea with him made you happy,â she points out, not quite matching his tone for jest. âThereâs so little joy in the world these days. Take the happiness you can find, Remus, and if you discover a sudden fondness for gardening along the way--well, stranger things have happened, and they usually do.â
Itâs the closest to lighthearted she can manage in her current state. Itâs the only way she can think to tell him be selfish, for once in your damn life. Put yourself first.
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artseptimusâ:
Watching Harry lead Fred, George, and Ron off, Art handed Percy and Char two little reading packs heâd drawn the night before. It was difficult having such an age variety and entertaining them all whilst giving them enough material to learn and develop. Molly sat between his ears guiding him through thought, he knew that he couldnât forget school and act like it was normal to stay in a different house than their home. And so they all bustled in, distractions equally afoot and Artâs face displaying his tiredness, but he was content that his children were happy for now.Â
âMorning Lil, howâre you?â His reply bright was the comfort of signing with someone other than the boys for the first time in the days since he had seen her last. She really had done wonders with her own signing, Pandora and he being the prime candidates to learn from and practise with. Arthur was always more than happy to continue to grow those that he could easily communicate with him.Â
Her mention of tea had him smiling and nodding. âYes please.â He offered verbally, as he shrugged out of his coat and hung it up. As he stepped into the cottage, he rolled up his sleeves slightly and stood by her, reach out to touch her arm as he often did. It was weird to not be in contact with everyone as they both had been so used to.Â
âHowâs the manor holding up?â He signed just slower than average speed, sure to add the accompanying mouthings so that she could easily read the sarcasm he was inferring.Â
She couldnât call herself close to Arthur, before they moved so close together. The Potters and the Weasleys were friends, in the general sense, the way families are friends as a unit. James had known them both--related to them, she heard once, but nobody ever pulled out a family tree to demonstrate the connection--sheâd just accepted that it was a normal thing for pureblood wizards, to be related in vague ways and not bother to define it, to accept these people as family and thus inevitable friends. She had such little experience with quote-unquote pureblood families. Maybe it was just a James thing, this unending love for everyone, the willingness--eagerness--to accept everyone as an extension of his family. She loved that in him. (A part of her mind interrupts: you used to love that in him.)
Sheâs close to Arthur now. It had been Molly, first, the one brought in when Lily was curled up crying in a dark bedroom, wracked with guilt while James held their infant son in the other room, unable to convince her to take him in her arms. Molly whoâd slid into the bed with her, talked to her, while Marlene paced by the door, while Arthur talked James down. (Sheâd heard James cry, more than once, heard Arthurâs voice, taking the baby for an hour, letting James breathe. She hadnât been able to fix herself even when filled with the guilt knowing what was happening on the other side of the door.)
Everyone in her memories is gone, now. Except Arthur. Arthurâs still here, and they have a comfortable familiarity, almost like what she has with Remus but without the years of friendship built up. Itâs the shared understanding of parents abruptly alone, supporting each other because they are all there is, because their children depend on them, because itâs the only way they can ever feel hopeful. Lily relaxes slightly when Arthurâs hand lands on her arm, instinctively reaching to give it a gentle squeeze before she departs for the kitchen (not far--the living room is still visible from here, a requirement for a parent with a mobile child).
They take their tea the same at this hour, milk and some sugar but not too much, so itâs easy for her to duplicate the recipe and return with two cups quickly. âStill standing,â she replies, rolling her eyes a bit heavenward. âFor now. How is everything with your lot?â Thatâs what the Weasleys were, in her mind: a lot of them, a crowd, a clan. A unit. Children without a mother, just as she was a wife without a husband, the Longbottoms were parents without a child. Every puzzle, here, was missing a piece.
Playdate Relief || Lily
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artseptimusâ:
Date TBA
Mid MorningÂ
Lilyâs Cottage
It was a common request from his children to go and see Harry and Aunty Lily at their house. There was no reason whatsoever to deny them the brief suspension of their weird, middle-land living, for a happy playdate. It was a relief to be around Lily for Arthur, she understood the weight of entertaining children and was excellent with all of the boys.Â
Fred and George would hold hands, sandwiched between Charlie and Percy. He had Ginny in the carrier on his chest and Ron holding his left hand. Kept his wand hand free and them all within sight. They werenât always the quietest but as long as they werenât screaming and tearing around the pavement, he was more than happy with their noise. Molly wouldnât believe it to see them all walk holding hands, they had tried for so long to get them all to daisy chain together but to no avail. They boys werenât clueless to their situation and had cottoned onto behaving a different way than usual, that was the sad part of it, the reason for their behavioural changes.Â
Five minutes later than he aimed to arrive, Arthur tapped lightly on Lilyâs door, children squished infront of him as he glanced up and down the street. Fortunately they were all in their spare winter coats, something he and Molly had thought to pack in an emergency âget outâ backpack. It wouldnât be long before Charlie was growing out of his, something Arthur didnât even know how to address.. Theyâd have to sort it out when they got there.Â
The Weasleys were--a lot, of course, for someone not accustomed to interacting with that many children all at once--but also a godsend, Molly and Arthur both, resolute in their family, always there, shouldering every burden without a hint of the weight in the lines around their eyes. Laugh lines, she thinks when she sees them, because itâs true--some of the Order are developing lines of grief and frowning, but Arthur and Mollyâs lines have always been those of smiles and cheer. Lily has no idea how they do it. How Arthur does it, without Molly.
