The Stag and The Harpy | James Potter

Hair

Phoebe dreamed of her mother the night after the meeting.

Maybe it was the talk of Veela, or the fear that consumed people when there was talk of loved ones getting hurt. Lily understood, and while Phoebe thought about talking to her it just fell flat. Because while Lily understood grieving a parent, she didn't understand grieving a parent that she'd never had but had always wanted.

So when she stands in front of the mirror this morning, she only sees her mother reflected back. Or rather, the failure that her mother was trying to fix. And it makes Phoebe sick, sick with guilt. Because just as they were trying to fix the damage that her grandmother and generations of women in her family had caused, her mother was gone. Disappeared. Like ashes to the wind.

Phoebe swallows down bile, turning to the side before she can stop it. Steam is billowing out of the shower, fogging the room. But she's too caught up in her reflection to notice. She'd almost made it into the shower before the reflection called her back, nearly bare. She studies her body clinically, her breasts covered by her bra, her knobby knees, her shoulders narrow and sagged. She stands up straighter. Posture. She had to remember her posture.

She presses a hand to her stomach, pushing. Like it will make her smaller, prettier. Like it will bring her mother back so they can argue and scream and cry like they did after the end of her sixth year. Because then they can begin to heal.

Her eyes linger on the scissors she'd grabbed on impulse this morning when James was still asleep. She'd run to the bathroom, raised them to her hair. She'd always wanted to cut her hair. But her mother had said no. And looking in the mirror, she can see disapproval reflected in her eyes. Maybe it's her own disapproval, maybe she knows better. But it's hard for her to tell where her mother's influence begins and where she ends.

She doesn't move when the door swings open behind her. Her eyes find James in the mirror, his hair sticking out wildly. He'd been sleeping, but the sound of the shower and the lack of her familiar cold hands had woken him. His brow furrows in concern at the way she's staring at her body just in her underwear. He gently touches her back and he mumbles,

"Bee? What's wrong?"

Phoebe blinks. She's not sure how to answer. Because yesterday made her miss her mum. But today made her hate her.

"I feel like a phony sometimes," She whispers, pressing her hand harder to her stomach. Large hands suddenly grab her wrist and pull her hand away from her body. He gently turns her, his eyes worried. He waits patiently though, and she falls even more in love. He was so patient.

"My mum visited me last night," She explains. His lips twitch slightly. What an interesting way to explain a dream. Unique to her.

"I feel...." he waits patiently as she trails off again. Always the teacher, the guide that pointed her towards what she was feeling and what it was called.

When she remains quiet he wonders gently, "Are you mad?"

She nods once, her eyes suddenly prickling with unshed tears. His free hand gently cups her face.

"At her?"

She nods again, her voice raw as she admits, "I'm mad at her. I'm mad at everyone. I'm mad at this wizard that wants to kill people, toss them aside. Use them. And I'm mad that Veela are joining him. That they agree with him. I'm furious that she's still in my head and that I love her despite it."

James hums in acknowledgement stroking back her lengthy hair. He smiles gently and asks simply,

"What can I do?"

Phoebe hesitates, her mother's voice in her head telling her that she would be ugly, classless. Improper. A disappointment to their ancestry. She fights it and asks,