⫶⫶⫶ ᴇ ᴅ ᴇ ʟ y ɴ ⫶⫶⫶
― Edelyn Aurélia Black learned
from a young age that h e r o e s
aren't always the ones who win.
They're the ones who fight. And
so, Edelyn fights, until the green
lying dormant beh...
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EDELYN STIFFLED A YAWN the next morning as she dressed for Bill and Fleur's wedding; she had spent the night flipping through the yearbook Dumbledore had left her in his will. Saudade — it had gripped at her throat as her eyes flickered across the old moving photographs of her parents and their friends, fingers brushing the dust off their laughing smiles. She couldn't help but wonder if they knew then just how different their lives would soon become. Their blithe faces were still so innocent; darkness had yet to taint the blissful naïveté of their youth. They had yet to become soldiers; warriors of a war that would one day throw three into Death's grasp, one into betrayal, and two into loneliness.
On the inside of the yearbook's cover, written in Dumbledore's cursive writing, were the simple words: To remind you that the strongest power of all is that of love.
Edelyn heaved a heavy sigh; she had tossed and turned trying to figure out what it all meant, for surely, there was a hidden message. But complicated and confusing a man as he always was, speaking in nothing but dizzying riddles, she could not see past the surface.
Staring scrutinizingly at her reflection in the mirror, she brushed down the lavender dress she wore and chewed on her abused bottom lip, eyes lingering on the bite mark on her neck — both Mrs Weasley and Mrs Diggory has tried to cover it up with various charms and makeup, but it had all been in vain.
She glared at it.
It glared back at her.
She mentally extended a rude hand gesture to Fenrir Greyback and slipped on a pair of black heels that Fleur had forced upon her. "Oh, mais t'es si belle!" she had gushed. "You must wear them. You must!" Knowing not to argue with the bride-to-be, and certainly not a half-veela bride-to-be, Edelyn had acquiesced and now found herself stumbling as she stepped out of Ginny's bedroom.
Harry was studying his reflection in the window, eyebrows scrunched in annoyance as he attempted to tame his messy black hair, when he heard the clicks and clacks of heels against wood. Turning around, his stomach gave a jolt at the sight of her entering the Burrow kitchen, beautiful as she ever was, gaze fixed on her two feet in concentration.
"Bloody hell, why did I ever agree to wear these stupid — Oh." She looked up to see Harry staring at her. "H-hi."
"Hi." It was amazing how after all these years, he could still feel butterflies around her. Awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, he gave a nervous chuckle and lifted the comb held in his hands. "Just trying to — er — fix my hair."
"Ah. Well, I could — um — help you if you'd like?"
He blinked at her. "Y-yeah, that'd be — that'd be great."
She stepped toward him, shaking her head when he offered her the comb, and with tense hesitation, reached up with her fingers and began to fix his hair.
Harry felt terribly hot. She was standing so close to him. So so close. The sweet scent of strawberries wafted into his nose, and the scent was utterly intoxicating. His heart pounded with abandon in his aching chest and tingles ran down his spine as he felt her minty breath against his skin.