Lord--Merlin--knows sheâs struggling enough with just the one kid. And here, Arthur has six, if sheâs counting correctly, minus the one at Hogwarts. Theyâve arrived at the house smiling and hand-holding and Lilyâs heart is full, swinging the door open to let them in, Harry immediately grabbing the hands of whomeverâs nearest to drag them over to where his puzzles and toys are all laid out in the living room. Theyâve spent the morning preparing, talking about the Weasley boys, rehearsing their names and proper sharing techniques. Harry is one and a half, not-quite-two, the age of learning to string multiple words and considering the construction of sentences.
âGood morning, Arthur,â Lily signs-and-says, careful to practice her signing with him while she has the chance. The kids are flooding into the cottage, and sheâs drawn in their wake, keeping an eye on the curly-haired, wobbly-legged toddler of hers amidst all the Weasley boys. Harry and Ron are already together, which is no surprise--theyâre the same age, around the same size, and best friends from the moment they met. âShall I make tea?â
Playdate Relief || Lily
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rcmusâ:
   âYeah, buddy,â he mutters quietly, affectionately, taking the new puzzle piece out of Harryâs hand as he toddles off to find another one. Itâs habit, second nature, to respond to Harry in the middle of another sentence, doing whatever he can to affirm everything he does. He figured, pretty early on in his life, that heâd never be a fatherâ for such a wide variety of reasons that it never made any sense to question itâ but this, being an uncle, helping Lily to raise Harry, this child he finds himself loving more than heâs ever loved anything⊠it feels like a gift, so natural, worth every moment. âFish, good work.â
Heâs relieved, when Lilyâs advice comes in the form of trying to talk him down from overworking himself, rather than trying to talk him down from whateverâs happening â or isnât happening, perhaps â with Sirius. Itâs not something he wants to talk about, not something he knows how to talk about. Or⊠maybe he does want to talk about it, but he wants to yell and scream and shout and cry and he isnât ready to do any of that, certainly not with Harry picking up the rear half of a tiger off the floor and pressing it into his hand, next to its matching piece, saying Kitty! with a big, proud smile on his tiny little face.Â
Heâs been overworking himself since he was twelve: he knows how to handle this advice without breaking down. Not to mention he knows sheâs right.Â
   âNo, youâre right,â he says, and thatâs easy. Admitting that Lily Evans-Potter is right about something is, often, the easiest thing in the world to do. âYou know Iâve never been good at, er, relaxing, butâŠâ
An image flashes into his mind, unbidden: Amos, knees in the dirt of their front garden, mug of tea steaming in his cupped hands. The chest-unfurling feeling Remus had had, the other day, talking to him, like he had, for a moment, just relaxed.Â
Amos still baffles him. Amos is still, in some strange way, a mystery heâll never unravel, a stranger he doesnât understand. And what would it sound like, to say to Lily, who is still living with him and Sirius avoiding each other like the wrong-way-round poles of two magnets in her house, to hear well, Iâve been spending some time with Amos Diggory when she told him to take a bloody vacation? Heâs not even sure why thatâs the thing that occurred to him, honestly, canât quite parse what it means through the fog of strain and stress and exhaustion.
   âI do promise Iâm trying, Lil. Itâs just that distracting myself is easier than anything else, and thereâs not all that much to distract myself with.â
She used to have a pretty clear idea of what her future might be. Several kids--Harry was just the start--raised in their house on Godricâs Hollow, James the Auror, Lily moving into whatever career suited her after the kids were old enough--maybe nursing, like her aunt, or something new and tailored to a magical life. Lunches with Remus, dropping the kids off at the place he shared with Sirius, arguing good-naturedly with Sirius about what did and did not constitute appropriate gifts for young children. Maybe, someday, making up with Petunia and meeting her nephew. Living long enough to see Harry married, laugh as her grandchildren learned to speak. Lily has never seen her future as anything different, because she knows it is exactly what James wanted, and no part of her has ever acknowledged the possibility of wanting anything inconsistent with Jamesâ dearest desires.
 Thereâs no James, now, no Sirius-and-Remus, no charming unclesâ flat for her children to go to when theyâre tired of Mum and Dad. Maybe she will live long enough to see Harry grown. First she has to make sure Harry can survive outside of a heavily-protected refugee camp. First she has to make sure the world is something he can live in. She has Harry, for now; she has Remus. The future yawns in the distance, empty and terrifying, and she knows no option except to stride forward into it with her jaw clenched and holding tight to everything she has left.
Everything they thought could be forever was ending. Theyâre still here, though, moving into their own personal futures. She watches Harry with Remus and thinks about the boy she met on the train to Hogwarts, smiling nervously, experiencing all of this with the same disbelieving awe she felt. She can think about a future where maybe itâs Remus beside her on the platform to see Harry off to his first day at Hogwarts. She can be okay with that.
For herself, maybe. Not for Remus. Remus, she has always felt, deserves to have someone who can dedicate themself to him, no holds barred. She casts about for ideas, thinks about what friends Remus has here, what recreation might possibly be available in this godforsaken place.
