To My Dearest Rosalie,

I bet your summer is boring without my presence. My summer is amazing, and much better than yours — because I'm just better.

Insincerely,
Sirius (the better one)

To My Least Favourite Gorilla,

You are the epitome of annoyance. When I visited James, I wanted to take a cloth from the kitchen and stuff it in your mouth.

Hope you're not having fun,
Rosalie

To The Uglier Edson,

That's sort of kinky. I think you fancy me.

Love,
Sirius

Baboon —

I burned your previous letter, you piece of shit. I just said I wanted to shut you up. How on Earth did you translate that so badly?

Actually, you can't read, so I understand.

My apologies,
Rosalie

Chipmunk,

Denial is a river in Egypt. Using my lovely handwriting to fuel your fire (for me) isn't helping your case.

I know the truth,
Sirius

To an absolute idiot,

I used your letter for kindling. Get fucked.

Rosalie

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

There are so many memories at home.

Rosalie remembers her cousins visiting in the springtime when she was younger, playing in the soft snow, laughing. She recalls Delilah sneaking Rosalie away with cups of hot cocoa, staring at the sun. Her mind shows her visions of a younger Rosalie stumbling in the grass. Delilah catches her, staring.

Before, Delilah didn't want to be her sister. She objected between Hana and Thomas's marriage, threw tantrums in the dark when Rosalie was asleep, and referred to Hana as "not-mom" or "Hana" only. And Rosalie? Delilah didn't want to care about that cute toddler who hung onto her every word.

But Rosalie won Delilah's heart. Hana won Delilah's heart. The four weaved together, strung into not just an intricate family, but a loving family. A warm family, forever in Rosalie's heart. A supportive family, fully in Delilah's mind.

"I'm lesbian," Delilah announced one night, and they all surrounded and loved her just the same.

Will they love Rosalie when she tells them the truth? Rosalie knows they will; if Sirius —an immature idiot — feels the same about her, they will, too. It's logical. It's reasonable.

And yet, fear terrorises her.

"What do I do if I have a secret that I don't want to share?" Rosalie asks Drake when they meet in Diagon Alley.

He fixes her an unimpressed look. "Don't say anything."

"But —" she begins.

And that's enough for him.

"You clearly want to tell someone."

"Well, yes," Rosalie admits. "But I'm still terrified."

"Do I know?" he asks, expression stoic. Rosalie, from years of knowing him, knows it's his curious look. "Or is it just you?"

She coughs. "No. One other person knows."

"Acacia?" Drake guesses.

Rosalie shrugs, her stomach churning.

"Who is it?" he asks.

"No one," she says quickly. "It's alright. I'll figure it out."

"Hmm," Drake says, and the conversation moves on to his unapproachable, yet incredible Auror sister.

Rosalie returns home hours later, exhausted from the ice cream and questions Acacia asks her when she marks her late entrance. The three of them have always met, and their friend is always late, always doing something, always moving.

"Don't you get tired?" Rosalie had asked.

Acacia thumbed through books in a popular, bustling bookshop. Her hair stuck to her face and her usually perfectly skin had a layer of dirt.

"All the time," she said heavily, refusing to elaborate.

Rosalie just sighed, moving the conversation to a different topic. Acacia gave everything but her past away.

Now, Rosalie's home, lying on her bed. She can only afford to be out and about for a few hours at a time without visions attacking her, and even then, she used the "weak bladder" excuse to flee to the toilets and let history claw into her mind. Twice.

"Screw this," she whispers.

Downstairs, her family is bustling with energy. Upstairs, Rosalie wants to crawl into a hole and never see the sun again.

A letter for Sirius, unfinished, rests on the table, along with a myriad of items she refuses to organise. Her bed is messily filled with textbooks and fantasy novels that she'll never read, along with finished crisps packets and one half-empty glass of water.

Rosalie groans. When will her visions leave?

In your dreams, Rosalie, her brain helpfully tells her.

Screw you too, brain.

"One day," she murmurs to no one in particular, "one day, these visions will fade. And then I can rest peacefully. No one but Sirius will have to know that I had them in the first place."

Rosalie knows she's deluding herself, but that thought alone lets her fall asleep.

For days, she sits at her desk, transcribing and sending letters to Sirius. Why does this banter set her skin on fire, make her feel alive? She's not supposed to forgive him for being an avoidant jerk, but her heart already has.

She won't show it, though. Her parents allow her to visit James a second time, and she's managed to mastermind a date at a muggle park between him and the girl he fancies. Well, James's letter to Lily worded it as a friendly hangout, but Rosalie sees the blushes her friends share.

Friendly hangout, her arse.

"Why are we spying?" Sirius murmurs, his shoulder brushing hers.

"Because," Rosalie says obviously, "I'm their Cupid and you're my incompetent assistant. And James is my bumbling client, although he's not doing too bad right now."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, screw you, Edson."

