Did I ever tell you I have a thing for brunettes?

The morning was dark and musty, threatening a storm but unwilling to relinquish humidity’s hold over the skies. As an alarm shrilly announced its desire to wake the inhabitants of the studio apartment buried in the leafy borough of Richmond upon Thames. Beyond the drawn curtains that shut out the creeping light just beginning to break through was the pleasant daylight cast across Richmond green where cyclists having fetched milk and a newspaper outraced the joggers who, either keen for the sake of health or for the sake of the upcoming half-marathon on the south coast the following Saturday, but Stewart Harding didn’t bother to raise an eye to see it. He did not so much as lift his head from underneath the sheets that swathed his bed.

No matter how coaxing the sunshine was, there was nothing in him that desire for him to move; and, indeed, the throbbing head and wine bottles scattered about his apartment gave him reason and validation for not doing so, also. Nevertheless, when the sun reached his bed, Stewart cracked an eye open and groaned. He turned, rolling into the figure beside him, throwing an arm around the thin waist. London was a new city. Stewart was a man who needed some home comforts and Marie was one of those comforts. A witch as dangerous as she was one that Stewart knew he should have avoided. She was one his mother would have had him actively avoid to secure his safety but he was like a moth to a flame. He couldn’t contain or help himself.

The alarm was shoved off of the side table with a flick of his leg out of the bed and after the thing slammed onto the floor, unsettling the clay dust and whatever else had come to linger on the floorboards, Stewart curled back into the sumptuous witch beside him, putting off for as long as possible the inevitability that was her getting up, trying to find where he’d thrown her knickers. The heels were somewhere in the living room. The privilege of worshiping her literally from head-to-toe, admiring her dainty little feet without heels on, was one he had indulged in to no end during the small, nightly hours. He ignored the knowledge that his mother would implode then proceed to explode if she found out. He merely took Marie closer and ran his tongue absently around the shell of her ear, his fingers running across her thighs, the combined attention tickled her into wakefulness and soon enough there was movement from them both through the apartment as one went in search of missing underwear while the other padded through the rooms to get some breakfast underway.

A kiss and a slice of toast later and Marie was gone, the flat empty but for Stewart, the stray cat that had somehow inserted himself into Stewart’s life - who he’d named Caravaggio - who was splayed out on the kitchen table next to a basket of fruit, and the dark peering eyes of Henry III of France whose figure had rapidly begun to take shape, albeit there had been a pause for the benefit of enjoying dinner and wine with Marie. Nevertheless, he was alone barring Caravaggio and a long-dead king. The eggs that he’d been scrambling in a saucepan went into a bowl with his toast. The bacon that had also been browned and crisped was given to the cat in part but half went to himself. Caravaggio mewed in thanks and got up, burying his head greedily into the little bowl of bacon he’d been given while Stewart picked through his breakfast over the morning addition of the Daily Prophet and a handful of other bits of post that had come with a visiting owl.

After reading through the culture pages, his breakfast nearly over, Stewart turned to the post and there, nestled in amongst a note from his fence and a bill payment was the scarlet seal of Hogwarts. He turned it over, recognising his mother’s handwriting immediately, and opened up the note, breaking the seal with practised ease before unfolding the letter and scouring it with his eyes. He sighed, throwing down the letter. Errand boy. Caravaggio looked up and mewed, bacon grease sliding across his chin. Stewart shook his head and rubbed between the cat’s ears before getting up from the table. He abandoned his bowl in the sink and then it was to the shower before sourcing a suit and getting ready because he knew that it would be a long day yet. Especially if Ms. Lily Luna Potter was as stubborn as everyone claimed. Before leaving, Stewart made a split decision, picking up his paints and a tie, forgoing smart-casual for just smart.

The Potter household was not exactly what Stewart had been expecting. He’d been expecting something a little bit more welcoming. After buzzing the front door there was no movement. He’d wanted someone to at least come and greet him, even if he hadn’t expected the warmest of welcomes form the person he came to see. Stepping backwards out from under the porch, Stewart’s feet crunched down on some of the gravel outside. Up in one of the first floor rooms, there was movement. A mere shadow. Frowning a little, Stewart looked around. It was a fairly quiet day. The neighbours were gone. No cars to be seen. So, Stewart picked up a handful of gravel and looked at it before glancing back at the window.

