𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 [𝐣.𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫]

17: 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔢𝔪𝔪𝔞 𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔱𝔶

Emma Vanity hadn't seen color this bright in a long time.

She resisted the urge to squint (actually, she succumbed to it) and marveled at the curious being that was Lily Evans. But she only glared, and she returned it, if only on instinct.

Her hair was such a brilliant hue, reddish maroon. It fell elegantly, resting on the shoulder, straight, gentle strands coalescing in such a marvelously angelic fashion. Emma briefly wondered how weird one had to be to notice a witch's hair before all else. Then again, she had been counting, and nothing should ever interrupt.

When the universe spoke into your ear, when it mentioned even a hint of a threat, you listened. And you listened well. She would've given anything and everything to redo it, to listen to its harsh demands, save him from the cold clutches of death.

She wasn't quite sure what death's hands felt like, but she chose to imagine them as nimble and cold, underoxygenated like all the once-healthy bodies that had fallen to a stop, whether abrupt, a final snip as the marionette fell, limp, or elongated, one moment stretched out into thousands.

Her hands were cold. It could've easily been her hands that reaped her energy, her life, in exchange for release. In a way, it was. Maybe it was supposed to provide some comfort in her, self-sufficiency being as indulgible to her as cigarettes, or alcohol, or any other substance that stimulates complacency. Maybe it was her need to rationalize such an intangible fixation, herself, death, and the universe. All one and the same.

Death was such a foreboding thought, to meet them and entrust your soul in theirs. But she had no other choice, not in her eyes.

Maybe she believed she was cheating death.

There was something appealing about evading its cold (or at least, imaginably cold) grasp, beaming to its empty face in place of begging. She would go before they had any chance to take her. She was not a hostage, not if she'd been held willingly.

Then there was the matter of Lily Evans.

Evans and the remarkably red hair, the book that had skidded to a stop at her feet, the need to rifle through and take a peek at what Perfect Lily's handwriting looked like. Evans, who she'd stood up for, who she'd sacrificed her overlooked-side-character status for.

Suddenly, the prospect of contemplating death seemed infinitely simpler.

**********

"Lily? What happened? Are you alright?"

James looked up, eyes full of concern as his Transfiguration textbook snapped shut. He rushed up to her, taking in her flushed complexion, clutching her hands. He recoiled at the slick sight of blood. "Are you hurt?"

Lily blinked, mind frozen in a haze of bright lights. "I have a little bit of a headache. Is that my blood?"

She ignored the wave of nausea the threatened to consume her, instead burying her face in his chest. He stood, shocked before rubbing her back awkwardly.

"Oi, Jamesie! What's all the- Evans? What's wrong?"

Sirius stopped midsentence, a look of confusion mingling on his features. He approached the two cautiously before notice the crimson spot blooming towards Lily's hairline. "Oh, Merlin. You're bleeding. Should I call someone? Er, Remus, Peter, Alarie, get your ass down these stairs in the next five seconds. There's something wrong with Lily!"

The three of them were in the Common Room in the allotted time, Brigitte very nearly tripping on a displaced armchair. She landed on a decorative pillow with a thud, straightening with a threatening glare before anyone could mention her misstep.