âIs there anything you want to do?â she presses, leaning back on her palms, smiling at Harry as he looks up at her, looking for validation. Heâs getting better at not being around her for long stretches of time, but still asks for James now and then, still bursts into tears without clear reason. âI know youâve been helping Pandora with her potions, but maybe...â She hums a bit. âGardening? Painting? Or just...spending time with people who arenât...you know.â Lily gestures a bit, unsure of a delicate way to say it. Not Sirius. Not friends with Sirius. âAmos Diggory, you know, he was here doing some gardening the other day and I saw you talking.â And I saw you clean out the kitchen to bring him tea, had to drink mine without sugar, saw your face when you came back inside. He could be good for you, maybe.
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Where: Longbottomâs cottage
When: early February
Who: @flongbottomed
What are you doing, Lily?
Sheâs standing before the Longbottomâs cottage. Already too close to claim she wasnât intending on walking up. She hasnât spent much time near the house since theyâve all moved out here--itâs easier to avoid Alice that way. Itâs too hard, seeing the blank look on Aliceâs face, the flashes of unbridled grief when Alice catches a look at Harry. The same age her son would have been, had he been the one to live instead of Harry.
It happens with Frank, too, but it seems to Lily heâs coping better, doesnât get the look on his face when itâs just her. He had almost been a friend before Jamesâ death. He had, at least, been someone who knew James, who had reached out to her, attended the funeral, been there. And maybe Lily hadnât been as proactive after Nevilleâs death. Maybe sheâd tried, and pulled away when she realized that her sonâs life brought attention to their loss. It was hard to say, now. So many of her memories from that time were foggy now.
She doesnât want to pull away anymore. Sheâs been living alongside them--carefully steering Harry away, around corners when she hears Frank or Aliceâs voice, back into the house if she sees them striding by. Living on their periphery, trying not to make things worse. For once, Lily wants to make things better. So she knocks, resolute, shoving her hands into her pockets while she waits. Please donât let it be Alice.
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unbearablyblackâ:
âThey were my family,â Sirius replies, eyes shining. They donât know how to explain it. This, actually, might be the one thing that Lily Potter doesnâtâ and canâtâ understand. She was born a Muggle, after all, didnât know a thing about wizards or the obsession with blood purity until well into her life. Sirius, meanwhile, had their familyâs ideals embedded into their brain long before they got to Hogwarts. They used to joke that their first words were the Black family motto: Tojours Pur. Always pure. It leaves a sickening taste in their mouth now, but for a long time, they believed it. Why wouldnât they?
Sirius didnât grow up in an abusive home, per se, but there was certainly no real love in the Black family household. They raised their children with heavy hands and stern faces: there were expectations to be met, beliefs to have, standards to uphold. Sirius had always been a troublemaker, Regulus quickly becoming the favorite of the family, but nothing Sirius had done was quite as awful as being sorted into Gryffindor.
Sirius never feared their family until that day. Years later, theyâd laugh it off, humor and insincerity masking even their deepest wounds, but nothing was the same after that. The Howlers they could handle, Siriusâ motherâs voice booming through the Great Hall as she screamed her disappointment at her sonâ her eleven year old sonâ who had no choice in the matter, but that holiday break from school was the worst. It was like Sirius wasnât even there, a ghost in their own home, ignored by everyone but the house elf, who only stopped to express his own distaste for the Black family heir. When they were acknowledged, it was only to drive the point homeâ youâre no son of mine. Regulus quickly took over, his position as the only son solidified in his sorting into Slytherin.
And yet, despite Siriusâ outward indifference toward their family, they still sought their approval. Itâs a complicated feeling, because as unfair as their parentsâ treatment of them was, Sirius still feel like they let them down. As much as they wanted to, and pretended they did, they didnât hate their parents. At the end of the day, they were still their parents. Itâs a tough bond to break, even with all three of them trying their best to do it.
Voldemortâs ascent into power made it difficult, and as much as Sirius didnât believe in blood status, they couldnât allow the last hammer to fall with their family. They loved Regulus, their one and only brother. Loved their parents, who raised them, despite it all. Sirius watched James with his parents, saw how loving they were, how supportive, and a large part of them was jealous. They wanted that, too, couldnât risk the possibility of losing it entirelyâ and so they simply didnât. They knew their parents supported Voldemort even if they didnât outright don the Dark Mark on their arms, but they turned a blind eye. Sirius is loyal to a fault, even to those who have hurt them, and they mightâve continued to do so, still toeing the line between one side and the other, if it werenât for James.
It always came back to James, because he died when he shouldnât have, because Sirius wasnât there to prevent it, because none of them could, despite all their best efforts. It didnât feel like Siriusâ war until thenâ until it was too late.