Throwing open the paint tray, Stewart began to dip some of the stones into the different colours. Then, once he had a few, he began to throw them against the window. Pop! Blop! Clop! Pink, yellow, green, blue, lilac. Soon, the window was awash with colour and there was part of Stewart that wanted to take the pane out and sell it. But, as ever, no one would want his original art. The Henry III would get him more money than he needed for a while yet when it was finally sold on. Marie would see to that, he was certain. Nevertheless, it was certainly getting a little bit of attention from inside, or so he thought. Another pebble, a red one, bounced off of the window and Stewart, finally having grown tired, called out:

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel – let down your hair!”

The days had stretched so long that time or date was beginning not to matter to her. Do not ask Lily Potter for the date, day of the week, or the time of day. She simply did not know. She had spent many of those first weeks confined to her bed, twisted among the sheets as she traded books for sleep, awaking just to pick up where she left off. All of Austen’s works had been read. Vonnegut had been exhausted. And every textbook within the house has been devoured. And she still found time to sleep away half of the days as well.

Teddy was horribly worried for her, though he always ensured that he entered the room with his usual level of optimism and determination for better days. He was not the only one, but he saw the most of her pathetic glory. He was the one to come in after a long day of work to see that nothing had changed for her. She was still in the same position in bed, the same book on the same perch on her dresser, her slippers unmoved, her clothes unchanged. Every few days, she would drag herself in for a shower and then return to her room to suffer in silence.

That was the one thing that could be said for the Potter girl. Yes, she was been a horrible brat by forcing herself into self inflicted torture, but the punishment was only for herself. Yes, the rest of the family was feeling strains, but not because she invited them into her suffering. They suffered out of agitation, frustrated that another human being could live that way. She did not ask for pity or extra care. If they stopped checking on her, she would not remind them. If they stopped bringing her food, she would not complain. She would allow life to happen to her as it would. If Fate was real, she had no intention of fighting it. And if Fate was not real, she did not think she had the energy to make her own luck.

Today was the third day since her last shower, so she waited to hear the last of the Potter family leave before she pulled herself from bed and into her bathroom. She sat on the tiles of the shower and let the water drip over her, carefully running soap over her skin and then through her hair. She did it over and over, before finally dropping her hands and leaning her head back, the back of her head resting on her shoulders. Her wet hair draped down towards the curve of her bum in the back, resting gently over the curves of breast in the front. Her hair had grown without any interference from her, and it tickled over her prickled skin.

The water had gone cold, and still she sat. The idea of getting up was, once again, more than she thought she could handle. So she waited. And waited. Soon, the water thinned – Teddy had modified the shower to ensure it could not go longer than an hour. She closed her eyes and reached up an arm, rocking onto her heels momentarily so she could reach the knob. She turned the water off and sat on the cold tiles, leaning her head against the vertical tiles of the shower. She took in a deep breath, filling her lungs, felt the power that air held. Wondering what it would be like to swallow it, never take in another inhale.

Since when had existence been so laborious?

She crawled out of the shower on her hands and knees, standing when she reached the sliding door. She stood and walked forward, staring at her naked figure in the mirror. She could not find an opinion on his thing in front of her. This was not good. This was not bad. This just was. And she was not sure that ‘was’ was enough.

She donned her bra and underwear and wrapped a towel around her middle. She walked into her room and cast a glance to her bookshelf and to her bed. Both were just… so boring. She sighed and flopped herself onto the floor, draping the crook of her arm over her eyes as she took in a deep breath.

That was when she heard it. A small ping. She tried to ignore it, but it happened again. And again. She dropped her arm and angled her head to look for the source. And that was when she saw it. Her window, spattered with different colors of paint. She pushed herself up, staring at it. Another ping and she stood, slowly approaching the window. Her eyes darted across it, taking in the colors and the textures. A hand drifted upwards and placed itself against the cool pane. It had been so long since Lily had seen something that was not apartment beige of sanitary white. To see colors, clashing and cooperating to create something that transcended functionality…

She had an opinion on it. This was good.

And these pings. These were bad.

