The next day, Aurora received a handful of letters with the sunrise, all in familiar handwriting. One from Gwen, one from Theo, one from Leah. She hid the one from Theo at the bottom of a drawer to forget about it; the one from Gwen, she set aside, and the one from Leah, she forced herself to read with bated breath
To Aurora, it read, in letters smudged with tears.
Thanks for your letter. It really does mean a lot to me, but I don't really know how to reply. I've written more thank yous for condolences than I can count, and all the right words seem to have gone. So I just wanted to say thank you, and tell you that my father's funeral is on the first of July. All who knew him are welcome.
I know you spoke to my brother at the Assembly, too, and wanted to say thank you for that as well. Ernie has no idea what to do, but he says he feels like you and Harry understand, and that meant a lot to him.
All has been terrible and miserable over here. I'm sure you know what I mean. I don't know how to feel better about this, if I ever will. It's just a never-ending cycle of being told how awful and tragic it is, and having to try and be brave about it when I really just want to set something on fire and cry all the time.
If you can spare the time, I'd really like to speak to you at some point. I know you're busy, but I don't feel like I can talk to anyone else. I hope your dad's doing better — please do let me know.
Love,
Leah
Aurora read it twice, each time holding tighter onto the paper, as though by doing so she could pull some of Leah's pain into her own heart. For a moment, reading it, she contemplated making good on Leah's request for an update on her father, but could not help but feel it was superficial. She already knew Leah to be a better person than she was, but she herself would have felt such startling pain at hearing someone else's fortune, when hers were so low.
She skirted around the question instead, giving condolences and light discussion of the political situation as a distraction, and confirmed her attendance at the funeral, before even consulting anybody. There was no way she would miss it, not when Leah needed her.
When she told Andromeda and her dad about her planned attendance, both protested. "It's not safe," Andromeda told her, "the funeral might be a target."
"Lord MacMillan is dead because I involved Leah. I have to go — and she's my friend. I want to be there for her. She needs me."
"Aurora's going whether we let her or not," her dad said wearily, still tucked up in his hospital bed, "aren't you?"
"Yes. I already said I would attend." Andromeda sighed, as though this was unexpected, though Aurora felt is should not have been at all. "Really, I just want to decide how to go there and be safe."
With a sharp look, Andromeda said, "You know you can't make promises like that—"
"No, I don't. Leah's one of my best friends, I'm going."
She shook her head, turning away. "I knew Dora would be a bad influence on you. Running off without a thought for your own safety, thinking you can do whatever you want — she gets that from you, too, you know, Sirius."
"I'm sure she does," her dad said, with a twinge of annoyance he struggled to even out. "But really, Andromeda, this isn't up to you."
It came out a lot harsher than Aurora had expected her dad to speak to Andromeda; their cousin tightened her jaw, eyes flashing. "Aurora's under my care while you're here, if you hadn't noticed, and I happen to want to make sure she's safe."
"You can't wrap her in cotton wool. It's a funeral, Andromeda. She's going. We'll figure out a way to make sure she's safe. I'll get Kingsley to be her bodyguard if it comes to it."
"Half the Ministry's going to be there," Aurora added to Andromeda, "do you think there won't be security?"
"And that's the half of the Ministry that You-Know-Who most wants dead!" Andromeda snapped.
"All the more reason to trust security will be tight. They've just lost their dad to Death Eaters; the MacMillans are not going to let another one anywhere near them."
"I'm just worried! Can you blame me? Of the four people most important to me, three were injured, possibly dying, on the same night! The Death Eaters are not above attacking a funeral, as you well know, Sirius!"
Her dad winced, receding into the safety of his pillows at the words.
"I'm not exactly jumping at the chance to get attacked, either," Aurora said. "But this is important. I'm almost seventeen. You can't tell me what I can and can't do."
Lips pursed, Andromeda huffed and said, "Fine. But before we do anything, you're getting your new wand from Ollivander's. You're long overdue anyway."
"I've been distracted."
"Yes, but you should never be so long without a wand and you know it." It was irrational, but a part of Aurora really resisted the idea of getting a new wand at all. The one she had had had been perfect. Something new scared her. But it was necessary.
"Fine. We'll go this afternoon. I'll have to stop by the manor first."
Andromeda rolled her eyes. "What's this?" her dad asked, curious.
"Aurora's set on having this new wand custom-made."
Her dad raised his eyebrows. "You've decided Ollivander's isn't good enough for you?"
