- Astoria -
When love fills you up, nothing can harm you but love.
I cry and cradle my belly alone in the gardens. The sky is overcast. Dark clouds hang low, pregnant with heavy, icy rain. There are no anemones here, only roses, but such beautiful roses, all thorns and silken pedals in every conceivable shade of red. Of course, there are no anemones; it's not the season for it; what I mean is there is nothing wild about this garden, only exquisitely manicured, prickly shrubs.
The wind is picking up.
It's hard to pretend I'm not catching on them purposely, but I do my best. I carelessly reach for a flower, whisper, "Ouch, dear me," and watch the blood run down my wrist and disappear into my sleeve. Sometimes, I let it drop onto the ground. Drip Drip.
I could heal it. I could take the pain away with a flick of my wand, but I don't.
Neither Luna nor Draco speaks to me, and it hurts so much. Maybe they are together. I would appeal to them with the child and my illness, but I can't. I can't look that weak, so attention-seeking. But the roses they neither reject nor resent my presence. They're happy to oblige when I offer my pallid skin.
I already loved Luna when I fell in love with Draco. It wasn't within my control to undo. Over time, it will change; that's what I thought to myself. But it never did.