A splash of red added to the piece of art and she reached for the latch, fumbling with it before she managed to open the window. She lifted the window and ducked her head outside. Her wet hair hung around her face, her towel hugging under her arms as she looked down into the street. No expression took to her face – she had long forgotten how. There stood a man she knew by name, face, and family, but for no other reason than that. Her actual experience with him was completely lacking, but she had seen him, exchanged names with him once before in a completely insignificant way, and they had moved on. Their stories had nothing in common.

She closed her eyes. “Go away,” was her response.

She tried to close the window, but it had not been in use lately, and she gave up halfway. Fine. Whatever. She could use some air.

She turned and collapsed back into the carpet, staring up at the ceiling.

The sound of the window groaning open halted Stewart as he lifted a yellow pebble from the paint. He looked up, rising up from where he’d been crouched, and dropped the stones. They tumbled aimlessly in with the rest of their brothers and Stewart watched as first, hair drifted out through the window, then the pale moon face of Lily Luna. Stewart held up a slightly paint-slick hand, waving a little before dropping his arm back down to his side. A smirk lifted his lips a little and he opened his mouth to reply but before he could, Rapunzel had made her desire to see him quite clear. A playful pout found Stewart’s face then and he chuckled before he could help himself, watching with mirth-filled eyes as the Gryffindor proceeded to struggle only to give up with the window.

Stewart leaned over and flipped closed his paints. Then, once he’d straightened, he drew up a cloth with him, wiping off his hands absently as he stared at the window, trying to ascertain how he’d get Lily to talk to him. He’d never enjoy playing errand boy for his mother but if doing so garnered this response every time, and, indeed, this test of character, Stewart was quite happy to run around. Unfortunately, however, he’d been slapped with a deadline and thus he was somewhat pressed for time if he wanted to get his article up on time. It was somewhat inconvenient – he certainly would have preferred to find a more agreeable young woman but then, when it came to Potters, what could you expect, really?

“I don’t have all day, Rapunzel!” Stewart called out playfully. “We need to talk!”

There was no movement from upstairs. Really, Stewart wasn’t surprised. His wandering eyes fell to the drainpipe running up the length of the building and the slanted piece of roof that lidded the porch that was, handily, just next to Lily’s window. He sighed heavily and stepped forward a few paces, the stones crunching underfoot. His hands curled around the drain pipe, feeling out the strength of the plastic. In the end, Stewart decided just to bite the figurative bullet and haul himself up, his feet scrabbling on the wall as he lifted himself up further and further from the ground to the roof which he was grateful to step on by the time he got there, albeit that wasn’t any more stable-seeming than the drainpipe had been. Dicing with death seemed to be a new hobby of his.

Leaning over, his hands absently curling around the main roof which hung over the window a little, Stewart peered in through the gap, his eyebrows climbing upwards a little when he set his gaze down upon the Potter woman laid out on the floor. Stewart pushed the window a little and it gave way under his grasp. Placing a foot on the windowsill, he managed to deposit himself in through the gap he’d made, landing lithely on the carpet beside Lily. He brushed his hand across his blazer and knelt down, a smirk lighting up his face as he looked down at the girl.

“Pyjamas? Or are we getting dressed today?” He inquired patronisingly.

In theory, it should have been easy. She should have been able to flop back on the floor and expect to remain undisturbed there. Before she had ran away to moved to America, Lily Potter never would have had the problem of being unable to escape attractive young men intent on giving her a slice of their time. Now it seemed to be a plague, one the woman did not want. She vaguely wondered if it had somehow escaped her notice that she had a big sign tattooed on her head that said ‘Please disregard all protests – I’d love company.’ That was certainly the attitude she had been met with in most of her interactions outside of the family as of late – all three interactions!

Her carpet actually smelled pleasant. She was certain Teddy had something and everything to do with it. She had the nagging suspicion that he cleaned the room while she slept, ensuring that the sheets were changed, the dust cleared, the air filtered and (apparently) the carpet shampooed. Her hands slid across the soft carpet, before drifting over her own hips and resting softly on her towel-covered torso. She hooked her ankles and enjoyed the freedom of being able to lie, almost naked but not really, on her own floor. And again, the crook of her arm shielded her eyes.

