Black and Potter | H. Potter

70 ⋆*⋆:⋆ the scent of love.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ☾

| THE SCENT OF LOVE |
song: no. 1 party anthem by arctic monkeys.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ☾

"ARE YOU TWO UP FOR A MAKEOVER?"

Ara's slightly hesitant voice carried itself into Ginny's room as she leaned against the doorframe, making sure it was her right shoulder on which she was putting her weight. Her injury was still an inconvenience despite the fact that Harry had managed to somewhat soothe some of the pain by massaging it every night—the ache in her shoulder had gone from borderline agonising to tortuous but it was a start. Sometimes she struggled to wash her hair in the shower. Pathetic.

She shoved her self-pity aside and regarded her sister and Hermione again, who'd been giggling over something. Ron and Harry were lingering in the garden, throwing a quaffle around, at least that's what they'd been doing the last time Ara saw them. She'd been taking a cup of tea with Fleur and hearing her speak about her wedding ideas before excusing herself and making the rash decision of having a slight change of look.

"What type of makeover?" Hermione asked, standing up from her place on Ginny's bed.

Ara simply held up a pair of scissors, making Ginny's eyes widen with excitement.

"Count me in," she said as she sprang from her bed.

"Are you sure you want to cut your hair, Ara?" Hermione questioned nervously as the three girls made their way to the bathroom. "I remember last time—well—you were a bit upset."

"At first, yeah," Ara shrugged, for a moment not knowing how to continue, "because Dad and. . .uh y'know cut it without me knowing. But I sort of liked it after a while to be honest. It was easier to handle."

In the few weeks that had passed, she had slightly learned to talk about Sirius without feeling the overwhelming need to flee to her room in order to hide. Remus had been right all along—it wasn't about hiding from her grief, but about accepting that she was grieving, deeply and painfully, and that denying it had only made her heart heavier. So, she took Harry's advice. She stopped hiding. She went downstairs for dinner, and on the days when smiling felt impossible, she didn't force herself to look happy when she wasn't. 

And, like Harry had assured her, none of her friends or family recoiled at her grief. No one looked at her differently, no one pulled away because she wasn't as bright. They gave her space when she needed it, sitting close enough for her to feel their presence but never forcing her to act fine. In those moments, when they let her simply be, she felt a wave of gratitude that she couldn't quite explain.

It wasn't always simple, some days she had to fight her inner urges. It would have been easy—so easy—to numb the grief with firewhiskey. To drink until the memories faded into blurs, but she held herself back, refusing to let herself drown in it. She couldn't do what she'd been doing at the beginning of the summer, she couldn't rely on firewhiskey, otherwise she'd never get better, she'd remain stuck.

"Y'know what? I want to cut it too," Ginny piped in as they entered the bathroom. "Not short though, I liked the bangs you had in your third year, Hermione."

"Who will go first then?" Ara said as she set the scissors near the sink.

Ginny reluctantly raised her hand, "I suppose I will."

"Alright then," Ara passed the scissors to a baffled Hermione. "You'll do the honours, I have shaky hands—"

"No! I can't," Hermione bursted out, waving the scissors around, causing both Ginny and Ara to take a step back. "What if I mess it up? I don't want that responsibility—"