âYou love your sister,â Sirius says, a statement of fact rather than a question, âdespite it all. I loved my family. I didnât want to lose them. I guess I thought itâd be easier if I didnât pick a side.â They shrug and lean back in their chair, allowing their hands to fall away from Lilyâs lap. âI was wrong,â they say, their voice heavy. Sirius hasnât said that aloud to anyone, not even Remus. âIâm trying to make it right.â
Lily stiffens automatically at the mention of her sister. Thatâs none of your business. Is it? Should it be? Sheâs never talked about her family with Sirius before, not beyond tight-lipped one-word answers whenever asked about siblings, whenever caught in an ignorance about magic. Too many differences in her upbringing and Siriusâ upbringings for any conversations about it to be easy. Sheâs talked about her family with Remus, with James, even Marlene, sometimes. Nobody else. Lilyâs heritage is hers, not to be used against her. Her memories of Petunia are too conflicted to be spoken aloud.
(Petunia before Lily knew she had magic, when her reactions to the strange things Lily could do were awed and pleased. A bird landing on Petuniaâs outstretched arm and Petuniaâs delighted laugh. Petunia the first time she learned to be jealous, to be afraid. Petunia snatching flowers out of her hands and crushing them below her heel. Petunia shoving Severus off the swing, telling him leave us alone, we donât want any of your evil stories here. Petunia looking crushed, horrified, betrayed when Lily refused to follow her.)
Itâs different. It has to be.
âItâs not the same.â She talks through her teeth, almost, drawing her hands back to her cold mug, circling it then releasing it, shifting restlessly. Talking about Petunia is unsettling and she doesnât want to be distracted from this, from the point of why sheâs here right now. âMy sister isnât part of any terrorist groups killing my friends, and I still let her go long ago. You knew what they were supporting and didnât do anything, but as soon as James and Marlene are dead--suddenly, now, itâs a cause you care about. This is just vengeance to you, isnât it?â
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xenosechoesâ:
This isnât the sort of thing theyâre used to, a raw emotionality, put side-by-side with an empathy for someone else that never came easily to them. But itâs easy now, even if itâs uncomfortable thinking of all the ways the world isnât what it should be for them all. Because even if each and every one of their circumstances are different, the pain is the same, and here in this strange village, the only way for them all to move forward, they think, is to do so together. Understanding and acknowledgement is just the beginning of that.
She sees him, and he sees her, and that has to count for something, even if the words donât fix the pain. âI think with time, things will grow easier,â Xenophilius nods softly. Itâs not optimism, itâs realism. Time moves forward, and they all keep moving, too. âWeâll find new places to put that love thatâs slipping over, and one day, weâll all have just enough space again. Until then, we all have this together.âÂ
Crying usually hurts. Salt burning a path down her cheeks, carving grief into her skin, the slow erosion of the rocks in her throat. Crying is an effort of force, not a gentle process--itâs wracked by sobs in the wreckage of a house clutching a shred of Jamesâ shirt, whimpering quietly into Remusâ shoulder at the funeral, dry heaving every morning of the first few weeks she woke up in the musty cottage in Godricâs Hollow without James by her side. This, by contrast, is almost soothing, no energy expended to cause or cease them, warm rather than scalding streaks crossing the gulf between her eyes and jawline.
She canât even be embarrassed, really, because Xeno and Pandora have given her every reason to be vulnerable here. They have, after all, opened themselves up to her repeatedly, allowed her in and given her ammunition oft used to ridicule them. Lily tries to stem the tears half-heartedly, more surprised at them than anything else. Surprised that she has the capacity to cry in this way, like an emotional release instead of compounding. âYou have a very good outlook on things,â she comments, voice watery, something you could shine a light through to see the veins. âI feel like Iâm waiting for the other shoe to drop, if that makes sense.â
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rcmusâ:
Focusing on Harry has been⊠a balm, honestly. Itâs so easy, putting puzzles together with him or stacking up and knocking over blocks with him, or sitting him in his lap and telling him stories, to not think about Sirius Black. To not think about the break up, or Ottery St. Catchpole, or what Xeno had said the day before. To focus on the child, half James and half Lily and so a little bit of everything Remus loved, growing up and exploring the world before his eyes.Â
He reaches over, now, as Lily asks her question, to take Harryâs hands in his, gently, to carefully help him guide the two puzzle pieces into place, to watch Harryâs little concentrated face â nose scrunched up, lips pressed together â light up into a joyful smile at the tiny miracle of things being set into place.Â
   âI have been sleeping better,â he admits, and itâs nice because itâs an honest answer. Harryâs quiet snores in between him and Lily have lulled him to sleep most recent nights, chasing away the insomnia thatâs been a constant companion since he became Secret Keeper. The rest of her question, though⊠itâd be easier, he thinks, if he could actually create some real distance, could step away from Sirius for a few days, a few weeks, not have to think about him constantly or see him all the time, but⊠Heâs not sure how to talk about it, really. Even to Lily, to someone heâs always been able to confide in. âIâm just⊠trying to focus, I guess.â
Harry grins a dimpled smile as the pieces slot into place. âFish,â he identifies, stabbing a finger at it, a cartoon image of a whale formed by the toddler-sized pieces. He stands up, moves to retrieve a new piece, and hands it to Remus before fetching a second one for himself. For all he is an only child, Harry has never been good at doing anything alone.
The loss of his warm weight in her lap keens deep in her soul, even as she knows she has to let go, has to let this darling thing that used to draw its life from hers live independently now. It comes in waves, this possessiveness; when it fades, sheâll be back to wanting to hand him off to anyone, anything to get the face that looks like James away from her so she can sit in the bathtub with her head between her knees and cry.