She had almost, in the innocence leftover from her younger years, believed Stewart – Sprout as she had heard when he was not around to argue the name- to be gone. Even her deep rooted cynicism could not help but be interrupted with the occasional bout of optimism, giving her the hope of solitude, and the crushing feeling when that hope was dashed. For suddenly, there was a gentle thump. She willed herself not to move her arm, to allow herself to stay in the darkness and never face whatever test the universe had dreamt up for her that morning. But human nature would not allow her not to look, not to remove her arm.

We all know saying about the cat and its curiosity, after all.

Her thin arm unfurled, stretching across the carpet as she stared up at the man who now crouched next to her. He was in her house. He was in her room. And she was only in underwear and a towel. And he had climbed in through the window. The window he had painted. He had climbed up to her room. He had chosen her window and called up to her.

All of these facts flooded her brain and did not have the decency to give her any idea to what they all meant. This circumstance was wholly unexplained to her, and she no longer longed for the darkness. “You’re in my room,” she said dully, obviously. “You just… climbed into my room.” Once again, her voice inflected no emotion, made no attempt to do anything beyond remind the man of the actions he was making, in case he did not realize what they truly were. Apparently, he knew, and apparently he had bigger problems at hand.

Like her wardrobe.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” she responded. “We weren’t planning on doing anything today.”

Again, Stewart was expecting a little bit more life, perhaps even, hopefully, offense out of the Potter girl. Nothing. He’d grown up with feisty women. His mother terrified him shitless when she had a mind to. He’d never quite encountered someone so passive. He was nothing if not a little bit concerned though at this point in time it wasn’t out of concern for Lily but out of concern for his own lack of amusement which her emotionless state would render. He had been told that the Potters had a little bit more fight in them, but then if his mother’s dealings had all been with the middle child then it was no wonder why. He was the one meant to act out. It seemed as if Albus’ little sister had chosen the opposite. Not that it gained her any attention, it seemed. There was no one in the house but Lily. She was all alone. There was something in Stewart that recognised that as painfully tragic but looking down at her, he felt there was something of teenage mischief in it. Thankfully, there was plenty in himself, too.

“I did climb in through your window, Lils,” Stewart drawled as he stepped over the brunette, moving to her chest of drawers where he sourced a pair of pyjamas after passing over the underwear and sock drawers. “Well spotted,” he added as he turned, dropping the pyjamas on her head. “Get dressed. I won’t look.”

Then, with that, Stewart slid his feet out of his shoes by the end of the bed, shrugged himself out of the blazer and leapt onto the bed, the springs bouncing and groaning under the shock of having someone so forcefully flung on top of the mattress. Stewart rolled onto his back and tossed his arms behind his head, sighing a long, deep “ahhhh” before closing his eyes and crossing his ankles over. He then began to hum a sprightly tune that his toes danced along with as he waited. While he hummed he lifted his arms into the air, took off his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. With one hand he put the cufflinks down on a book on the bedside table and then he threw his arms back behind his head, sighing happily again as, for just a minute or two, he was back in bed once more.

“Lilsy, being holed up in this house is no good for man nor beast and I say, it’s naïve to not expect company.” He called out to her brightly. “So I’m company. Plenty of it, too, depending on what you want to do with me. As it is, there’s a bit of business attached to his pleasure and it’s that oh-mother-of-mine wants to talk to you about school or personal tuition or whatever it is. Come September you had better get your skinny arse up to Hogwarts otherwise I won’t be there to protect you from her. So that’s the business. Now down to the pleasure bit. What’re you reading?”

He reached over and dragged one of the paper backs off of the side that had a bookmark in it. He turned it over, his eyes briefly scanning the blurb. His lips rolled together in thought as the humour fell from his face and he grew into the solemn reader that so loved pouring over books whether they were for his joy or for his back pocket. This one looked interesting enough though he’d never professed to being interested in science fiction before – mostly because his upbringing had been a strange mix of Muggles and magic that made it difficult for him to integrate properly in either but siding with magic due to his unwillingness to traverse for too long amongst Muggles. He much preferred magic, anyway.

