Valkyrie

August 1979

When the weight of grief becomes too heavy in the flat, Hestia goes home.

It’s not like she’s made a deliberate attempt not to visit. Since her dad died… well, shit got in the way. Thinking about it all makes her feel like a peach, the pit in her center overwhelming. The pit is grief, and Hestia chokes on it when she forgets it is there.

How does she feel? All anyone seems to ask these days. When she goes back into work at the apothecary, eyes rimmed red and quiet, people cannot help but ask how she is. Maybe it’s a fair question, especially when she finds herself having mini outbursts randomly in the day, like serving a customer and suddenly catching a flash of her hair in the background, enough to send her into a fit of retching.

Hestia is waterlogged, so soaked with tears that she is barely functional. Everything feels dense and awful, and the hot August air does little to relieve her. The flat is quiet, too quiet. Benjy and Caradoc have basically moved in to make sure they meet rent, and when anyone speaks it is in hushed tones. She wants loudness, she wants a fight. Hestia hates anger, has always hated how tense it makes her body feel, hates what it makes her say, but something must shatter this impossible wall between mourning and normalcy. She will break her identity completely just to return to normal life.

Mum starts calling and writing when the news hits the papers. Hestia ignores the piles of letters, collects them in a heap on her floor. Clara doesn’t write, and Hestia loves her for it. She owes them a visit, though, and if she has to listen to one more minute of Emmeline trying to weep silently in her room, Hestia might just shatter into a million pieces.

Grief makes her someone different. Grief makes her brittle and mean, hands clenched at her sides. There is little energy to be sweet and gentle as she normally works to be. It is as though the emotion is so overwhelming inside her, like a tidal wave, that it washes away anything about her that she admires: her kindness, her loyalty, her honesty. What remains is the love, but it becomes warped and ugly, a constant taunt. No matter how hard you love someone, you cannot save them.

Were she in a better state of mind, as she usually is, Hestia would fight that statement. No, that isn’t true. Some people aren’t loved enough, and sometimes just a little care, a little tenderness can turn their life around. You cannot be saved from death, but you can make sure they go knowing they are loved.

Did Emma know she was loved? Did she ever know truly how much she meant to people? Hestia hadn’t wanted to leave the flat that night, did not want to turn her back on Emma.

Emma, not Van. Van was the girl that Hestia shared a flat with, who loved learning and flying, who folded origami and left them around the house to be found, who borrowed clothes without asking and left inspirational quotes in red lipstick on the bathroom mirror. That was Van, barely out of her teenage years, who wanted to be the next Nicolas Flamel, who wanted to do something great with her life. Emma is a martyr, perhaps even a war hero, a foot soldier, a sister and a daughter. To remember Van is too painful, it must be Emma that Hestia thinks of now.

“I love you.” That’s the last thing Hestia said to her. I love you. No matter how hard you love someone, you cannot save them. Why did it have to be Emma? It is selfish and awful, but Hestia wishes she were here on the couch with her in their flat, glancing over Hestia’s shoulder at the Daily Prophet and shaking her head with sadness at the newest obituary.

Hestia used to feel the same way about her dad. Why did he get the brain tumour, and not the man down the street growing up, who used to whip his daughter with a belt? Why not the old racist lady at the flower shop where Mum worked, making snide comments about Hestia and Clara’s heritage? Why her dad, who loved humanity so much, who took it upon himself to teach the new generation so stories and cultures wouldn’t get lost? Why did he have to die when so many others survived?

Grief is a terrible, cyclical thing. The wheel will turn, and Hestia will heal. But for now, everything feels like an open wound, and Hestia is much too raw to be any use to anyone.

~*~

Their home is in Oxford, near where Dad worked up until his death. Mum never moved, like she said she would. The house is too big for her now, all alone, while Hestia lives in London and Clara goes to Hogwarts. In a weird way, Hestia is glad she still has the house, that she can still find the traces of Dad’s life. The anger in the immediate wake has subsided, and Hestia loves it again.

Clara is out front in the garden when Hestia finally reaches the driveway. She pauses a moment, watching her little sister work systematically, a process to her movements as she waters some plants and not others. Clara got the Hufflepuff green thumb, something Hestia used to envy before realizing live plants were much harder to wrangle than she had expected. Her pin-straight hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, her skin a deeply warmed brown from the summer working outside. A red tank top, old jeans cut to her thighs with a sunflower embroidered on one back pocket. Hestia watches her, such fondness in her chest that it is hard not to feel it overwhelmingly.