Deep breaths. One. Two. Her heart returns to a normal pattern. Harry and Remus continue with the puzzle.
She tries to imagine it: Sirius without Remus. Remus without Sirius. It seems impossible. Theyâve been a thing, in her mind, for almost as long as sheâs known them--longer than her and James, longer than Marlene and anyone. Lily has a hard time believing that this separation is permanent, yet she canât ignore the finality in Remusâ voice. Thereâs no end date, here. This is just...done for now. Perhaps for ever.
âHave you tried--â she hesitates. Unsure if this is the right time for advice. Sheâs just too used to Remus coming to her for advice, especially where it comes to Sirius. âNot focusing, for once,â her voice soft, light, pleasant so it doesnât tip Harry off to any conflict in the house. âI know you canât go on vacation, not as such, but--Remus, you need something. Youâve taken on so much here, and I donât want you to implode trying to keep it all in.â
Sheâs James and Lily both now, absorbed her husbandâs essence on the moment of his death. Giving advice for the two of them. Hoping her voice carries as much weight as she needs it to.
She has no idea how James would react to the news that Sirius and Remus arenât Sirius and Remus anymore. They are Sirius, full stop. Remus, full stop. The end of an era. Lily, full stop, too.
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unbearablyblackâ:
âIââ Sirius opens their mouth to defend themself, but they stop. Perhaps itâs hearing Jamesâ name that makes them reconsider, or maybe itâs that Lily says they matter to her. Theyâve been so preoccupied by what theyâve lost that they keep forgetting who they have left, but Lilyâs here, their hand clasped in hers, like an anchor, telling them she needs them.
The harsh truth is, Sirius hadnât considered Remus or Lily at all when they volunteered for the mission. Amelia asked for their help and they didnât think twice before agreeing to go. They were thinking of their protection, of course, of bringing an end to the war, but never once did Sirius consider how they might feel about them going. At the time, they didnât think it mattered, as long as they knew they were doing the right thing. Thatâs always been Siriusâ weakness: their carelessness, their apathy. Lily and Remus both cared and loved far too much for them to keep up.Â
âIâm sorry,â Sirius says instead, their eyes on their entwined hands rather than on Lily. Shame envelops them all at once, tears stinging their eyes as they try not to break down here. If Lily is hardened after Jamesâ death, Sirius is the opposite, weak and vulnerable from their loss.Â
âI justâŠâ they trail off, unsure of how to put their feelings into words. Itâs another one of Siriusâ selfish thoughts that nobody could understand what theyâre going through, with Lily right in front of them. Of course she knows. More than anyone, she knows, perhaps even more than Sirius. They lost their best friend, yes, but Lily lost her husband, the mother of her child. Sirius thinks of Harry, innocent and kind as he already is, and they canât help the stray tears that fall. Neither of them deserve this, they think, over and over again.
âI donât know what to do without him,â they admit finally, honestly, their free hand shaking as they move to wipe the tear from their cheek. âI thought this was the right thing to do,â Sirius adds, a little forcefully, as if to convince themself of the same. Their voice is softer when they speak again, another apology without saying so. âHonestly, I did. I hope you can believe that.â
Iâm sorry. Easy words, really. How many people had said that to her at the funeral? Sorry for your loss. Iâm sorry. So sorry, dear.
She was so tired of hearing it. As far as Lily was concerned, if anyone was sorry, really sorry, they would act like it. And not just talk it. She and Sirius had fought about something very similar to this, months ago, when she had to bury the memory of her husband because there wasnât a body to bury, and Sirius hadnât been there. Jamesâ best friend, his brother, hadnât bothered to show up at his funeral. And Sirius hadnât just snubbed James in that decision--theyâd snubbed Lily, Remus, Harry...all living, all still there. Lily hears them say the right thing to do and all she can think of is the way Remus kept glancing around at the funeral, hoping against hope that Sirius might show up.
So she doesnât cry, even though thereâs a rock in her throat and a hot pressure on the backs of her eyes. She always feels this way, close to sobbing, but a dry gulf of pain stands between her and any show of vulnerability. A part of her wonders if these are crocodile tears, intended to pull sympathy from her cold fingers. Sheâs never known how to read Sirius like James and Remus and Marlene could.
But she has no doubt that, in a reversed position, Marlene would be doing the same thing if she was the one dead in the ground. Reckless. Trying to make a difference. The main change being that Marlene has always been like that, was part of the Order with James and Remus, and nobody would expect anything less from her. But Sirius was not a fighter until after Jamesâ death. They donât know what theyâre getting into. All problems cannot be solved with blunt force.