“Is this good?” He asked, curling back the front cover and the first few useless pages he half-wished publishers would cease to put in. Smoothing out the first page, proper page, with his hand, he brought his arm back behind his head and held the book up, his eyes scouring the words before him, trying to get a feel for the book. It must’ve been interesting – interesting enough to read, that is – if Lily was interested. Though, he wasn’t entirely sure if she was a particularly picky reader if the volume and variety of books there was to be taken into account. She seemed to have read everything and that made him prickle a little bit with approval but he wasn’t entirely sure why – he just put it down to his own approval of books, and the fact that he liked it in others.

“Lils,” Stewart called finally, lifting his head up. “Get your butt over here and sit down. Lay down. Whatever. Just c’mere.”

Her fairly obvious statements were responded in kind, and Lily before depression would have bristled at being treated so, but this Lily managed only to let out a sigh and close her eyes. She did and felt him moving about her room, something that should have worried her much more than it was. He was, after all, practically a stranger. And she was, after all, practically naked and alone in her brother’s apartment. As a girl barely an adult, she should have been, well, cautious to say the least. Probably frightened, or nervous, or indignant. But mostly, she just felt tired. The carpet was soft and inviting. But she could not sleep while someone watched her. That was just strange.

But lying on the carpet in a towel while someone climbed through your bedroom window… nooo, not strange at all.

Something soft landed on her head, and her suspicions were confirmed by his words. “I don’t-“ He interrupted by assuring her he would not watch. She was less worried about that and more exhausted by the idea of standing up and putting in the effort to don her clothes. For a moment, she just lied there. She would not succumb to petty arguments, nor any other attempts to rouse her. And yet, moments passed, and he did not do any such thing. He did not speak, he did not move. She moved the clothes from her face and shot him a glance, confirming that he, indeed, did not truly care whether or not she dressed. So it seemed.

For whatever reason, this made her feel much more inclined to dress. Besides, it was better than lying around in a towel with a stranger. She let out a groan, not one of frustration but one that revealed her true hesitation to even get up, and pushed herself up. Limbs creaking, she shot Sprout a curious glance. He seemed to mean the whole not-looking thing. Which was cool of him. She wouldn’t have thought to ask for the privacy. Everything that truly needed to be covered already was anyway. It was a nice gesture, she supposed.

She dropped the towel and angled herself slightly glancing in the mirror. She had lost more weight than she had thought. Her hip bones were now fully visible, as were her clavicles. She pulled the pajama shorts on, and then the red tank top. She reached behind her and grabbed her mane of hair at the base of her neck, pulling the ends of it from its entrapment under her shirt. She draped it over her shoulder, where it was out of the way and turned to face Sprout, who looked quite content where he was. She rolled her eyes a bit but suddenly found a dilemma.

What was she to do?

He was just here.  And so was she. And she had already gotten up, after all. She glanced about and decided she could probably do something with her. So she slumped past the bed and into the bathroom that conjoined the room she had taken for her own. She left the door open so he could feel at ease to call after her as she searched for a scrunchy or something to contain her hair. The news was a bit unsettling. The last thing she wanted was the attention of the very woman who would probably send her to Azkaban for not leaving the school, the werewolf she was.

She managed to put her hair up into a messy bun by the time Sprout was done, giving her reflection a nice, dull glare for a few moments before coming back into the room for the tail end of the speech. She looked around, again at a loss for what to do next. What did people usually do when a young man was stretched out across their bed? Ah, she knew! Where was that book-

As she thought it, he picked the book up, foiling her plans. She started, staring at the book, before giving up. She yawned and squatted, before letting herself lie back onto the floor. Back to what she knew, she supposed. She did not bothering answering his question regarding her reading material – he had it in his hand, she was sure he could figure out the title with the clues at hand. He asked if it was good. “Actually, I prefer reading books with no merit at all so it’s horrid.” Wow. It almost sounded like humor out of her voice.

Still, she liked the book too much not to say, “It’s a book that simultaneously details the events of the first book, but from another perspective. It’s from the eyes of a four year old genius. An anxious government trying to eliminate a threat that may or may not exist, exhausting the abilities of the young to sell their innocence for victory.” She paused. “So yeah. It’s good.”