Clara looks like Dad, really. The same straight hair, strong cheekbones, long bumpy nose. Hestia takes after Mum in everything but colouring. Looking at Clara is like looking in a funhouse mirror, maybe who she could have been had the universe not decided against it.

“What are the flowers this year?”

Clara startles a little, glances back, her lips breaking into a big smile when she sees Hestia. “Hydrangeas.” She says, dusting her hands off on her jeans and striding over to Hestia. “A special request from Mum.”

Up close, Hestia can see the three freckles under Clara’s eye, the wonky front tooth that pokes out when she smiles. When she presses Clara’s head into her shoulder, holding her tightly like a lifeline, all she can say is “Merlin, when did you grow up.”

Clara laughs breathlessly, pulling back and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, you know what they say, OWLS age you significantly.”

“I’m sure you did fine.”

“Oh, definitely. But I think I got ten years knocked off my lifespan. Stress from studying, you know.” Clara pauses, watching Hestia’s face. “I heard the news from Mum, about the funeral.” The question hangs in the air between them, but she would never ask it. Clearing her throat, Clara pushes past. “Is that why you’re here now?”

She can feel the pit in her center growing larger. Hestia swallows it down as far as she can and fakes a casualty she doesn’t quite feel. “Mostly because we’re running out of food at the house, was hoping Mum could make us a lasagna or something to take back to the gang.”

Clara isn’t convinced, and why would she be? She knows Hestia too well for that, and Hestia knows that. Sometimes, she seems much older than fifteen, wise beyond her years. Finally, the corner of her lips rise, an acknowledgement of Hestia’s deflection and an acceptance of it. “Well, you’re in luck. Come on, she’ll be glad to see you.”

~*~

The house smells like cinnamon, like laundry detergent, like home. Hestia inhales, holds it in her body, tries to memorize this feeling to recreate it later when she is sad. Of course, it won’t work; we always misremember the things we try so hard to hang onto.

Mum is in the kitchen, and Hestia tries to remember if she had so many white hairs shot through her blonde curls the last time she came home. Has her mother always been old, or has time caught up to her? Hestia remembers from her youth Mum’s smooth face, unblemished hands, like a portrait, editing out all the imperfections. Now, she is a picture, and everything comes to light.

“We have a visitor,” Clara announces, letting go of Hestia’s arm and taking a seat at the table. “Careful, she bites.”

The relief in Mum’s face when she turns and spots Hestia is something she won’t soon forget. Homesickness crashes like a wave at that expression, wondering how it is she hasn’t been home in so long. When Mum opens her arms, Hestia becomes a little kid again, propelled forward by some primal force, a desperate need for love, and crashes into her mother’s body, holding on with all her might lest she fall apart completely.

Arguably, she was always closest with Dad. They had the same hobbies, the same interests. Hestia adored him, idolized him, aspired to be just like him when she was older. Since he died, though, it’s as though the light has been turned on. Mum, quiet and steady in her love, arms always open for her daughter to come back to her.

A flash, suddenly, of Emma in her arms at the flat, the last time Hestia ever saw her. The way her ponytail tickled Hestia’s skin, the warmth of her body. She was so real, so beautiful.

Before she can begin crying, Hestia breaks the hug first, pulling away and using the excuse of rubbing her eye to rid herself of any loose tears. “Hey, Mum.”

“Oh, my Memengwaa.” Mum presses her hand to Hestia’s cheek with such fondness, then whirls back to the oven. “Let me get these cinnamon rolls out to rest, okay? Then we’ll sit and chat.”

“No rush.” Hestia goes to the small table, with the mismatched chairs and the old, quilted tablecloth. Everything here is so familiar, warm in a way that only childhood and all associated with it can be. Here, it is as though she has not aged years; she is just a girl again, sitting across the table from her sister, listening to Mum cook in the kitchen, and any minute Dad will walk through the door—

No, he’s not coming home. Hestia clenches her fist in her lap and holds her breath until the wave of nausea passes. Clara is watching her, cursed with the same attentiveness that Hestia loathes about herself.

“Okay.” Mum claps her hands together, whirls around and comes to sit, hands folded on the table in front of her. “Hello my dear. How are you?”