"Like you screwed me over?" she asks, and that shuts him up.

The two teenagers are not-so-subtly behind a bush, with just enough of a view to catch their friends sitting on swings. Lily's red hair is tangled with the breeze, and James's eyes are on her only, as if she's his world. He hangs onto her every word, and Rosalie catches him eying Lily's lips more than once.

Again, hardly friendly.

"He's being bold," Sirius voices, smirking. "Good for him."

"For once, I agree —" Rosalie's cut off by a pounding headache.

It's starting.

"Is it your visions?" he asks slowly, and she stiffens. "I know, love. It's okay."

Her stomach flips out of her control, the traitor. She turns to him, his face now blurred as the past breaks free of its manacles and claws onto her.

"Hold on, then," she whispers, a trace of a smirk on her face as her legs go weak.

His electric grip flies through her, hands grabbing her waist. "You asked."

Visions fly through her mind, knives of emotions stabbing into her stomach: Delilah, crying as she's outed in school, Delilah breaking up with her girlfriend, Delilah crying when someone offers comfort, only to dump her unceremoniously because she was only experimenting.

Bitterness flies through Rosalie's veins, fueling her fire. Her sister doesn't deserve this. No one deserves this. Fuck them.

When she awakens, Sirius is staring at her.

"You know how creepy you looked, Edson?" is the first thing she hears as she practically tossed back up. "Like a zombie convulsing."

Rosalie blinks at Sirius, frazzled. "Says the one who just leered at me like a baboon."

He gasps. "You're the animal, you chipmunk."

"And you're the dick —"

"And you're very loud." Rosalie and Sirius practically jump as Lily stares at them from above the bushes. "Stalking much?"

"Sorry," Rosalie says sheepishly, rising from the bushes with her assistant, the dick he is. "We didn't want James to do anything stupid."

The aforementioned boy appears behind Lily. "I got the ice cream — Rosalie? Sirius?"

"Your acting is terrible, James," Lily drones, looking like she's trying not to smile.

"I didn't —" James begins.

Sirius raises a brow. "Just admit it, mate."

James sighs. "Alright. Lily, I knew. I'm sorry that —"

Lily giggles. "James, it's fine. I'm sure you didn't ask them to come. Just next time, make sure they're not here."

"Next time?" he asks dreamily, as if he's on Cloud Nine.

"I enjoyed this." Lily nods, squeezing James's hand. As James looks like he's going to fly, Lily fixes a glare on both Rosalie and Sirius. "But Rosalie, Sirius, if you spy on us again, I will hex you."

Rosalie gulps. "Noted."

Sirius salutes her. "Yes, ma'am."

Rolling her eyes, Lily finally smiles at them. "Well, have a nice day. James and I will be eating ice cream, at the opposite end of the park."

"Huh?" James asks as Lily drags him away. "Guys? Lily? Help?"

"You owe me a butterbeer!" Rosalie calls.

"Have fun, Prongs!" Sirius says cheerily. "Go get the girl!"

Rosalie jabs him on his side. "Don't say that!"

"And why not?" he challenges, turning to face her. "She seems to fancy him now."

"It's supposed to be a friendly hangout," Rosalie says weakly, "with good, proper intentions like talking about books and doing very platonic things —"

"They're alone," Sirius reminds her. "Doing very not-platonic things. One on one."

Rosalie rolls her eyes. "We're alone, and we're not going to date."

Sirius smirks, stepping closer. "Do you want to, love?"

"Ew," Rosalie says immediately, eyeing him in disgust. "What are you on?"

"Stop denying it," he says coolly, eyes trailing down to her lips. "I know you're in love with me."

"Why are you so hellbent on that?" she asks, stepping even closer, accepting his challenge. "Are you projecting, Sirius Black?"

He scoffs. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, sweetheart," Rosalie pats his cheek, "that you're in love with me, and not the other way around."

A pink tinge appears on his cheeks. "With a chipmunk like you? Not a chance."

"You're blushing, Sirius," Rosalie murmurs, still touching his skin. "What does that say about you? Is it still a game now?"

His intense gaze makes her want to turn around, but it's like her dead competitive spirit is summoned back to life. Rosalie feels it in her heart, egging her on, even as she removes his palm from his cheek.

"Maybe it was never a game," he replies smoothly.

Rosalie blinks, flushing. "Well —"

"Lily just left; her parents had to pick her up early because of her sister." A dumbfounded James strides towards his friends, causing the two teens to spring apart. "Are you both alright?"

"Prongs!" Sirius exclaims, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

"What happened to the two of you?" James raises a brow. "You're both beet red."

"It was, erm." Rosalie scrambles for a lie, any lie. "Yes! A rash! From the bush! Like an allergy, you know, and it —"

"It affects her more than it does me," Sirius notes smugly, the rat.