In truth, it had been one of the few books to really reinspire her. It was hard not love the young, tragic figures that sacrificed their mental healthy and childhoods for a greater good, manipulated as they would. The children were so much stronger than anyone she knew, and it made Lily wonder if that’s how they all were, and they gradually lost the will to be strong as they grew older. That was certainly how she felt at times.

Any progress that had been made was dashed now. She let out a long breath, and Sprout demanded she join him. She shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice almost a croak. She cleared her voice, and said, in her controlled, level tone, “I want to stay here, thanks.”

“Ooh, sarcasm,” Stewart looked up from the book, “so there is someone in there and I’m not looking at an Inferi? Who’d have thought it?”

The bed was soft underneath the slightly aching muscles of Stewart’s back. The change from sculpture to painting again was a difficult pill to swallow for someone who had spent a few weeks with a bent spine trying to make sure that the definition around David’s v.2 kneecaps was exact and identical to the original. Moving away from that to start with the soft planes of Henry III’s face and the excess littered across the French King’s doublet had done a number on the Italian wizard. A romp between the sheets with Marie hadn’t exactly improved matters and stumbling around half-drunk just prior equally did nothing for him. To just lay for a moment, to breathe unimpeded by anyone, even Caravaggio, was wonderful.

Uncrossing his ankles, Stewart extended an ear to Lily when she began to describe the book, a smile crossing his lips as he dropped his arm onto the bed, flaying it out from his side, the pages of the book curling a little against the sheets. He lifted his head, his eyes searching for Lily only to find open space, the dresser drawer at the very top not quite shut and the bookshelves, again, still teeming with literature and still deathly quiet. Sucking in a breath, Stewart sat up and abandoned the book on the bed, on his hands and knees he walked down to the end and peered over, finding Lily on the floor in more or less the exact same position as he’d found her when he’d, well, he’d broken in, hadn’t he?

Shaking his head, Stewart grabbed two pillows and one of the top sheets off of the bed before jumping down. He padded around the side of the bed and dropped his things down before sitting on the soft carpet beside Lily. Then, unfurling his spine from its bent, sitting position, Stewart laid himself down, his head level with the slightly shorter girl’s. Drawing up the pillows with his feet, Stewart dropped one on top of her before putting the other behind his head. Then, the covers followed, warding off the slight chill that the open window had let in. Stewart tucked them around their bodies loosely and turned his head, his gaze flitting across the hollowed cheeks of Lily’s face and the sunken eyes, the damp tendrils of hair clinging to her forehead aimlessly. She didn’t seem to care, though and there was a part of him that didn’t think it was for a lack of wanting to. She just couldn’t muster the strength to.

“So I’ve come to you,” Stewart told her, feeling as though stating the obvious was the best way to go. “Things are pretty shit at the moment, aren’t they?”

It was a deduction, and not a wrong one, either. Alone in an apartment without a soul to pop their head around the door and ask if she needed anything, even if she wanted nothing. Brothers, absent. Everyone else, absent. She was all alone. Perhaps, even with the house full and rowdy, she was also alone. And that was the worst thing to be, alone when there was no reason to be. But he was there. Unwanted, but there and that would have to do for the moment.

He was being snarky with her, but she had nothing to return. The mild sarcasm she had drawn was more spirit than she had shown since James Potter had reentered her life. It was that, she was certain, that had done away with all the passion she had left. She could not muster jokes or quips after that, feeling only the pervading lack of feeling that had become the norm for her. Wake up, read, ignore the wishes of her ‘family’ to try harder, wait for solitude, try to get out bed, and fall asleep again. Food would go untouched. Sheets unchanged. Room untouched. The only disruption ever was when she would get a new book – one of the few things besides the need to use the restroom that got her out of bed – and the twisted sheets from sleep.

And then, Stewart Harding had come to visit. The room had not been so altered for so long. The window was open, and painted. The bed was adjusted to a new weight. A towel that would have ended up in the hamper was dropped across the floor. Her book had been moved. And now her bed was being deprived of pillows and a comforter, though this she did not yet notice. Her eyes were closed beneath her arm, squeezed shut against the pervasive world. It kept spinning and she was falling behind every second, and the further behind the fell, the less she felt it was worth to even try to catch up.