"No. he's making it. I just am feeling particular about the wood I want to be used. It'll answer to me, I know it will. I have to go by the manor because I'm collecting it from one of the yew trees."
Her father's face was unreadable. "I see."
"Its a family connection. And I just feel... It'll work."
"Whatever you think best," he said, but his voice was too bland, emotion cut from it. Aurora pretended not to notice.
-*
Diagon Alley was duller than Aurora remembered when she and Andromeda arrived the next day. It was quieter, a cool wind only highlighting its nervous emptiness. She had an appointment with Ollivander, the wand-maker, for her replacement wand. She ought to have gotten the new wand made days ago, but between one thing and another she had been too distracted and nervous to do much except exchange letters, organising for a custom wand to be made. Custom wands were a tricky business; the wand and the core both had to have a connection with the client already, and then also be bonded to each other. Thankfully, Aurora had the perfect wand wood. The yew trees in her family garden had been used for wands for generations, as far as anybody could remember, and Ollivander had assured her that it would work for her. Today's appointment was to find a core to bond it to, and then he would make the wand for her.
Ollivander was as strange and disconcerting as ever, but something seemed to have unsettled him, too. Aurora sat at a table in the back room, watching as he muttered under his breath as he rifled in the drawers and between dry wrapping paper, flinching and glancing at the door and windows anytime he heard something as insignificant as a squeak of floorboard. He was skittish, running about like a mouse, quiet and frightened. Aurora could only watch him, quietly intrigued, as he held up the branch she had brought it next to every core he could find, twisting them around or balancing them together on the table, until he grinned abruptly and held out a piece of dragon heartstring to Aurora.
She eyed it with mild concern; it was not especially aesthetically appealing, rather like frayed rope or overbleached hair.
"Take a hold of that, would you?" Tentatively, she reached out, and he slapped her hand away. "No, no — gosh, you're a tricky customer!"
"Sorry," she said, raising her eyebrows, but he was already waving her off, looking in at the unicorn hairs.
"No, no, these won't do… It has to be the heartstring."
He turned around and plucked, seemingly from out of nowhere, another dragon heartstring, which he thrust into her hands.
It was colder than she expected, slightly moist, and Aurora tried not to recoil. There was still a strange sort of harmony with it, and when Ollivander placed the piece of yew wood in her right hand, she felt her magic settle within her.
"That's right," she said, looking up at him. "Is it? Do you think so?"
"That'll make a fine wand," Ollivander agreed with a grin. "If you've ten minutes, I can make it for you right now."
"That would be perfect," she said, relieved that the process would finally be resolved. The sooner she had a proper wand, instead of the one Dora had somehow — and possibly illegally — dug out of a backroom at work, the better.
Watching Ollivander work was fascinating; he was entirely in his own world, and entirely at ease with his own work and rhythm Yet when he had finished the wand and held it up with a flourish, there was an undeniable spark of joy in his eye.
It was the most perfect thing Aurora had ever held; the perfect weight, perfect temperature and size, and somehow made her feel like she was settled, in her soul, perfectly balanced. She didn't even mind paying double price for the custom work, not when it was so right for her, not when it made her feel so individually powerful, like she could do anything and draw on any spirit she wanted.
"It's perfect," she told Ollivander, beaming. "Thank you."
She paid up the higher price for the customisation, and then she and Andromeda headed out. Across the street, the only place left with any real colour about it, was the right orange and purple storefront of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes — Fred and George's shop. She still resented, in the wake of what they had done to Graham, the fact that she and her father had made any investment in them at all, but the contract was done and she could not break it over personal problems that could not be proven.
Her father would want her report on it, though, so she and Andromeda hurried on in, surprised by how busy the place was. "How can so many people still want to be out and about?" Andromeda asked, shuddering as a pair of young children ran past holding miniature colour-changing kites. "Where are their parents — gosh, I wouldn't let them out of my sight!"
"I'm sure they're fine," Aurora said, trying to be soothing.
"Oh, everyone assumes these things are fine," Andromeda said, hurrying away from the door. "Until they're not."
Aurora had nothing to say to that, just headed towards the tills where Fred and George were stood. Fred spotted her first, and grinned as he hurried round the side of the counter. "Lady Black! What an honour!"
"You don't need to announce my presence," she snapped at him, folding her arms. "How's trade?"
"Well, as you can see." Fred opened his arms wide, beaming. "It's been manic — we're hiring someone to help out here already. I think people really need a laugh at the moment — it's perfect timing." Andromeda scoffed, and Fred's face fell. "I mean, obviously — what's happening is no joke. But people need this. And we're going to start working on some more practical stuff, the sort of thing that gets a prankster out of getting caught, but can also save a life if someone needs to make a quick escape. Darkness powder, shield hats, things like that — ones that actually work, though, not like those amulet peddlers you see down by the Leaky."
