𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨-𝙧.𝙖.𝙗

42-dreams

DORCAS ISN'T THE SAME ANYMORE.

She embraces grief quite differently than Jo. Jo lets grief become her, lets it stain her lips and soak into her clothes. Dorcas tries to wipe it clean with bleach, pretends it isn't there when it doesn't lift. She snaps at people who try to bring it up with her; she becomes jagged, ripe with anger. She moves about the Potter home like a ghost, drifting in and out of rooms at random, slamming doors behind her, breaking glasses when no one is looking.

Jo hasn't seen her cry yet. She held her hand during the funeral and cooks her dinner every night and sleeps just down the hall from her, and yet, there's been nothing. Not a sound. Dorcas hardly speaks at all anymore.

It's not even that Marlene is gone, not even that she was killed. It's that she was part of a massacre. Her whole family wiped out, their home destroyed and burned. Every trace of her is now gone, turned to ash. Marlene was once living, she was once bright and loved and joyous and brave and fierce and she was complete and complex and now she is nothing but a memory, nothing but a pain that lives in the center of Dorcas's chest. Jo watches every day as it kills her.

"I wish I could tell people," were the first words that Dorcas had spoken to Jo since it happened, just a few days after the funeral. Her voice is hoarse, crackling and thick with pain. Just hearing it makes Jo's eyes water. "I wish everyone could know how I love her."

Jo didn't know the right thing to say to her. She just held Dorcas's hand and pursed her lips together. "At least she knew."

And that had been the last time Dorcas spoke about her.

Jo hasn't been given a reason yet. She's not sure if there is one. She's even less sure if it would make it better.

It's hard to see Dorcas now, hard to see what grief has turned her into. She remembers how Dorcas was when they first met, so shy and quiet, so afraid of the new world she had been thrust into. Even then, when Dorcas was horrified to step foot out of their dorm room, Jo could get a giggle out of her. She could get Dorcas going, get her talking about her muggle life, her favorite classes, the new, magical things she just couldn't get accustomed to. Jo and Dorcas had spent countless hours shoulder to shoulder, talking and gossiping and whispering. They would stay up at night and they would get in trouble in classes. Jo can see it, can see how Dorcas has been warped. Jo can see how Dorcas is defeated, how much she's given up without Marlene. That alone is enough to break Jo's heart.

She tries to maintain a schedule. Almost every day is the same, with distinct times for potion-making and shopping and cleaning and cooking. There's distinct times for Order meetings. The healings, well, Jo can't really plan for those, but she tries to be prepared. Jo prepares spare clothes and ointments and bandages and snacks and whatever else injured Order members might need. She checks in on Dorcas, who has completely stopped going to work and has started disappearing at strange hours, returning at random and without a word of explanation. Jo doesn't push, just wants to make sure her head is still on right. She maintains her mother's garden, knees in the dirt to maintain the greens that bloom under the summer sun. Jo does just about anything to keep her busy, because if she's busy, she's not collapsing.

Vegetables simmer in a hot pan. Jo uses a wooden spoon to push at them, eyes examining the way they've browned over the heat. She likes cooking with her hands, no magic. It makes her feel accomplished, doing things without her wand. More capable.

Dorcas is seated at the kitchen table, furiously scribbling away in the journal she keeps. And Jo knows better than to ask her what she's writing about in there. She can't imagine it's anything Jo would need to know about, anyways.