She heard the adjustment of her bed’s springs and she could feel pressure on the floor. Something landed near her head, and then something fell upon her midsection. One arm immediately flung across it, pulling it into her. She could hear Stewart adjusting next to her so she pulled the pillow up and around, lifting her head so she can slide it beneath her neck. It was much better. Suddenly, she could feel him moving around her, ensuring she was covered by the blanket and tucked in well. Her eyes flicked open and her hand dropped, watching him move. He began to withdraw again and she dropped her arm over her eyes.

For some reason, she could feel her heart pounding a little more than usual.

He spoke and she lifted her arm so it rested on her forehead, her eyes flickering open at his words. So he had. He spoke again and she tried to reason her way through what he was saying. Were things shit? Albus was trying harder. James was back. She was going to be able to graduate, eventually. Things could have been so much worse. And yet, she felt steeped in tragedy, bogged down in hopelessness. And so full of uncertainty.

That was the worst part. She didn’t understand why she felt this way. That was what was so terrifying.

She turned her head, looking at the man across from her. “I don’t know what things are right now. I just… don’t feel right and that’s sort of scary.”

(OOC: Just... a little bit of godmodding. I can edit if it's not okay!)

I don’t feel right

What was right anyway, Stewart felt like asking sourly. There was nothing right about her rattling around the apartment on her own during her few wakeful hours and though Stewart knew he had taken that fact a touch too hard he couldn’t bring himself to move on from it because where was that right? Could her family claim the moral high ground and grow frustrated with her inaction when they did little to alleviate, abandoned her? Where was their right to judge? He couldn’t see it. The apartment was too cavernous, her bedroom too isolating. She was utterly, painfully alone. Who was to say that, in light of that, what she was feeling was wrong when everything about the whole situation was wrong.

Stewart reached down and curled his fingers around Lily’s hand, squeezing it briefly, feeling the chilled skin, before lifting his hand away again. He brought one arm up, curling it underneath his head and sighed a little, bringing his eyes up to the ceiling. He wanted to provide a solution, instinctively he searched for one, but he could not find any words. He didn’t know how to fix it. He was sure each member of her family had looked at her and wondered what they could do but came up with nothing. With a start, Stewart turned his head back to Lily and wondered whether that was the point. They’d left, given up, because there wasn’t a solution there to be found in her eyes or on her cheeks. It wasn’t ever going to be that easy.

“I’m sorry,” Stewart murmured, feeling the need to speak but unsure what there was to say.

The ceiling folded back into Stewart’s eyeline and he licked his lips absentmindedly. Growing tired of the swathes of white, Stewart pursed his lips and turned his gaze back to Lily. There had to be a way of making it less scary, he decided. Even if it couldn’t be made right, somehow whatever it was could be soothed if it wasn’t as scary. Stewart doubted that him just being there, that anyone being there, would be enough. She needed someone to put in the effort, of course, but also she needed to be distracted. And, to be brutally honest, Stewart needed it to. The loss of his grandmother still weighed heavily on his mind and no amount of wine and Marie could soothe the loss. Art had always helped. The smell of acrylic under his nose had always given him purpose.

“I can’t find the answer,” Stewart admitted gently. “But what I’m guessing is that you’re not the same person as you were when you were what you’d call ‘right’ so maybe what’s right has changed, that your right is slightly different now and while it’s not this, the way you’re feeling now, that doesn’t mean that what you’re feeling is wrong, just not what you want. We can’t do much, really, we’ve just got to try and make the best of it, make it less scary.”

Reaching down again, Stewart squeezed her hand once more before hopping up. He padded across the room, back to the window and, taking his wand from his pocket he summoned the paints up to him. He caught the tray and set it down on the bed. A few spells were cast to protect the bed and the books on the side table and Stewart moved around again, back to Lily who he nudged with his foot, bringing a smile to his lips.

“Come here,” he held out his hand, helping her up. His hands came around her middle and in one fluid motion he lifted her up onto the bed before hopping up himself. “We’re going to brighten this room.” He told her with a grin before pointing up to the ceiling. “Starting with that.”

