Midmorning

vii. twelve days

'Are you ready?' I'd said into the dust lifting off the furniture, sunlight lighting each speck until they were fireflies. The common room had emptied—everyone had disappeared to prepare for the match.

             Wren breathed through looped lips, rubbing at her arms even though she was warm. 'Not really.'

             I clapped my book shut. 'Wren, you're the only reason Ravenclaw ever fucking wins.'

             'What if I'm not today?' Panic spoilt her voice. I didn't even think twice before hugging the fast pulse out of her ribs.

             'Isn't Quidditch meant to be fun?'

             That's what Wren had always told me, anyway. She was avid about it the day I met her, almost as avid about her calligraphy and at least passing all her classes. Her parents' blood froze when they first heard they'd adopted a daughter capable of sorcery beyond their imagination—then, after a long talk with Dippet, they were assured she was in safe hands, that she'd never go sour. As a result, she was determined to prove this fact right for years, an insatiable desire to be better. I told her she was already the best, but she insisted there was always room for improvement.

             Wren sighed. 'Not with Hornby saying her usual shit.'

             'What's new?' I swiped my thumb along a line of dried mud on her shoulder. 'This is your last match, don't let her ruin it.'

             'You're right.' She glanced at the clock, squinting with faint short-sightedness. 'I only have a few minutes left.'

             That sentence would be running through my head too, twelve days from now. I'd count the seconds down: three, two, one—

             'Are you coming?'

             I never had the intention of attending any match, but the blues that tinged her tone forced me to each time.

             'When don't I?' I was lucky she wasn't a Legilimens. I think I'd crumple if I saw her deflate.

             Wren shook the stress from each limb. 'Root for me, won't you?'

             'Who else is there to root for?'

             Fighting her dread, she smiled. 'We're playing against Slytherin.'

             I shrugged, saying what she wanted to hear. 'So what? Riddle doesn't play.'

             Her smile grew before peeling the door open for me. 'Who said anything about him?'

             Me. I did. Because it'd make her laugh. So to make her laugh more, I sighed as if I was embarrassed and we were out the door with her laughter smacking the the vacant halls and I was right. As long as one of us was happy, that was enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Watching Quidditch was the equivalent of watching a clock tick, which I'd done for the times I did nothing at all. I guess, paraphrased, this included now, me glancing over at a third-year's watch every four (exactly four) minutes, just to be disappointed by the way the clock hand hadn't jolted its way up to the next hour. The sport was especially irritating in the sense time didn't determine its end—the longest game had gone on for months. I didn't have months.

I had twelve days.

But I'm not complaining entirely. Wren enjoyed it for a reason. So did millions. They had something that made their bodies fizz with energy, ribs fight their heart, mouths run with thrill. I envied them. Envy is the thing that makes warm blood cold. Envy never stops getting colder, either, not until gratitude melts it. I found it hard to be grateful when all things good slipped from grasp.

I often wondered how Wren kept herself happy. Her parents adopted her under the account they were "great friends" who wanted to help a child in need—and, in hiding after the altitude of scorn under strict Soviet rule, they snuck over to one mother's safe (quiet was synonymous with safe) hometown in England when Wren was seven. She saw no issue with the fact both her parents were women, but could never tell a soul—that was until Hogwarts sent her a letter and assured them there was no discrimination of the sort.

And they were right—because Wren never spoke of it. She was ashamed, and made up for her own shame with sparkling grades. For years, her parents never even spoke of her, always referred to as a charity case if need be. They didn't mean it. You can tell when people do. They'd brush hairs out of her red eyes and tell her that they didn't, they'd prove it all the same. She used to garner nicknames, something about being adopted or poor. Something about her real parents not wanting her. Something about something.

'But I'm lucky,' she told me once the story came to its denouement, thirteen and crying, 'I'm lucky they love me.'

And then there were furores in people's throats and Wren's smile glittered with the Snitch in her hand and there was a tower of joy above me and I joined them. I jumped over and over and someone held me and I held them and we spilt out onto the pitch and I held Wren, I gripped her tight, a reminder she was still here in the flesh, that she'd run through the golden fields scratching her shins and smile there like she is now, she'd smile when she had her own children because I knew she wanted four, she'd smile and someone like her should be immortal. She had so much to do, so many years.

I had twelve days.

'Briar, are you okay?'

My tears clogged her clothes.

'Sorry,' I said, 'I just—I'm so proud you caught the Snitch . . .'

She pulled me back to scan me. 'No one hurt you?'

I shook my head. 'No, just proud.'

Wren knew I was lying but still hugged me. 'Well, thank you.'

But I had twelve days and she wouldn't thank me when they were gone.