𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 [𝐣.𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫]

13: 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔦𝔣 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤?

That was what Brigitte told herself to believe, at least.

Chemicals were more easily dismissed, chemicals and brain messages and primal instincts. If love truly did exist, she would find herself succumbing to the wormhole of questions that bombarded her. Because love seemed to touch everyone in their own special way.

Best friends, with brilliant hearts and grinning faces, laughing at immature jokes, sharing beds, utterly indifferent when the other hasn't brushed their teeth. No one had to know about the lingering touches, the yearning, the delicate torture that ensued as they dragged themselves further into temptation, pulling away just to feel that horrible emptiness. A masochist's game.

Or perhaps a mother and father early hugging their child, bidding them farewell as they sighed wistfully at the red steam engine. Oh, the moments they'd shared together, and now it was their son's turn. And they would love him 'til the very depths of the earth, until its very core threatened to split open and consume them all. And even after that.

Two sisters, who'd once danced in the rain, promising that no matter what, no matter how voluminous his hair was, it would be them forever. Two sisters with who'd once giggled at bunnies hopping out of magician's hats, pointing out the inner pocket that held the little white kit. Then came the summers of pinkie promises, dripping ice cream cones, and flowers, buds opening and closing due to reasons unknown to man.

Why, she wanted to ask, why did everyone get to love except me?

********

Music blared, lyrics incoherent as people danced after the encouragement only a few butterbeers could ensue. Everyone knew of Sirius Black, though most only came at the prospect of free booze after a long week.

The Room of Requirement had been decorated quite substantially by Peter, who had quite the eye for style, and James, who refused to settle for anything less than perfection. Besides superhuman stomach capacity, he could always supply an approximation of how many degrees each banner was tilted.

After a heartfelt, mostly one-sided conversation with Sirius's favorite kid brother, he'd spent the rest of the afternoon meticulously supervising the area. It didn't even matter that everything would get wrecked within the first fifteen minutes.

James grinned and waved at Brigitte, who stood by the door awkwardly, eyes taking in the scene before her. David Bowie played, mostly to fill in the otherwise brash integration of overlaying conversations.

"I'm going to assume this isn't a soirée?" She muttered, her sarcasm a stark contrast to her hesitant demeanor. "You're looking oddly sober, quite out of character, Potter."

She was usually never one to be late, but it'd taken her quite a while to locate the party's whereabouts, not to mention avoid all professors who would otherwise berate her for her rather showy dress.

James shrugged, pushing up his glasses higher as he glanced over a Lily, who was dancing with her friends near the center of the room. His cheeks were beginning to heat up. "I didn't wanna ruin it for Sirius, ya know? It's his party, after all, and I don't need to be dead pissed to have fun."

Brigitte nodded, feeling her throat constrict.

Truth be told, she'd seriously contemplated how horribly her absence would truly impact the Marauders. This wasn't like her. At Beauxbatons, she wouldn't have thought twice before putting on a dress and a pair of heels. It would've taken her two seconds to do her eyeliner, perhaps smoked half a joint before arriving fashionably late. And she would've enjoyed herself.

Now, she tugged at the bottom of her satin red dress, unsure whether to be pulling it down or crossing her arms over its dangerously low neckline. Beauxbatons had been home, with classmates that'd known her for years, and friends to who she could easily hand her drink off. She'd taken that for granted, the ease and trust she was once able to place in so many fellow human beings.