I donât know what to do without him. âYou werenât a part of this when he was alive,â she says, just this side of callous, her voice thick. âYou werenât here when James and Remus and I were. I donât--why is this the right thing to do, suddenly?â
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Masterlist of Memes
lxckwolf-archiveâ:
âč My muse is visiting your muse on their death bed
â« A drabble about our muses inspired by the next song that comes on shuffle
â» A drabble of our muses on their wedding day
âș my muse trying to piss yours off
ŰȘ our muses running into each other after not seeing each other for several years
ă
for a situation that got both our muses arrested
ă· my muse walks in on your naked
Ă your muse walks in on my muse naked
ÏĄ a goodbye letter from my muse to yours
â„ you muse suprises my muse with a kiss
Û” my muse kisses yours to shut them up
አa forehead kiss from my muse
ì my muse torturing yours for information
ì my muse trying to seduce information from your muse
â a holiday drabble featuring our muses
â our muses are together when they get ambushed
â my muse wakes up in your museâs body
? Â my muse will ask your muse a question they always wanted to ask
+ my muse has died and your muse is included in their will
â my museâs reaction to finding your muse beaten and bruisedÂ
â my muse will do something stupid to impress your muse
â your muse visiting mine in the psych ward
â my muse visiting yours in the psych ward
â
my muse rescues yours
âȘ my muse seeing the ghost of your muse
â my museâs turn offs
â my museâs turn ons
âł our museâs get in a playful wrestling match
âą my muse gives yours a hickey
⧠our muses having dinner together
â my muse drunk dials your muse
â our muses on a flight together
⌠my muse giving yours a massage
⥠my muse flirts with your mue
⣠your muse visiting my muse in prison
â your muse visiting mine in prison
X my muse doesnât remember anything from the night before. They have blood on their hands, and your muse is beaten at their feet.
â our muses are trapped in a fire together
ă° our muses are at the beach together
âą my muse has lost their memory, and at the sight of your muse starts to remember things
â my muses daily routine
â a new years eve memory from my muse
⏠our muses share a new years eve kiss
â your muses name, ringtone, and icon in the museâs phone
â a christmas gift from my muse
â a sexual story from my muse
â© our muses are caught in a thunder storm together
â Â a regret my muse has about your muse
â your muse tracing one of my museâs scars
â my muse tracing a scar of your museâs
â my muse hearing your muse scream
â our muses go out for coffee together
â my muse visitâs your museâs grave
â my muse injures your muse
â your muse injures my muse
â© a dream my muse has about your muse
âš my muse searching for your muse
⊠my muse trying to cheer up your muse
â my muse taking care of a your muse while their sick
â my muse trying to calm your muse down
â my muse trying to get your muse to recover from amnesia
â a confession from my muse to yours
â our muses shopping together
â our muses watching the stars together
« a past memory with our muses
» a daydream my muse has about yours
â a mistletoe kiss
â our muses going to a costume ball together
â our muses are evil and out reaking havoc together
â a kiss on the cheek
â a kiss on the palms
â a kiss on the back of the hand
â a kiss on the nose
â a kiss on the eyelids
â a kiss on a bruise
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pandora-goodloveâ:
February 17th, early afternoon // Pandora's clinic, village centre // OPEN
The rusting plaque hanging on the second storey door still bore the name Ari Shafiq, but Pandora had made the small Healers clinic her own. There wasn't much left of the room, a few vials of potions, scales, a handful of metal tools. A cabinet full of patients files, the lives and stories of Godric's Hollow past inhabitants. Pandora read these sometimes, learning the history of the town through its ailments. She hadn't opened James', but she had moved Lily's and young Harry's files across to her own small collection. Xenophilius' was the thickest, reams of parchment spanning years detailing their condition, every possible cure they had tried. Remus' file was growing rapidly. Her notes for the rest of the Order weren't much more than 'alive'.Â
Pandora tried to spend a few hours in her clinic most days, people knew they could find her here if they needed a potion, a salve, a cure or a listening ear. She had to feel as if she were doing something, as if she had a purpose to be here. Sitting idly by was difficult, Pandora needed to help however she could. A few hours had passed lost in Remus' potion, several failed attempts and one revelation. She would track him down this afternoon to deliver it to him.Â
She wasn't working now. She sat with her arms wrapped tightly around the record player Xeno had lugged up the stairs for her. She played it far too loud to keep in their home, the angry music not to Xeno's taste. A punk record on, volume dial pushed up as high as it could go. The bass reverberated through her palms, up her arms, though her chest until it reached her heart. Her body flooded with the music she couldn't hear but could feel deep within every vibrating nerve. Pandora's eyes were closed but for a crack, they shot open when the lights and charms decorating her ceiling lit up. Her fingers reached for the volume control, bringing the music down to a whisper she could no longer feel. Pandora ran a hand through her hair, across her crumpled shirt and she turned to the opening door, her cheeks flushing as if she were caught doing something she oughtn't.Â
Familiar things hurt. She avoided them, as much as she could while still living here. It was too easy to imagine James still there, just behind her, out of sight, ready to creep up and wrap his arms around her or whisper something into her ear and make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Theyâd lived here for years, the Potters, made friends with neighbors and bought produce and gone on scenic walks with Jamesâ parents. Sheâd gone to a grief counselor once, after her parents died, who had told her to immerse herself in their home and their things, spend time packing things up and choosing what to keep and what to donate, bond with her sister over the memories.
She went to the house once only to find that Petunia was half-finished, their parentsâ belongings all in boxes, and only Jamesâ presence beside her (and his irate insistence that Petunia allow her equal share in the experience) kept Lily from running away and never coming back. She was not, sheâd decided then, cut out for this kind of grief management.