Stewart leaned over and opened up all of the pots of paint this time along with little pot of water that he kept. There were a few sheets of cloth in there too as well as sponges and, of course, paintbrushes. Stewart took a sponge and a brush, holding it up for Lily to take before grabbing his own. From where he was stood he dropped his small sponge into the pot of paint, something in the back of his mind admonishing him for wasting it, considering the cost of it, but he didn’t care. When it sloshed out, his grin only widened and once he lifted it back up again he crouched a little before flinging the sponge up at the ceiling. With a squelch it landed, attaching itself to the stark, whiteness overhead before falling off, back into Stewart’s palm. There, left behind, was a great splodge of purple. With the end of his paintbrush he drew a few jagged lines, one under the other, and then two dots for eyes so it looked like a monster out of a children’s book, terrifying if your five but just endlessly cute at seventeen and nineteen.

With the bed protected and, after flicking his wand, the rest of the contents of the room, Stewart and Lily could afford to get messy without fear of damaging anything else. After dipping his wand into the pot of yellow paint, a few streams of gold were dragged out from the purple monster and then, following that, another splodge, this time in red.

“Just let yourself go, a bit.” He encouraged, blobbing the yellow-covered end of his paintbrush on Lily’s nose. “We’ll make a mess. Right now, never mind what is right or what is wrong. Just breathe.”

Splat and a glorious shade of sky blue joined the fray.

For a long moment, he just stared at her. Certainly, he would have the same advice that had been regurgitated to her so often. ’m sorry, dear, but chipper up. You must try harder. You must think positively. Count your blessings. Remember those less fortunate than you are. Get up and try to be productive, happiness will follow. It came from everyone, even Teddy. Teddy, the social worker, being horrible even though his very job was to comfort those who were broken. She supposed he was probably wonderful at it – when it didn’t involve the girl whom had been like a sister to him for his whole life.

She was prepared for Stewart to fall into line with everyone else, but he kept staring at her. She did not see him move, but suddenly his hand had caught hers up, and was giving her a reassuring squeeze. His hand was gone a moment later, but her hand remained compressed, as though still in his hand. When she had first been brought back, Teddy and even Albus would sit on her bed, brushing her hair out of her way. Family that had visited would rub her hands and trail fingers over arms and press kisses to her forehead, but she had been unable to express how necessary this human contact was necessary.

And then, it had stopped. Perhaps they thought she would prefer to be unmeddled with. Perhaps they thought it bother her. Perhaps they were tired of what seemed to be blatant ingratitude. But suddenly, people moved through her room like she was not there. Teddy delivered news he thought relevant, would tidy, brush her hair out for her, pat her, and he was off to go tend to the needs of all of the other branches of his family. The other members of the household delivered food or water, reminded her that it was time she get better, and then they were gone.

It had been a long time and Lily already missed it again.

He turned so he was looking upwards and Lily watched him for a moment. What was he still doing her? His task was over, and if he had intended to stay and irritate her… he wasn’t doing it very well. He apologized and she turned over, staring up at the ceiling as well, as though the two of them could stumble upon the solution if they looked hard enough. “Nothing to be sorry for,” she said back. Her eyes fluttered closed. There was no solution on the ceiling.

As though he was reading her mind, he revealed that he had no solution for her either, no answer. He began speaking and she could feel her breath filling and leaving her lungs. It wasn’t the usual. It was far from it, and she was afraid of believing it, for she had gone so long without belief, and she would not know what to do with a sprinkle of hope. Again, his hand captured hers and, before she could get herself to respond in kind, to squeeze his, to link fingers, his hand was gone and he was moving. She felt his toe against her and her eyes flicked open.

His hands were outstretched so she sighed, but lifted her own arms, grasping his hands. She was lifted and then pulled onto the bed, where she stood a little uncertainly. He jumped up, and her weakened legs worked to keep her standing upright. His words were of true interest to her, and there was even a small flicker in her eyes. She turned and received a paintbrush, but did not move. Instead, she watched his process. She had not realized he was an artist – she supposed her window should have given her those clues though.

His creation was finished and he turned back to her, perhaps aware that she had yet to join him. He painted her nose, which promptly wrinkled. Nevertheless, she said, “A mess… might be nice.” She dipped her own brush into a light blue and swirled before reaching up. She began paint, making a bulbous body that led to a spindly neck and then an angular head. Her dragon was going to be wimpy, it seemed, but no one could say he didn’t have character.