𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 [𝐣.𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫]

17: 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔢𝔪𝔪𝔞 𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔱𝔶

"Lily?" She asked cautiously, eyes sweeping across the scene. "What happened? You're bleeding, you know. Why don't we get you to Madame Pomfrey's?"

But Lily didn't respond, removing herself from James's lingering grasp. "I think I'm going to throw up."

James let go with a yelp and Sirius backing away in fear of being within spraying proximity. Brigitte only scoffed, grabbing a nearby bin before placing it by Lily's feet. 

Lily retched, lurching forward to avoid a mess. Brigitte reached out to catch her hair, rubbing her back with a surprising amount of humility.

Remus frowned, offering Lily a handkerchief he'd kept in his pocket. "It's probably a concussion. You must've hit your head pretty hard. What happened?"

*********

"Um, sorry, they did what?"

James glared mutinously at the wall, resisting his growing urge to put his fist through those Slytherin scumbags and pound them under their limited brain particles oozed through their orifices.

"James, mate, you have to calm down. You'll get us kicked out of the Hospital Wing," Remus admonished from his position in a tacky green chair, rubbing his temples aggressively. He couldn't name a single reason why someone would target Lily Evans, his oversharing-whilst-intoxicated best friend, study partner, and certified suckup.

Brigitte stood next to him, back stiffer than the flimsy plastic chairs they were all issued. She had her hands balled at her sides, eyes dangerously calm. Every once in a while, her eyes would storm over, and she'd motion towards her wand before letting her hands fall back against her legs.

Even Sirius and Peter looked quite disconcerted. Sirius sported a dangerous scowl, holding a cigarette he'd neglected to light. Peter twisted around in his chair. He looked vaguely disturbed, and his eyes remained vacant.

"Guys? You know it'll be fine, right?" Lily asked, nervously twisted the sheets around her finger. "Honestly James, you get concussions all the time during Quidditch matches. It's not a big deal."

But there was an underlying heaviness that weighed in the atmosphere, proving to them all that the matter was much larger than they were willing to admit.

********

Emma once watched, enthralled at the renaissance paintings her mother loved to examine whenever they visited the art museum. She'd fantasize about their full, luscious lips. She wanted to hug their hips, to feel their hot breath against her throat.

She didn't care much for the male portraits.

They looked rather comical in comparison to the majestic goddesses surrounding her. Georgie always laughed as she leaned in closer, soaking up every inch of the aeriform beauty, such a divine gossamer entrancing her. She needed to be closer to such supernal women, needed to feel their canvas epidermis. It was an instinct like no other.

No one could understand her animalistic urges for the wrong sex.

Georgie didn't understand, though he tried, many times. It was surreal, distinguishable from the order that surrounded her life. You count, you calculate the speed of bacteria that is currently multiplying on your hands from touching the stairwell handle, you kiss men and you enjoy it.

Of course, now he was dead. And her mother might as well have been.

There was very little left from the days of silence. But what remained was her love of women.

Her mother paid no heed to any endeavors of hers, and for once, it paid off. Her mother and the permanent absence that settled in her chest. She remembered a time when mum would've cared very much when she would've certainly had objections, but that was all too long ago.