Only now she was immersed in the town where her husband and all their friends and neighbors had died. No escape, not when people were occupying houses, raiding rooms, carrying back books and toys and information. Not when Pandora was working out of the clinic, the one sheâd taken Harry to countless times since his birth, watched James and the doctor swap stories of raising an infant. Smiled when the doctor offered her words of encouragement and gave Harry something sweet to distract him. The Lovegoods were wonderful people with bright spirits, but even Pandora couldnât erase Lilyâs trepidation when she stepped into the clinic.
The music, though, that was new.
It took them a while to get up the stairs--Harry moving at a typical toddler pace, concentrating hard on holding her hand and moving his feet up the steps--and by the time they reached the room Pandora was standing guiltily by a record player. Lilyâs sign knowledge was scant--sheâd learned in childhood from a hearing impaired neighbor, but forgotten much through disuse over the years--but she did her best in conversing with Pandora and was brushing off her vocabulary a little more every day. âHello, Pandora,â she signed, saying the words aloud for Harryâs benefit as well as her own. âI hope we havenât interrupted you.â
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Where: Holly Cottage
When: time is relative; after Sirius and Xenoâs disagreeable conversation
Who: @rcmus
Someoneâs found Harry a puzzle, and sheâs never bothered to ask where it came from. Itâs easier to believe that it came from a shop in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade or a Muggle part of London and not from the room of a dead child down the road from her dead husbandâs house. Her house. Their house. Lily just thanked the deliverer and set it up for Harry and helped him sort the pieces by color (he was getting pretty good at colors).
Four days later, heâs done the puzzle at least six times, but heâs not yet two years old and these things donât get boring for him, and anything that keeps Harryâs mind off asking for his father or hunting down Padfoot is a good thing in Lilyâs book. Heâs sitting on her lap on the floor of the bedroom, holding up pieces and trying to fit the sides together, for once more focused than chatty and allowing his mother to carry on a half-decent conversation with Remus.
â--have you been sleeping alright?â Lily asks him anxiously, staring at him over a head of unmanageable dark curls. Remus has moved into their room, rather unofficially, after the breakup and her finding him napping curled up in her bed with Harry after leaving him to babysit one afternoon. Itâs only logical--itâs too awkward for them to sleep in the same bed, and Lily is unwilling to ask either one if theyâre ready to find alternate sleeping arrangements. Her bed is more than big enough, and sheâs been accustomed to sleeping with Harry and James since the babyâs birth. The substitution feels a bit like waking up with a ghost in her bed but at least sheâs sleeping better and avoiding the incredible tension that had been building between Remus and Sirius while they were still sharing a room. âAre things still...â she gestures, unsure what to say. This breakup has been hard on both her friends, she can tell, and she feels ill-equipped to support them simultaneously.
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xenosechoesâ:
Itâs too easy to get lost in their thoughts, to spiral, let the voices take over, agree with every little bitter thought theyâve had. The curse makes it clear that they could never be the sort of parent they wish they could, makes it clear that they canât even be the husband they want to be for Pandora, that itâs all a futile effort in the face of such pain. But Lilyâs voice is louder than the whispers, brings them back to the ground again, and they frown as she speaks, listening closely.
Her words paint a beautiful, messy picture, a family in which it didnât matter if not everything was figured out, because there was so much love overflowing that all that mattered was that they all had each other. He wondered what it would be like to feel that way, to have a family like that. His own parents had decidedly not had it all together, and it was clear to him, looking back, that they hadnât been able to care for themselves, didnât know themselves even, had built everything on a hope for a better life than they had had at home. Maybe they had thought they had enough love to make up for that, but in the end, they hadnât. How he longed to be different from them.Â
How he longed to have enough love that it was all that mattered, like Lily said. And he had a strong feeling that she wished for the same thing. âThatâs a very beautiful thought. I dearly hope that I might have that,â Xenophilius hums, with a nod. âAnd, if it means anything at all, I think itâs clear that you have love in spades, more than enough, so much at times it may hurt to try to hold it all, when there are so few places to put it now, after everything.â
For all she is unsure of the stability of Xenoâs mind--and not, necessarily, through any fault of his own--she is certain that everything he says now is true. He has conviction in his voice that comes from being a genuine kind of person. Surrounded as she is by genuine people whose lives are shaken and broken by circumstance, Lily has learned the sound of it. She is better at telling when she is lied to than lying herself.
âThank you,â she answers softly, suddenly blinking back tears, surprised at their existence. Lily turns her head a bit, trying to be discreet as she presses the back of her hand to her face and swallows back the rest of the unwanted saline. âWe all have fewer places to put our love than weâre used to. It takes some adjusting to.âÂ
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unbearablyblackâ:
âThis war has to end, Lily,â Sirius says, his tone maintaining its persistence. His hands, curled into tight fists now, drum against his knees as he talks. âYou deserve to see it end. Harry deserves to see it end. Jââ He wants to add that James wouldâve felt the same way, but he still canât say his name. He chokes on it, instead, swallows hard and tries again. âYou donât deserve this,â he starts again, gesturing vaguely in the air. This meaning a home thatâs not hers, a son without a father, a pseudo-life in a village marred with death; there are plenty of terrible things Lily got, but never asked for.