Well, Aurora admitted to herself with annoyance, at least they had some awareness of the world around them.
"We're already close to our projection for the first three weeks of being open, and Hogwarts isn't even out yet — this is just from families of students who know our reputation, and curious people on the street. We're going to need that boost from students — footfall is dropping off everywhere down the alley — but, we're still optimistic, and owl orders are pretty solid."
"That's brilliant," she said, pleased that Fred seemed to know what he was talking about. George gave a wave while he got a one second break from the till, before another child appeared to buy a handful of explosive spinning tops and a box of Nosebleed Nougat. "And so glad — and what are these?"
Her gaze had alighted on a display of bright pink and purple creatures, like smaller versions of Puffskeins. "Pygmy puffs," Fred said cheerfully. "Perfectly in line with feature breeding laws, by the way."
Aurora narrowed her eyes. "They'd better be."
"Dora's going to love those," Andromeda put in, looking over Aurora's shoulder. "Do they do anything?"
"They just sit there and look pretty. We've a whole range of products catered to witches."
"All this pink stuff, I imagine?" Andromeda arched an eyebrow in precisely the same way as Aurora did.
"The WonderWitch range — its the pink explosion in the window display."
"Really unique marketing strategy on that one, boys. Not stereotypical at all."
"Hey, it's a signal, and the signal works!" Fred shrugged. "We've got love potions, cosmetics… Love potions disguised as cosmetics. You're not trying to snare any would-be lords, are you?"
Aurora's cheeks heated and she turned away. "Of course not. They've a much harder time trying to snare me." She hated to admit it, but she did like the look of the Everlasting Eyelashes she spotted in the corner behind the pygmy puffs. Pansy would have loved them, she thought instantly, and then regretted the thought. She shouldn't think about Pansy; that just hurt.
"Anyway, I only popped in to make sure all's going well, and it seems it is. My dad sends his regards, and thanks for the fake chocolate frog cards you sent — the one of Agrippa giving the middle finger gave him a right laugh."
"Our duty is to serve," Fred said, sweeping into a low and exaggerated bow.
"Well — well done, then. I'll see you later. Hopefully my dad'll be able to come with me next time."
"We hope so too. We were going to pop round to St. Mungo's Sunday night, actually, since we'll be closed early — would that be alright?"
She wanted to tell him no, but that wouldn't be fair. She knew her dad would appreciate the visit. She would just avoid it. "Yes, I'm sure that'll be fine. Visiting's between six and eight in the evenings."
"We'll be there, then. Nice to see you — you, too, Mrs Tonks."
Andromeda have a tight-lipped smile in response, and escorted Aurora out of the store as quickly as she could, before hurrying into a corner to Apparate her away, back home. She was shaking as she did so, watching every movement on the street. Aurora didn't know how to comfort her, abate her fear that some masked attacker might pop out of the shadows at any moment. She could only cling on tight, and hope that she would not have to be afraid for too long.
-*
Fort MacMillan was draped in solemnity when Aurora arrived. It was late morning, but drizzle hung in the rain, and the sun had not yet gathered the strength to burn off the mist that shrouded the hillside. She approached from the outer gates, as had been requested; a way of distancing people from the privacy of the home, she supposed. There were reporters everywhere, and cameras, as if this were all some grand spectacle made just for the press, and the MacMillans' grief something for the paper readers to feast on.
Dora was on one side of her, and Gwen the other. She had insisted on coming, and her mother had insisted on protection greater than her own capabilities. Her robes had been hastily tailored by Andromeda that moment; they were Aurora's really, but Gwen needed something black and respectable, and the Muggle outfit her mother had sent her with simply would not do for the solemnity of the occasion.
Some of the reporters called out to Aurora as she passed, and she steadfastly ignored them, tightening her grip on Gwen's arm as they made their way to the northern wing of the fort, where Leah had told them to gather. Other members of the family were ushering people on that direction, too, but Leah and her mother and siblings were nowhere to be seen. "In this way," Dora said to them, catching the eye of a young man Aurora recognised to be Leah's elder cousin, who nodded to them in recognition.
They went through another gate, then a door draped with black velvet, and then into the front room, heavy with dark curtains to keep out the weak sunlight. Candles scented with pine burned at the walls. In a corner, Leah stood shaking people's hands with a bland smile and red eyes, and Aurora's heart ached for her.