“Oh.” Hestia sneaks a look at Clara, who arches a pointed eyebrow and quirks her lips. Hestia pulls her gaze away. “You know, it’s been…”

“I’m truly sorry about what happened to Emma Vanity.” Mum shakes her head with a sigh. “I read about it in the Prophet. Why didn’t you write or call? I could have come over to make you food, to comfort you.”

Hestia shrugs, shoulders to her ears, forcing all of the emotion out of her body so she doesn't explode on the people she loves.. “I dunno.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you right now, sweetheart. I just hope you aren’t taking this on your shoulders. Rumour has it she was in that resistance movement. It was her choice to fight, certainly, that’s not your fault.”

“I know.”

Mum leans back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “This war is nothing but trouble. What those people are doing… it’s not right, but I’m glad you’re not fighting. Too many innocent people can die, like Emma Vanity. Best to keep your head down and live as normal until it ends.”

Hestia’s cheeks burn, and she lifts her mug to cover her face. Secrets, how does she have so many secrets? Once, she thought of herself of an honest person, but that can’t be true now. Her involvement in the war, her caretaking of Remus, Mari, the big secret she cannot bring herself to think about—

When did she become the type of person to lie to the people she loves?

“Are you still working at the apothecary?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. And how’s your leg doing? I’ve still been doing some research to see if there’s any new spells we can try for it. Does it hurt still?”

Hestia shifts in her chair, testing her weight on her left leg. “Not right now. It’s okay, Mum, you don’t have to keep looking. It’ll probably be this way forever.”

Mum shakes her head disapprovingly. “I’ll never forgive your father for letting you fly at such a young age, especially when you didn’t know how to land safely yet.” Her eyes mist up, and she reaches over to grab Hestia’s hands. “Memengwaa, I lost your father. I cannot lose you too.”

It takes everything in her body not to break into a million pieces. Hestia musters a smile and squeezes her hands back. “I know, Mum.” I love you hangs on the tip of her tongue, but she cannot. The last person she said I love you to is dead now.

“Can we cook something?” Clara pipes up, and Hestia uses the opportunity to pull her hands back into her lap.

Mum reaches over to cradle Clara’s head. “Of course, Waawaatesi. Anything you’d like.”

“Can we make one of Dad’s recipes?” Hestia’s voice quavers on the words.

Mum looks at her, and there is such sadness in her gaze that Hestia can barely stand it. “Of course, my sweet. Come pick one out, we’ll make it together.”

~*~

Clara finds her upstairs, sitting on her childhood bed. She knocks at the doorframe, but Hestia already knows she’s there. Two hyper-aware sisters tend to make sneaking up on one another kind of impossible.

“What are you thinking about?”

Hestia doesn’t say anything. She just runs a finger over her knuckles, over and over again until the skin blurs under her fingertip. Footsteps, as Clara comes to sit next to her, thighs brushing. “What’s going on, Hestia? You can talk to me, if you want.”

“I have so many secrets.” Hestia whispers, and it burns coming up from her throat, from the deepest pits of hell within her. All she ever wanted was a simple life, one where the day unfolding ahead of her could be met with determination and contentedness rather than the fear of slipping up, of saying something wrong, of making a fatal mistake.

“Okay, then tell me one.”

“I dated a girl at Hogwarts. I think I lo—I really liked her. But she had feelings for another girl. And—” The words stop at Hestia’s lips; she cannot say it. not just for herself, but because it is the worst thing she has ever been privy to. She will never say it, not as long as she lives. “She won’t talk to me anymore, but we both remember. And she comforted me at the funeral, like we were still friends or something.”

Clara’s hand reaches over to trace flowers on Hestia’s leg. “I didn’t know you liked girls.” Her voice is soft, non-judgemental. There would never be a hateful bone in Clara Jones’ body.

“I don’t talk about it because she never wanted me to. Got mad when I wanted to come out.” Warm rays of sunlight, dark curls under her fingers, her guide to Valhalla. “It wasn’t about me, but it’s hard not to believe it was. People keep leaving, Clara. Dad, her, now Emma… I don’t know what to do.”

Clara hums gently, and Hestia turns to study her face, how intimately familiar she is. They never really fought like most siblings do, they were too alike for that. Clara is the only one Hestia does not have to question whether she will stay, because she will.