Though he canât explain why, Sirius feels like heâs to blame, like Jamesâ death and all that followed is his fault. Like he hadnât done enough, hadnât loved any of them hard enough to protect them from what happened. This includes James, and Remus, and Lily and Harry, his guilt all-encompassing.
âIf I can help bring an end to it,â he continues, turning towards her. He doesnât break eye contact this time, his knees knocking against hers as he turns in the chair, âIâm going to do it. Iâve beenââ he stops himself again, demonstrating uncharacteristic self-restraint, but the thought that was meant to follow catches even him off-guard. Iâve been ready to die since the war began. Thatâs what he was going to say, but not even Sirius, someone so wholly affected by his own self-pity, can put that on Lily Potter. Even he isnât that selfish. Even if itâs true.
Sirius, who used to trace maps of their future on Remusâ arm as he slept, Sirius, who would do anything for his friends, kill for them and die for them in the same stroke, Sirius who loves Remus more than any other person heâs ever known, doesnât want to die, not reallyâ itâs far too final for someone who is constantly moving, too permanent for someone who loves as hard as he, but he would. In an instant, without a second thought, if it could bring James back, could end the war.Â
âIâm going to be fine.â Sirius places his hand, palm-up on Lilyâs leg, his eyes pleading for her to take it. âIâll leave tomorrow night and be back the next morning. You wonât even know I was gone,â he adds, smiling because the only other option is to cry. He can feel his eyes burn, but he doesnât allow himself to, not here, not in front of her. Heâs not going to die. Not so soon, at least. âHopefully with a few more people than we had when we left.â
She listens because thatâs what Sirius deserves. Deserves to be heard, like James used to hear them. God. She canât be James for him, neither can Remus, and without James Sirius is floundering. Bad enough that even Remus had cut them loose. Safety rafts and the boat. The ship is sinking. Save yourself, save only yourself, youâre the only one worth saving. She canât watch Sirius drown.
She takes their hand, grateful for the gesture because just before that moment she wanted to reach for them but couldnât bring herself to move first. Theyâre grounded in their linked fists, both out of control more days than not, both burying themselves bit by bit in grief. Except Sirius is spiraling, burning up with it, and Lily has stamped out the embers and exists in cold certainty that she canât stop until the world does.
She grips Siriusâ hand in hers and stares them straight in the eyes, cool detachment making her certain that even if they cry, tonight, she wonât, because her entire body is exhausted and dry from all the tears sheâs shed over lost friends and loves. âBullshit,â she says, trying to stay calm and even, raising her voice just a little too much. âYou know what I deserve, Sirius, what Harry deserves, and itâs you. Alive.â Her other hand falls to theirs, and sheâs now clutching Siriusâ hand with both hers, holding him inches away from her, daring him to try to escape this. âIâm not going to stop you from going. I know I canât. I know James wouldnât.â She says his name like a weapon, half because it is, and half because it feels like it explodes off her tongue rather than is spoken.
Lily takes a second after that--swallows, breathes, tries to forget the tang of her dead husbandâs name in her mouth again. âBut this is scary. And you canât--you canât just go off and make these kinds of decisions without talking to the people you matter most to.â To me. To Remus.
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omg-dorcasmeadowesâ:
Was Dorcas really that involved in everything around her that sheâd somehow missed that Lily was either a Half-Blood or a Muggle-Born? Doe wasnât entirely sure and she wasnât really sure that she wanted to think that far given the fact that she wasnât exactly the most friendly individual at Hogwarts; no, if she wanted to be really honest with herself Doe would admit that she had been a selfish, self-involved bitch and more focused on what it meant to further her Quidditch skills than it ever had been for her making friends. After all, Lily was only a year older than she was, she shouldnât have been so oblivious that she hadnât known that.Â
âIâsheâs familiar with owls?â Doe wasnât entirely sure how most families handled things, but for all she knew, Lilyâs family could think t hat now she was just traveling the globe. âOr do you want it to go through the Muggle post to be safe? I can figure it out though.â
She has a mental image of Petuniaâs face if an owl were to come flying through her window bearing news, happy or sad. If what she remembered was correct, Petunia was married and living in some cookie-cutter perfect house, probably decorated in pastels with vases everywhere. Dursley, that was her name now. Petunia Dursley and Lily Potter. No Evanses, not anymore. And Petunia Dursley would pull a face like no other if an owl came crashing into her house. Shriek and chase it right back out again.
Although Lily couldnât be sure Petunia wouldnât just throw out her letter as soon as she saw the handwriting. Sending it through the Muggle post would, at least, give her a better chance.
âI--no. Yes. No.â She was making no sense. âMuggle post would be better, I think...Petunia is...she doesnât trust magic.â Understatement of a lifetime. How do you wrap up two decades of hate and bitterness and mistrust and jealousy and betrayal and unhealed wounds, deliver in a handful of words? To a stranger? Does Dorcas understand what itâs like to manifest magic early in life and be told it makes you wrong? She used to chase Petunia everywhere, want to be just like her--it stung more than anything, that repeated freak, freak, freak that turned the tables and chased her right back.
âI havenât written it yet. Can I bring it to you once I have?â Merlin, God, fuck. This letter was easier to think about before it was a reality. Now she actually had to write the thing.
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