"Should we rescue her?" Gwen asked in a soft voice, frowning.
"I don't know. Maybe. Dora—"
"Girls!" Aurora turned sharply at the sound of Robin's mother's voice. She too was in black, perfectly tailored robes, and hurrying over as quickly as was appropriate, Robin trailing behind her. He shot them both weak, rather sickly smiles. "Good of you to come. And it's Nymphadora, isn't it?" Dora nodded stiffly. "So sorry to meet in these circumstances. I'm Robin's mother. I've already spoken to Lady MacMillan — well." She hesitated. "You know who I mean. The ceremony is to start in around ten minutes. She wanted me to tell you two girls that she thinks Leah might need some support, after — if you could just make sure you stick by her. I know you would anyway, and Robin too, but she's very worried about all the children — as anyone would be."
"Of course," Aurora said, without hesitation. "I saw the reporters out there, too — do you think we ought to try and shield Leah from them?"
Mrs Oliphant frowned. "Yes, though I don't know how much good it'd do. They're fierce, anyway — disgusting behaviour, if you ask me."
"How are you?" Robin asked, in a tone like he was bracing himself for a slap in the face, while his mother turned to speak with Dora. "How's your dad?"
"Better," was all Aurora managed to say. "Thank you."
"Good." Robin patted her on the shoulder in a way that reminded her distinctly of Harry's discomfort. It almost made her laugh. "He's a pretty cool guy, your dad. I'm glad he's going to be alright. He is, isn't he?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he's awake, things are looking good, so... We're hopeful. And very grateful."
"Yeah." Robin's voice tailed off, as all their gazes went to watch Leah, crammed in beside Ernie, trying to put on a brave face as she spoke to Lord Abbott. The trembling of her bottom lip was notable from all the way across the room. "I bet. Listen, Gwen—"
"We really should go over there," Gwen interrupted, holding onto Aurora's arm. "She's going to cry."
"Oh, God."
"Yeah, let's — we need to say hello, anyway. But I don't think we can drag her away from her post. Her mother looks pretty determined for them to stick together."
Nevertheless, they all made their way over, Dora and Robin's mother following close behind. They were keeping watch, protecting them, it was clear. When Leah noticed them, her face relaxed slightly, just enough to reassure Aurora that she needed them over there, and for her quicken her step, leading their friends.
The instant they were close enough, Leah pulled them all in close for a tight hug, like they were a lifebuoy and she clinging on for dear life. "Oh, Leah," Aurora murmured, "I'm so, so sorry."
"I can't do this," Leah whispered between their shoulders. "I can't. I'm going to break down in front of everyone, I just know it."
"That's okay," Gwen told her gently. "No one can expect you to be a statue. But we're here, yeah?"
Leah sniffled, holding them tighter. "I don't know how I'm going to do this."
"But you are," Aurora told her. "You're going to get through it, and it's going to get better. I promise."
Leah shook her head. "Hey," Robin broke in, "they're right. Today's going to suck, but we're here for you. You can break down in front of us as much as you like."
"Thanks," Leah sniffled, drawing away. Aurora passed her a handkerchief, and she gave a grateful smile as she dabbed at her eyes. Some mascara smudged off onto her cheeks, and Gwen leaned over to wipe it away. Leah stilled, eyes filling with more tears. "I just — I know he'd want me to be alright. And everyone keeps saying, your dad wouldn't want you breaking down, but I really don't know how he would expect me to live up to that, anyway. And I've got to do this and say hello to everyone, and Mum says there are reporters outside and obviously we're not going to be anywhere near them but I hate that they're here at all. There's so many people, and I'm so glad Dad made his mark, you know, but... It doesn't make it much easier."
"Very little could," Aurora told her, taking her shoulder.
"Here, now," Gwen said, "did you listen to the new Weird Sisters single?"
Aurora stared at her, but Leah sniffled and nodded, managing a smile. "I did, actually — it was good."
"Yeah? I liked it too — I thought the vocals were way stronger than they were on the last album, I don't know if it was just the recording of it or not."
"It made me cry a bit," Leah said, and Aurora's heart twisted. "In a good way, though. Morven's a lyrical genius."
"He is, isn't he? God—"
"Leah, darling." Lady MacMillan had appeared at her daughter's shoulder, pale and red-eyes. "It's time for us to start walking, alright?"
Leah's face fell again, into that horribly vulnerable look. Aurora squeezed her tightly and whispered, "You've got this," and Leah let out a low, muffled sob.