“I suppose you keep on living and loving.” Clara says softly. “You try to trust that the right people will stick with you. Time is cruel, but it’s also the only thing we’ve got, so use it to get the most out of life.”

Hestia lets out a watery chuckle, finally letting the tears gathering in her eyes stream down her cheeks. “You’re too wise, you know that?”

“One of us has to be.” Clara’s lips lift, and she winks. Hestia, half-laughing and half-crying, leans into the shoulder of her younger sister and lets herself be held.

~*~

“Who would you invite to your wedding?”

“That’s a silly question. You, obviously. Mum and Dad. Maybe Lucie from down the street.”

“Lucie? Why her?”

“Because I like her.” Tuney rolls her eyes. “Just because you don’t doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“But she’s mean to Sev.”

“Well, maybe he’s a little creep who deserves to be made fun of. Anyway, I’d probably invite Auntie Margaret and Uncle David too.”

“What about Auntie Jane?”

Tuney wrinkles up her nose. “No, she smells like cabbage.”

Lily pouts, sticking out her lower lip and quivering it slightly. “But she brings us candy!”

Petunia looks at her for a moment, as though considering, and then smiles and nods her head. “Okay, then she can come. But you’re on old-lady-stink duty, to make sure she doesn’t gross out the guests.”

Lily sits up straight and salutes. “Yes, ma’am.” She slumps back into the grass, arm brushing against Tuney’s, staring up at the big blue sky, the fluffy clouds that drift past. “Who do you think you’ll marry?”

Petunia takes a while to answer, and for a moment Lily thinks she may have fallen asleep, nestled among the flowers and the soft earth. “He’ll have blonde hair, and dimples. Not too much taller than me, but still enough so I can go up on my tiptoes to kiss him. He’ll have a good, well-paying job, and he’ll buy us a nice house with a real white picket fence and a backyard for the kids to play in.” Her voice trails off a little, and then, quieter: “He’ll actually love me, it won’t be for convenience.”

“Not like Mum and Dad.”

“Not like Mum and Dad.”

The two sisters stare up at the sky, nothing more to say.

~*~

When Lily thinks of her wedding over the years, there is one consistent person.

Petunia, walking her down the isle.

Petunia, adjusting her veil.

Petunia, holding a champagne glass and toasting the happy couple.

It is always Petunia; her face is everywhere. Once, Lily thought Snape would be there, that her mother would be there. They aren’t anymore, but Petunia should be. Petunia has to be.

She remembers the disaster of trying to bring her two worlds together at the restaurant two years ago with Tuney and her dull lug of a husband, where she’d tried to introduce James somewhat politely. Of course, that went about as horribly as expected, but Lily was no less hurt by it. She wanted Petunia to like James, even if he was a wizard, but that was the dividing gap between them.

Petunia resented her, she knew. She’d told Lily that she couldn’t be a bridesmaid at hers and Vernon’s wedding because Lily would just “upstage” her. Lily had blinked tears away and said she’d never wanted to do that, but nothing changed. She spent the wedding at a table near the back, sat amongst random low-level bureaucrats from Vernon’s job, far away from her sister or parents.

Were they ever friends? This is hard to parse out. Lily certainly thought they were, probably for much longer than Petunia thought they were. Hogwarts was the official rupture, the declaration that one Evans sister was special and destined for greatness, and the other Evans sister was nothing, and would amount to a life of normalcy. Lily and Severus’ friendship certainly didn’t help things (even though Tuney had had loads of friends that didn’t like Lily, and that was never a problem), but the real severance occurred long before that, maybe from their births.

You see, after many years and a great deal of consideration, Lily has come to the conclusion that her parents maybe shouldn’t have been parents. Maybe this is something all kids realize about their parents once they reach a certain age, once they can look back on childhood with glasses that aren’t entirely rose-tinted. From an outside perspective, Lily tests her theory relentlessly. Sev’s parents? Shouldn’t have been parents. Marlene’s parents? Father undecided, but definitely her mother shouldn’t have been a parent. James’ parents? Well, the theory isn’t entirely airtight, but Lily believes it stands nonetheless, just from personal experience.