Rosalie's eye twitches. "You little shit!"

"Was I lying?"

"Yes!" she hisses hotly. "You are very much lying!"

"So, are you ready to go back to my house, now?" James asks awkwardly. "Not to interrupt, you know, whatever this is."

"Please." Rosalie heaves a sigh. "I've had enough."

"Of the truth?" Sirius jibes.

"Of you," Rosalie snaps, "you big-headed gorilla. I want to shove your head down the washing machine until you can't speak anymore!"

She storms ahead, not before hearing a "Damn, mate, what did you say to her?" from James.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The sun batters Acacia's pale face. Sweat slides down her forehead, and the heat blisters her now reddish skin. A sack of gold swinging in her arm, pants of exhaustion leave her mouth. She's never carried so many galleons before.

Jacinta says she doesn't need the money, but Acacia knows better. Her sister-in-law and brother argue in the darkest parts of the night, Henry's hands frustratedly in his hair as he talks about her lack of a job and the baby sleeping in the bedroom next to them.

Her family needs the money. And desperately, so desperately, Acacia found a way. After Evan, who promised her meek self the world (back then, Acacia believed in her parents), after blood on her hands, after a grievous escape, she found the way.

But what about Henry? Her brother, the pure soul who ran from the house the moment he disagreed with her parent's supremacist beliefs, floundered alone. But Acacia stayed. She convinced her parents that she would do anything they wanted, if she "relaxed" in her Hogwarts years.

Acacia did not relax. Neither did her parents.

Raising her hand, Acacia shakily knocks on the door in front of her. Jacinta opens it, dark circles swollen, and dirty-blonde hair greasy.

"There you are," she says, voice soaked in relief when Acacia steps in, slipping her shoes off and closing the door behind her. That's the only rule Jacinta ever told Acacia: shoes off in the house. "Where have you been? And what is that?"

"Working," Acacia says vaguely, but they both know that's a lie.

"Sure, working." Jacinta crosses her arms, almost sagging with disappointment. "You mean snogging your boyfriend in Diagon Alley? Where does he live, again? The Leaky Cauldron? On the streets, like a bum?"

"Drake's not a fucking bum, Jacinta." Acacia scowls. "I got you money."

"From where?" Jacinta asks, giving her a disbelieving look. "Drake? Did you take money from a homeless person?"

"The money's from my job," Acacia enunciates, rolling her eyes. "It's irrelevant. I got the money we need."

"From Gringotts?"

"Yes," Acacia murmurs. "The money was transferred over a while back. I received a letter and went to pick it up."

"What job?" Jacinta asks, although her face tells Acacia that she doesn't even care about ethics anymore.

"Please don't tell Henry," is Acacia's response.

"Dear Merlin, you didn't steal it, did you?"

"No!" Acacia mutters defensively.

Jacinta sighs. "You're not going to tell me."

"No, I'm not," Acacia agrees. "Just take it."

"Henry's going to kill us both," Jacinta says, but she still takes the bag, opening it. "How on Earth did you —"

"I told you," Acacia says, "it's a good job. It pays well."

"You don't like it." It's not a question, but a statement. "And you don't want Henry to know, either, so it's nothing good."

Wordlessly, Acacia squeezes Jacinta's shoulder. She doesn't need to say anything. Her sister-in-law will take the money, say it's a gift from Jacinta's parents or something, and then they'll have, at most, a month of peace.

"Acacia," Jacinta says finally, "thank you. You saved us."

She shrugs. "Hardly."

"Not now," her sister-in-law presses, "but back then."

"No, I didn't," Acacia says immediately. "I had no choice."

"Well, you made the right one."

"Is that why your daughter's named Acacia?" She doesn't mean to sound bitter, but the question flows out of her. "Because of the blood on my hands?"

Jacinta frowns. "For more reasons than one. You've done so much for us."

Faltering, Acacia eventually settles on, "Yes, I did. Thank you."

The conversations drift to nothingness. Acacia steps into the shower, in her room that's combined with Henry's office. The scalding-hot water massages her scalp, and she sighs, finally relaxed, running her hands through wet hair.

The water cleanses her of the blood that still clings from that summer. Exactly one year ago, Acacia made a decision that altered the course of her life. She's been living with Henry ever since, but it still haunts her; a life was lost because she had to be the merciless one.

Breathing heavily, Acacia ends her shower a few minutes later, stepping out with a white towel wrapped around her body and head. After clothing herself, she spends an hour straightening out the room: Henry's documents included. It all has to be clean, neat, precise, and Acacia's hands won't stop moving until everything is complete.

Her hands didn't stop moving that day, either.

I'm sorry, she tells herself, but to her too. I should have found another way.

Henry's alive because of her, but Acacia can't live with the disgust in her father's face as he told her to run, to never return again.

That day, Acacia left a sister behind and a mother dead.