"Thank you all," Lady MacMillan said as Leah left to join her brother and sister, "for being here. Especially you, Lady Black."
"Of course," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't get to know your husband better, but he was a brilliant man. He means everything to Leah."
"Yes." Her smile was faint, weak, but it was there. "Yes, he meant the world to me, too. Excuse me."
She hurried away, in a cloud of pomegranate scented perfume and trailing black lace. They watched her go, join the whole MacMillan family in one great procession of grief.
"We should go," Aurora said to the other two, tugging them away.
The funeral itself took place at the graveside, allocated just off the main area of the family property, where their old stone chapel sat. They left through a different door, avoiding the cameras out the front, but some snuck through. The flashing of white lights made Aurora want to curse somebody. They were there are the graveside as a minister gave the eulogy and Leah cried, and Aurora and Gwen and Robin held each other's hands tightly and tried not to do the same.
Leah came to them when the service was over, all but collapsing into their arms. When she saw the camera turn their way, Aurora held Leah tighter and shielded her face from view.
"You were so brave," Gwen told Leah gently. "He'd be so proud of you."
"No, he wouldn't."
"He would," Aurora agreed firmly, holding her tight. "You don't have to keep it together anymore, Leah. It's done."
"You're alright," Robin told her, as they started to guide her back up towards the house, just as the sun started to peek through some clouds. "Let's get back, now, away from those twats with the cameras."
Leah let out a weak, watery laugh, and let them guide her back.
The reception was underway by the time they arrived, having taken a detour round the grounds. Leah needed air, and, Aurora suspected, some time without people she didn't know pressing in on her emotions. Dora lingered near them the whole time, but if Leah was bothered, she didn't say anything. One of Leah's cousins handed them all glasses of whisky for a toast, and Leah looked at it as though the taste was going to make her throw up.
They camped out by a window, watching as the clouds opened up and it began to rain properly, soaking into the ground where the grave was being filled in. Leah stared off into the distance the whole time. Aurora was not sure she was really seeing anything at all.
The three of them spoke in whispers around her, until they were joined by Sally-Anne Perks. "I've been trying to find you," she told Leah, who merely hummed in response. "How are you?"
Leah shrugged. "It's been the worst three weeks of my life, but." The last words hung unsaid.
Sally-Anne winced sympathetically and rubbed her shoulder, forcing Leah to run and look at her. "I'm so sorry," she told her, "I know I've said it, but... He was really great, your dad."
"Yeah," Leah said, "I know he was." She turned back to the window. They all exchanged uncomfortable, uncertain glances.
Then Robin cleared his throat and, in an attempt to break the silence, told her, "Theo, uh, told me to give you his condolences."
The words sent a sliver of ice through Aurora's chest. Leah stiffened, her eyes brightening and filling with tears again. "Does he?" Her voice was cold, but broken, trembling over the edge. "Well, tell him to take them back. I don't want them."
Robin blinked, a frown deepening upon his brow. "Don't curse the messenger. He said he's written to you—"
"Yeah," Leah snapped, "he has, and I burned the letter."
"It's…" Robin swallowed. "His family are terrible, I know. But, Theo feels awful."
"I don't care how awful he says he feels." Leah's voice rose now, high and loud and shaky. A few mourners glanced their way in concern, and Aurora and Gwen and Sally-Anne closed in around her, hands on her shoulders. "His grandfather killed my dad! I don't care what he has to say or think, this isn't about him!"
"I — I'm just trying to say — I'm not saying you should—"
"You think because Theodore didn't do it himself I should be fine with him? That we're friends and nothing's changed?"
"Robin isn't saying that," Aurora said, as gently as she could, gut squirming, "and I'm sure that isn't what Theo thinks."
"Well, you would defend him!" Leah snapped, and Aurora took a moment to digest it, the words cold against her heart. "Wouldn't you?"
"That's not what I'm doing," Aurora said as evenly as she could. "Let's leave this, yeah? It isn't a productive conversation."
"I don't care about being productive," Leah spat, "I care about the fact that my dad's dead! He's dead because of Lord Nott, and because of Cornelius Fudge, and because of Albus Dumbledore and Dolores Umbridge and everyone else who didn't do something when they could've and should've! And I don't care if you think Theo's sorry, I don't care how awful he feels, I'm the one who's lost someone!"
"He really—"
"Leave it, Robin," Aurora said cautiously, dropping her hand to hold Leah's tightly.