Petunia was an accident. Dad told them that many times, when he was drunk on the couch, after a fight where Mum had walked out, whenever Tuney did something wrong. They had only been eighteen and hadn’t used protection, and whenever they fought, they always pinned the blame onto the other. Lily and Petunia used to sit in Petunia’s bedroom, just around the corner from the kitchen, and stare at their feet while the house shook with every scream and plate smashed. For two poor people, they were remarkably wasteful of perfectly good dishware, in Lily’s humble opinion. Tuney didn’t hold her or comfort her, maybe like an older sister should. They sat shoulder to shoulder, and Lily would cry sometimes but Petunia never did, just stared at her feet with an empty expression. “It’s because of me,” she told Lily once, very quietly, but when Lily asked about it the next day, she denied ever saying it and kicked Lily out of her room.

Lily was wanted, as much as she could be. A redo, a chance for these twenty-year-old parents to start fresh with a child born of their marriage, not just a sloppy tryst behind the town bar. Did they think they could just erase those previous two years like they’d never even existed?

The point is, Lily and Petunia knew their designated roles in the house, had it held over their heads like a height marker on the wall, something to grow to reach. Except, they got bored of baby Lily pretty quickly. From then on, it became a race to see who could earn Mum and Dad’s attention first. A good grade on a test, a missing tooth, a stick figure drawing. Never mind that the good grade came from cheating off a classmate, the stick figure drawing stolen from the other’s room, the missing tooth emerging out of Petunia shoving Lily into the corner of a table for stealing the drawing. To earn Annalise and Timothy Evans’ love, even just for a short time, was a constant fight for the surface, with half the energy focused on swimming upwards, and the other dedicated to yanking the other further down into the water to get ahead.

Petunia’s unfortunate birth could be forgotten temporarily in the face of a positive discussion with her primary school teacher. Lily’s position as the golden child could be solidified for a day when she mowed the neighbour’s lawn unprompted. The downside, of course, was that a success for one was a failure for another. If Lily was praised, Petunia was scorned. If Petunia was praised, Lily was scorned. It never lasted for long, either. It was hard to predict when the wheel would turn, when the success which had been lauded for minutes or hours suddenly became insufficient, when it was time to go on the hunt for something new.

Mum was sick, too, had been since around Lily’s birth. Cancer, Lily presumes now, even though they were never really told. Dad liked to use it as a leverage tool, to tell them that Mum was dying and her only two daughters were disappointments. That usually got them in line, but it was awful. Every day, not knowing how Mum really was… It made the drive to impress so much stronger, to give Mum something to live for. Maybe if she was finally proud of at least one of them, she wouldn’t die out of spite.

When Lily was seven, and Petunia was nine, they created a temporary truce and built a plan: neither of them would fight for one week, no betrayal, no achievements. They would stand together, and weather the storm hand in hand.

Well, that lasted for three full days, until Dad got drunk and called them both “my greatest regrets” and Mum threatened to lock them in the closet for asking to be fed for the first time in twenty-four hours. By the next day, Petunia had yanked out three of her teeth and grinned at Lily from around the corner in satisfaction, mouth bloody. That’s when Lily knew that something undefinable and yet deeply crucial to their relationship had snapped, sending them both adrift from the only one who could understand.

No, the Evans sisters never really could be on the same side, in the end. Petunia resents her, Lily knows, for everything she is that Tuney wants: the golden child, the perfect daughter, the special one, the witch. Except, Lily wasn’t always that. No, sometimes, she was the piece of dirt under their parents’ shoe while Petunia sat on the throne. She wishes Petunia hated their parents rather than her. That the moments of closeness between them could have been more frequent, that the hurt in her chest would go away when she thought of Petunia, not get worse.

The Hogwarts letter just confirmed everything that Petunia believed: Lily was special, Petunia was not. Except, Petunia was special to Lily. That was her big sister, who broke a girl’s nose because she made fun of Lily’s hair, who made her canned pasta for dinner when their parents forgot and let Lily eat the whole can, who made Lily bracelets made of string, with beautiful colours and intricate patterns, and Lily would wear them for months until they turned to tatters. Despite everything, despite the competition, despite the fight, Lily only ever wanted Petunia.

So why are they still playing the same roles as they did when they were little? Why are they still fighting, when Mum is dead and Dad is drinking himself to death, and they are adults now with agency, not subjected to the whims of their immature parents? Lily wants nothing more than to cross the divide, to take Petunia’s hand, to stand tall against their parents and say: we aren’t playing your games anymore. We don’t have to compete anymore. We can be friends.

