#my cramps are fucking killing me this week- they hurt so bad and i havent even actually started yet

[ice-reblogs]

If there is a God

I want to rip out my uterus with my bare hands and devour it like a rabid animal in front of him

And after I'm done, I want to stand up and look at him, blood dripping from my jaw; and tell him to pray for my forgiveness for making me suffer in the wrong body

[imbrium-mare]

A Thousand Sunsets

Marauders era

Hello. So I havent written a proper fic in AGES, let alone published one, but the jily discord had me all emotional today and this just kind of happened. Basically birthed from (1) my anger that lily's life was never expanded upon other than where it related to guys, (2) the absolute tragedy of nearly an entire group of friends dying at twenty one and what it would be like to survive it, and (3) @sirenicc and @thequibblah s amazing fics about death in the first wizarding war. I'll edit and post it on ao3 tomorrow, but its half past two and I wrote this on the notes app on my phone in the park closest to my house and I really should be getting to bed, so you can have this for now. Major character death and angst to follow. Let me know what you guys think!

Mary Macdonald didn't cry at funerals. It felt like too much of a spectacle, there with all the other mourners around her. She felt as if she was performing her grief, like she was taking the attention off of the dead. She always waited until she was home, with her pillow and her tea and the memories of her loved ones crowding her. But not at the funeral. Never at the funeral.

Except now. Mary stood off to the side in the cramped graveyard, tears streaking her red cheeks. The early November wind had long since numbed her nose, but she knew that if it hadn't she'd feel it running. On the horizon, behind the church, the sun was setting. The sky streaked red and orange above her, unusually clear for winter in England. Mary took it as a sign. She had insisted they postpone the burial until after dark. Lily loved sunsets, and she deserved to watch this last one.

Hell, Lily deserved a thousand sunsets. She deserved a lot more than that, deserved to laugh again and hold her son again and dance in the rain again. But all Mary could give her was a sunset and her tears.

The funeral was packed. Wizards filled the cemetalery and crowded the streets outside. More than tears, she heard laughter. Children oohed as Ministry wizards Transfigured the war memorial in the square into a towering replica of James and Lily, baby Harry in their arms. A group of young wizards behind her were discussing what charms would conjure the prettiest, most long lasting for their party later tonight.

Mary was crying, but she wanted to scream. Because you're not supposed to cry at funerals. Because this wasn't any fucking funeral, it was Lily's fucking funeral, and didn't they understand that?

But she knew she couldn't blame people for celebrating. Not when the war was over and Voldemort was gone. The relief coated the air, had started to settle into her muscles. And she was happy, she supposed, that her friend would be remembered. That she'd saved the world. That so many people had come to see her go.

But that was the thing. The Lily they were celebrating wasn't Mary's Lily. Their Lily was a loving mother, a selfless woman who'd taken a killing curse for her son. Who'd sacrificed everything for the world. Their lily was young, and beautiful, and kind. And sure, Mary's Lily was all those things too. But she was so much more than that.

Her Lily was eleven, all messy morning hair and knobbly elbows, yelling at Mary for not doing her Potions' essay last night before relenting and handing over her own to be copied.

Her Lily was thirteen and jumping excitedly on her four poster bed when Mary told her that Fourth Year Amos Diggory had asked her to Hogsmeade. Then she'd climbed down and turned the dormitory upside down helping Mary pick out an outfit.

A month later Amos was seen snogging a Fourth Year Hufflepuff, and it was her Lily that held her as she cried and cursed his name as creatively as any thirteen year old could.

Her Lily was fifteen, hiding behind a tapestry in the fifth floor corridor and hexing Mulciber bright purple after she heard what he'd done to Mary the previous day. Mcgonagall knew who'd done it when no one on the staff could reverse the spell, but her Lily had held her head up high and denied it. She was stuck in detention until the spell faded two weeks later, but her Lily didn't care.

Her Lily was sixteen and admitting that ok, maybe James potter wasn't that bad.

She was seventeen and dragging Mary and Alice and Marlene out onto the grounds for a snowball fight when they should have been studying for NEWTS.

She was eighteen, drunk on firewhiskey in a Muggle parking lot, helping Sirius charm the heavens into opening up above them so she could dance with James in the rain.

She was eighteen and one day, curled up in bed with a cold and a hangover and cursing Mary for letting her drink so much.

She was nineteen and spinning in a white dress, he laugh filling the air and her smile brightening the room.

She was twenty and standing by Mary as they buried Dorcas, then the Prewett brothers, and Benjy Fenwick. Not Marlene Mckinnon, though -- Lily wasn't allowed to go.

Her Lily was twenty and in hiding with her son and her husband, trying to stay alive, and she wrote Mary about toy broomsticks and Christmas ornaments and her crazy old neighbor.

Her Lily was twenty one and dead. Her Lily was twenty one and she was smart and brave, and funny, and she gave the best hugs. Her Lily was sentimental about the seasons changing and watched the sun set from her Dormitory window every day for seven years. Her Lily got loud when she was angry and cried when her sister didn't come to her wedding and liked reading Muggle classics and hexing any asshole who hurt her friends. Her Lily had given birth to the only known survivor of the Killing Curse, because that was just something Lily would do, and that was all anyone could talk about. That was all anyone would remember.

Except Mary. Mary remembered Lily alive, not just dead. Mary remembered Dorcas and Marlene and Alice, who couldn't even remember her own name. Mary had to remember, because if she didn't, who would?  And Mary had to cry, even if she never cried at funerals, because near everyone else was happy.

She watched as the sun disappeared below the horizon, and the sky went from red to pink to purple. She imagined Lily, on the window ledge in their dormitory, clutching a book and staring dreamily at the sky.

Mary joined Remus, and together they levitated the two caskets into the grave. And just like that, her Lily was gone, and she was still crying.

Mary Macdonald went home, eyes dry and head aching. And when Godric's Hollow emptied out, and Lilys name was just a footnote in a History textbook, she made sure to watch the sunset and dance in the rain and read all her best friend's favorite books. Because if she didn't, who would?