"He — he's gone." The words spilled from her, like she was only just learning how to say them. "And it isn't fair! And none of you understands, no one wants to listen!"
"Of course we do," Sally-Anne said, voice gentle. "We're here for you, Leah."
"So are the other five hundred people. And the Daily Prophet, and the Ministry, as if they're of any use, as if any of them have any moral backbone!" She was speaking too loudly now; someone Aurora was sure she had seen with Rita Skeeter before watched eagerly, too eagerly.
"Let's move somewhere quieter, hm?" Aurora suggested. "I think some privacy—"
"Oh, fuck off, I don't care about privacy!" Leah shrugged them all off and marched away. For a second, they watched her go with mere trepidation, until it became clear that she was not leaving the room, but instead marching to the front of it, seizing the microphone on the small hall stage before anyone could stop her and any of them could come to their senses.
"Um," Gwen started, "should we… Do something?"
It was too late. They could only watch on in horror as Leah stood and tapped the microphone to get everyone's attention. "Hello, everybody." Her voice warbled, treading close to a sob. Aurora held her breath, swaying on the spot as she deliberated going to her. "I'd just like to say a few words, if that's alright. I — I just want it to be known that my — my dad was — he was great, okay? And he was always on the right side and — and the same can't be said for everybody in this room and I — I love him and he — he was good and brave and wonderful and — and — and everyone involved who — who let him die — well, fuck you!" Gasps went around the room, looks of peopl who had no idea what to do. Aurora found herself hurrying forwards, toward her friend. "My dad was — was trying to save me and trying to fix things and he — it isn't fair what happened and that were here and I just — I just…" A sob burst forth, cutting off her words, and Aurora leapt up onto the stage with Leah, reaching for her hands. "I'm sorry," she managed to say, voice breaking. Aurora finally managed to hold her, and she curled in on her, sobbing. "I don't — I — it isn't fair!"
Aurora knew those words so well, and so she held Leah tight and gestured for everyone to turn away, hoping the crowd was find in themselves some decency and decorum enough to give a grieving girl the privacy she deserved and so desperately needed. "Hey," she whispered, drawing Leah away from the amplified microphone, "I've got you, sweets. Right, let's get out of here? It's — I've got you." She shuffled towards the edge of the stage and down, trying to hurry Leah towards the door and out into the hall.
"I — I can't! They need to know!"
"I think they do. I think they got the message."
"They didn't. They won't, no one ever will." She sobbed wetly into Aurora's shoulder, and she tried very hard not to grimace, for Leah's sake.
"I know it feels like this," Aurora told her gently, ushering Leah down the hallway and into the parlour where she trusted they would not be disturbed. "But there are better ways to make them see. And right now, I think you need some privacy, hm? Your grief deserves better than the vultures in that room."
She slipped into the parlour and closed the door behind them, helping Leah sit down onto a sofa. Aurora knelt at its side, holding her friend's hands. "It's not fair. I know that, Leah. I can't in good faith tell you it's all going to be okay because it's not, and things are never going to be the same again. But it will get easier, I promise. Right now, you have to let yourself grieve."
Leah sniffled and said, "My dad wouldn't want me to have done that. Or cry or make a scene or… He wouldn't want me blaming everyone, but I can't help it!"
"You're furious. And you have every right to be. And you can't live by what you believe the dead want you to do." This only seemed to make Leah cry harder, and Aurora's heart twisted for her. "Hey." She reached up and wiped the tears from beneath Leah's eyes. "Look at me, Leah. It's — there's so little that can help right now. But I promise, I'm here any time you just need to scream about what you're feeling."
"No," Leah said, "I — I know, it's just… So much is happening. I feel like he's just going to get lost. And Ernie's Lord MacMillan, which is ridiculous, because he's sixteen and he's going to ruin every bit of my dad's legacy by being a stupid twat!"
"He's not," Aurora assured her, "and you're not going to let him. It's... It's never alright, I know. But you're going to feel better."
Leah just shook her head and buried her face in the crook of Aurora's shoulder. She held her tight as she cried, and when the door to the room opened, revealing Gwen and Sally-Anne standing there, Leah startled, turning as though expecting it to herald an attack. When she saw who it really was, she slumped back against Aurora's side and fell back into her arms, and the other two girls hurried over, crowding around her.
They all were joined together, by pressing elbows and hands and shoulders, holding Leah up as he threatened to collapse in the middle of them. "It's alright," Gwen whispered, and Leah cried harder. "It's going to be alright."
Aurora knew it wasn't true, and she knew Leah knew it too.