But Petunia doesn’t want to be your friend, a sinister little voice in her head will say, and it’s true. Petunia wants nothing more to do with Lily anymore. The James encounter was the last straw, the fraying rope finally snapping. She remembers Petunia’s eyes as they left the restaurant, that cold and empty look Lily remembers from when their parents used to fight. That’s when she knew it would never be the same again, competition replaced by loathing.

Despite it all, though, surely Tuney would come to her wedding, right?

~*~

The wedding happens one late August evening. It starts like this; James, rolling over in bed and slowly stroking Lily’s arm to wake her, whispering in her ear: “I want to marry you soon.” And Lily, sleepily, had mumbled a yes before letting herself be kissed.

They both feel it now, the war encroaching on every aspect of their lives. Lily didn’t really know Emma Vanity, but it feels as though death is staring them down, around every corner, inescapable. ‘Live while you can’ becomes the motto running through Lily’s head, over and over again, a mantra pushing her to get out of bed every morning, not to succumb to the despair of the situation in which she is in.

Lily and James get married in the Potters’ backyard. Someone sets up a canopy, a little archway, some chairs. Floating candles all around, the sky overhead streaked with yellow and orange and pink, like a watercolour painting.

Sirius is there, of course, with a daisy in his pocket to denote his role as best man, and Remus and Pete, all wearing fine muggle suits, the sleeves and pants magically shortened. Mary and Marlene (a strange, complicated look on Mary’s face that Lily couldn’t quite puzzle out) in pink sundresses, holding bouquets of daisies from Fleamont’s garden. Lily couldn’t have chosen between them for her maid of honour, couldn’t split her heart in two, so they both were. Euphemia and Fleamont, smiling so happily at them, holding each other like they are recalling their own wedding day. Alice and Frank and Florean, Alice’s dad, standing together, Alice’s eyes still rimmed red but smiling, nonetheless.

But Petunia isn’t there. Of course she isn’t there. Lily had gotten her letter, hadn’t she? Petunia was opposed to the union, rejected James and “all his magician oddities”, believed Lily was making the wrong decision. The footnote was unwritten yet still clear: you can turn back and come home. Petunia would always be too proud to write it, and Lily would always be too proud to obey it, so they both collectively ignored it.

Maybe it would hurt less if Lily didn’t dream about Petunia every night. Little, innocuous moments; eating together at the dinner table, walking home after school, buying a candy bar from the corner store and sharing it in silence. Petunia’s face always seems distorted in these dreams, so much so that they’ll often end with Lily just trying to scrutinize her sister’s features, find something recognizable and familiar so she won’t be so sad anymore.

Shouldn’t Lily be happy? She’s marrying the love of her life, and he looks like the sun, radiant smile lighting up his entire body just from looking at her. She did it, didn’t she? Found a guy who loved her and whom she loved, with whom she could build a future? Someone she wanted to live with, by choice and not by default. She’d escaped the curse of her parents, and wasn’t that the goal?

There was always a caveat to her plan: she had to escape with Petunia. But now Lily was standing on the other side, quite literally a world apart from her sister, staring at her friends and future husband, and all she really wanted was the one person who refused to come.

~*~

The wedding of James and Lily is probably the most beautiful thing Marlene has ever seen.

It’s sort of hard to believe your heart can be so full for two other people, that their happiness can be so infectious. Watching them up at the altar, staring at each other with such tenderness, it was like the world had been stabilized.

Admittedly, it seemed for a moment that disaster was in store. Marlene couldn’t miss the look that flashed over Lily’s face when she saw them all. She didn’t really know what to make of it, whether the furrowed eyebrows meant sadness or frustration, whether the tilt of Lily’s lips had a greater emotion behind it. When Marlene had asked Mary later on, she’d been non-committal. It didn’t take a very perceptive person to recognize something was going on with Mary, but of course Marlene couldn’t read her very well, so it was best to just drop the matter entirely.

The blip was brief, thankfully, and it took just a few seconds for the smile to spread across Lily’s face, a giddy, infectious grin that made Marlene’s heart explode with love for her.

James and Lily, maybe the two people Marlene believes deserves happiness most. They don’t really talk about Lily’s parents anymore, but they used to, the three of them, laying under Mary’s bed like they used to in first year before they got too big. Lily would chew on her cuticle and recount an episode where she’d broken her arm and neither of her parents brought her to hospital for a week. Mary had looked genuinely shocked, and Marlene had shrugged a shoulder and matched that story with one where her mom had forced her to kneel in still-smouldering ashes and pray. Parents were just shit sometimes.

