𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 [𝐣.𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫]

19: 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔡 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔨𝔰

"You're supposed to ice it," James huffed, clutching a wad of poorly wrapped ice cubes in a wet towel.

"Potter, I swear on Merlin's grave, if you get anywhere near me with that- that thing," Brigitte warned, voice dangerously low, "I will commit murder."

"It's not even that cold," James wheedled, inching closer to her cautiously. They were in the boy's dormitory, and the other Marauders sneaking down to the kitchens for sweets. "Besides, it'll hurt more if you don't reduce blood flow. I've learned that from experience."

"I don't care," Brigitte snapped, stubbornly taking a step backward.

"Yeah, well I do," James countered, his jaw set. "There are certain measures I'm willing to take for people I care about, Alarie. And whether you like it or not, I care about you a lot."

Brigitte froze, her mind computing new pathways of reception for such unfamiliar words. She briefly fought the urge to run out of the Marauders' dormitory screaming. Self-awareness flooded into her system as perplexion clouded her face.

I care about you a lot.

Every physical aspect of herself remained impassive, but her heart thudded angrily in her ribcage, a constant reminder of all the physical and metaphorical implications alike that resulted from James and his unabashed signs of affection. She resisted the urge to dig through her skin and smother the stupid muscle, tearing the flesh off her bones as easily as picking lint off her favorite sweater. Finally, she shook her head free of any lingering emotions, and strode over to James, left hand outstretched.

James looked up, confused. "What are you doing?"

"Give it to me," Brigitte said tonelessly.

James tentatively placed the wad of wet towel and ice cubes into her hand, cringing as a stray cube fell from the bunch and clacked against the floor. He casually kicked it under the bed, hoping it wouldn't melt and meet some unsavory end with last week's Transfiguration homework. "I can always help, you know."

"I don't need your help."

She was taught on civility and politeness, sharp as a scalpel against the flesh, but it all mattered about as much as the stray ice cube that was thawing on the floorboard under James's bed.

She walked out of the room, angry at no one but herself. 

Her and affection mixed like oil and water. They were willing to do anything within the laws of nature to avoid the other.

The mass of melting ice cubes was dropped into the bin with a thud the second she knew she was out of earshot.

************

Lily paced the door by the first floor girl's bathroom, Prefect pin neatly flashing against her pressed collar. Maybe the Mysterious Letter Person was someone in the hallway, and she looked stupid, blocking their spot.

She hadn't expected to find a box of old missive underneath one of the old sinks. As much as she'd enjoyed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's works, she was no Sherlock Holmes. She could safely say her observation skills were about as astute as those from a cement brick.

Some of the first years had approached her, complaining of the pipes flooding once again. She'd had quite a difficult time explaining to them that she wasn't a plumber (that was far outside her skill set), and Remus didn't feel comfortable in the women's restroom, so she'd brought a few manuals from the library, her wand, and a vast portion of her determination.

She'd politely asked Myrtle to stop crying for long enough that she could wedge a wrench into one of the screws (she was pretty sure that was how mechanics worked), and continued on bravely before realizing she had nowhere to put her other supplies and instruction manuals without getting them wet in case the pipes decided they wanted to give up right then and there.