Where: Longbottom’s cottage When: early February Who: @flongbottomed
What are you doing, Lily?
She’s standing before the Longbottom’s cottage. Already too close to claim she wasn’t intending on walking up. She hasn’t spent much time near the house since they’ve all moved out here--it’s easier to avoid Alice that way. It’s too hard, seeing the blank look on Alice’s face, the flashes of unbridled grief when Alice catches a look at Harry. The same age her son would have been, had he been the one to live instead of Harry.
It happens with Frank, too, but it seems to Lily he’s coping better, doesn’t get the look on his face when it’s just her. He had almost been a friend before James’ death. He had, at least, been someone who knew James, who had reached out to her, attended the funeral, been there. And maybe Lily hadn’t been as proactive after Neville’s death. Maybe she’d tried, and pulled away when she realized that her son’s life brought attention to their loss. It was hard to say, now. So many of her memories from that time were foggy now.
She doesn’t want to pull away anymore. She’s been living alongside them--carefully steering Harry away, around corners when she hears Frank or Alice’s voice, back into the house if she sees them striding by. Living on their periphery, trying not to make things worse. For once, Lily wants to make things better. So she knocks, resolute, shoving her hands into her pockets while she waits. Please don’t let it be Alice.