But Lily wanted better for herself, and Marlene knew she deserved better. Lily Evans deserved the world, and even that was too little to offer her. And James, who had such a big heart, who could love her in the way Lily deserved. Truth be told, Marlene has been pulling for the two of them ever since second year. To see them together now, standing at the altar, hand in hand, Marlene’s lips simply can’t contain the joy in her heart.

There’s another thing, though. Marlene knows she’ll never have a wedding, never be a wife. Marriage is reserved for a man and a woman, is it not? One day, she’ll love someone so hard it physically burns, but no one will ever take it seriously. Even to wear a band on her ring finger would be a betrayal of all that is sacred. Marlene may be a heathen, but some things still cannot be betrayed

Living through Lily and James, then, has to be enough. Marlene has to soak up the emotion, to live in it, hopefully to quell her thirst for it in the future.

Standing there, to the side of the altar, watching two of her closest friends say their vows, Marlene finds herself being held closer to Sirius, his arm around her shoulders, her hand holding his side. They don’t say anything, probably because they don’t need to, but there’s a shared experience between them that need not be verbalized. I’m here, I got you, I understand. Neither of them will get married, and neither of them would ever say it, but it hurts more than either of them cares to admit.

~*~

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter die within a week of the wedding.

Fleamont goes first. Dragon pox, the medi-witch says, a look of sympathy on her drawn face. It’s going around this time of year, especially among older folk. For them, it hits like a tornado, and chances of recovery are slim.

He doesn’t suffer, at the very least. The infection reaches his brain quickly, shuts down the pain receptors, dims his awareness of what’s really happening to him. He is still speaking up until his death, and in the last day, James comes out into the living room where they’ve all gathered to say goodbye and says very softly that he wants to speak to Marlene, and only Marlene.

Alice squeezes her shoulder in support, but Marlene doesn’t really feel anything, just a hollowness that felt so utterly foreign to her that she doesn’t know what to do with it. Seeing Fleamont in the bed, skin tinged green, with boils all over his skin, smiling at her, it all feels too unreal. Fleamont, Monty, the man who practically raised her when Mum was cruel and when Dad was away, the man who loved her like his own.

“I don’t care what she says to you. No matter what, you come home to us. Understand?” He’d said that to her in December, told her to come back to a house that wasn’t really hers, to people who weren’t really hers, but he was giving her permission to think of them as hers. To think of him as her father, because she was his and he was hers.

In that little room, Fleamont smiling at up her, and it’s a dopey grin, one that doesn’t look right in this state, and Marlene suddenly wants to curl up into his side and cry like she used to. But she has to be strong, so she takes a moment to hide her tears and steps forward, takes his knobbly hand, and tries to pour all of her love for him into that simple touch.

What Fleamont says to Marlene are his last words, and she’ll never tell anyone what he said to her. All anybody knows is that five minutes after she enters, Marlene comes out of the room, body wracked with silent sobs, refusing to speak to anyone, pushing past to reach the warm August air outside.

They have to keep Fleamont and Euphemia separate when it is first discovered that Fleamont is ill. Of course, after decades of sharing, Euphemia catches dragon pox too. She is in a different room, and somehow, she never asks how Fleamont is doing. The day he dies, a light goes out of Euphemia’s eyes, and it is decided nobody needs to tell her; she already knows.

Euphemia dies just a day shy of her seventieth birthday, holding James’ hand, Sirius by their side. Unlike Fleamont, Euphemia insists on being in control of all her faculties, so she dies aware and exhausted from the effort of knowing. She won’t take her eyes off of her sons, eyes moving back and forth as though trying to memorize their faces. James says she didn’t go until he’d said, “We’ll be okay.”

When Euphemia and Fleamont Potter die, the world gets a little dimmer. Marlene likes to listen to the birds in summer, how they twitter and chirp back and forth, especially on the vast Potter property. She remembers each individual sound, where they are in the trees, what they look like. It is the one thing Marlene could pay attention to forever and never be bored or fall out of love.

The day of the funeral, Marlene realizes one of her favourite birds has gone silent, and she never does hear its song again. For the rest of her life, that birdsong remains her favourite sound in the entire world.