Susan was family. There was no cell in Hannahâs body that thought differently about it. She was a sister in all but blood, someone who had been, was and would be a constant in her life until one of them would too, inevitably, pass away. She hoped that she wouldnât have to lose Susan any time soon, but when she looked at the state their families were in, she was scared at times. There were so many gaps already, especially in Susanâs life â the idea that more would appear was a frightening, but not an unrealistic one. She tried to push the thought of it out of her head whenever it popped up, but it was growing harder and harder to do so ever since Susanâs mother had died. It had brought everything back up. Hannah was still an optimist, but she had experienced loss and loss again and again, and itâd made her wary and scared and a bit fractured, too.
But Susan was still here. She was breathing despite it all, telling her to be angry, inspiring her inner fire. Hannah squeezed her hand, felt her presence, and her mind eased. There was no room to worry about potential futures without Susan in them â there were names to paint, statements to make, fights to fight. And this was theirs. Honouring the holes in their families and shaking a castle up with red paint on empty walls. And while Hannah was crying and trying to find the strength to stop, she still felt her fire. (Â That crying didnât make her weak, she knew, but sheâd forgotten it momentarily. )Â Susan wanted people to burn up when they saw the names and Hannah did, too. She wanted to inspire peopleâs anger and sense of justice and their willingness to stand up for what was right.Â
She was an idealist. An optimist. Even now, she found herself inspired and determined, all the while tears kept leaking from her eyes quietly. âYou can be sad and angry all at once,â she said, and her voice shook a little less, now. Hannah reached for her brush. She remembered her mother and the paint stains that never left her hands and how sheâd told her to handle brushes and colours and everything else that came with painting. If only you could see me now, mum. Hannah ached for her, but the memory of her mother in her studio, of the things sheâd created with brushes and paints â they made her fire burn even brighter. How lucky she was, to have so many things to be inspired by, still. With so much dark in the world, it was good to know that there were bright spots in her memories and her being. âBut I know. People need to not just feel the pain and suffering and loss â they need to feel the injustice, too. The anger.â She dipped her brush in the paint, eyes falling on the wall for a moment. âPain paralyses. Anger moves.âÂ
"I know. I know." If anything, the two were a prime example of that statement. "It's just harder that way." That, in all truth, was the core of it. Susan had long resigned herself to the fact that, no matter how resilient and optimistic she could act, there was no hope for her living an easy life, but she wished nothing else for the girl next to her - Hannah still had a shot, she believed.
The wall she was about to paint was a part of her daily life so often it had simply blurred in the background as the setting of many hours throughout the years. It was so damn close to the Hufflepuff table that she was certain at least a few of the photographs filling up scrapbooks under her bed (and in her closet at home, a now empty house) featured it. She'd leaned against it a few times while chatting with people. Certainly felt it cold on her back at least once while kissing some girl while the Great Hall was mostly empty. Â Hogwarts and all of its walls were a part of her life, so taken for granted that they simply blurred as the background, and now it no longer had that privilege. Susan held back before almost reminding the other girl how the two and Justin had a photograph by that wall, fourth year perhaps, likely near Christmas because she distinctively remembered the shiny decorations on it, but then she was silent. Perhaps she wanted to spare Hannah of the notion that their home was corrupted beyond repair, a true battleground. Perhaps she simply didn't want to say it out loud and feel those same tears fall down her cheeks. Perhaps she believed Hannah already had recalled that anyway. She'd make sure to write it in her diary later and spare them the words, and the time - after all, they were doing something beyond dangerous and risked being caught at any time.
With that, Susan let go of her friend's hand and instead grabbed another brush from the paint can and, letter by letter, each bold and large, wrote one name. SOPHIE BONES. By her side was Hannah, with the same intense energy, writing another just as painful name. Not far from them others wrote. AMELIA BONES - another name, and for a moment Susan considered how many others with the same on-the-nose surname could fit in there. OLIVER BONES. The father the same vile creatures took away from her before she could even remember his face. FRANCIS BONES. COLLEEN BONES. The pillars of her once great family, the loving greatparents who never got to meet her. EDGAR BONES. Her uncle, a soldier for the rebellion, a martyr. HELENA BONES. DAHLIA BONES. OSCAR BONES. MARTIN BONES. With him was his wife and their three children. In the end, she decided to keep only the two latest injustices, but in her mind, every wall dripped in paint, with the name of her family in it. "They'd be proud of us, I reckon." The words came as but a whisper, and her eyes were still stuck on the wall. "She'd be proud of you," Susan spoke with a sad smile on her lips. "There'll be a storm in here tomorrow. Kinda makes you miss little Umbridge."
