nightcall

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“I wouldn’t dream of it.” But Frances picked up another photograph, still clinging to the first, and while her fingers remained on the edges, they danced dangerously (purposefully) close to the glass.

“That’s Christmas day, two years ago,” Lilith let her damp hair fall from the towel it’d been in as she took a seat at her vanity. “The duplicitous little slag next to me was in a delicate condition. Cankles like that were hiding no pregnancy.”

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“Well, she’ll be gone next year,” she shrugged, kicking an empty can of soda as she walked over to Lilith, to make sure her voice would be kept quiet. “What’s your plan, then, huh? Stepping into her shoes yourself?” Antonia uttered the question for the sole reason of stirring shit up. She could care less about who was or wasn’t the president, though she’d always stand for less community work hours.

Lilith scoffed where she could have laughed out loud. “And dedicate more time to this school? No such thing. I have my sights set on real opportunity. Not Dumbledore and his hag keeping me at bay. I’m sure the position will be filled by somebody with a knack for kissing behinds.”

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She was thinking more of her mother, even though Lilith was right. Her mothers opinion no longer mattered, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t still annoying. Her brow arched. “No one worth knowing would take such a thing.”

“Will you and Gilbert share a picturesque New Year’s kiss?” Lilith often made sure to brag about her not being married off yet. Perhaps her parents trusted her more than her peers.

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He slumped back, torn between anger and emptiness. Loss came so easily to him these days, and this felt like another person slipping through his fingers. That didn’t mean he forgave Lilith. He believed himself to be fully in the right in this regard. But that also meant a realization that the longer this kept up, the harder it would be to get to a place of trust. Of friendship. Of something.

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“Emma? Muggle ancestors? No shit?” A pleased grin set itself on Antonia’s lips. “The way she carries herself around I always assumed… — ” She trailed off, glad she’d assumed wrong, for once. Though blood purity wasn’t a particular fixation of hers as it was to some of her colleagues, she knew the lack of it was a stain, of course. A flaw. And people’s flaws, particularly those of people as conceited as Emma, always made Antonia smile.

Lilith nodded, sending Antonia a look that said you didn’t hear it from me. “You know that old saying. Fake it ‘til you make it. Poor thing doesn’t know that can’t apply to blood. Tsk.”

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“It wasn’t a question of getting rid of them.” But she still wrote it down carefully on the piece of parchment she was sending to the event planner. The party was the only thing she could look forward to, in a dreadful Christmas holidays alone with Gilbert.

“Those who pay more attention to the flutes should not be in attendance, anyway. Who cares if you had them last year?” Lilith was half interested now, as she flipped through and read an article in Witch Weekly. “Did you know an editor reached out and asked if I’d model their new quills for next month’s issue?” It wasn’t a brag, because it was not something Lilith was interested in. “That’s the sort of publicity only desperate people take. Know anybody interested?”

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“And that right there. That’s all I ever get from you. Dunno why you bothered coming in here if that’s all you were going to do or say.”

Lilith wouldn’t falter now, even as she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. The quiet thud never escaped her and neither did the lasting image of Asher’s face imprinted on her brain as she turned away from him, something that’d become too common. Every foot she put between them, the more she feared the life Asher could build without her by his side. How she’d become nothing but a blip on an unimportant radar. And it’d all be her own fault. But for now, the blame was placed on Asher and she’d tend to the grudge indefinitely. 

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“You’re delusional. You’re so far up your own arse. Did I not need my best friend this summer? You know, when I lost the rest of the family that wasn’t fucking locked up in Azkaban? No. You’re selfish, and you’re just putting this on me as a way to deflect.”

Lilith didn’t believe a word of his, not for a second. Not when the burning pit of her stomach told her that he didn’t need her. The truth was, Lilith had just never been needed in the way she preferred it. Here, she held a grudge against Avery because of it. Her blank stare said nothing. She said nothing.

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Antonia looked behind her shoulder, startled at first that it might be someone scolding her for doing the absolute bare minimum, but finding it was just Lilith, after all. 

“Fuck no.” She drew closer to the girl and spoke to her on a whisper: “I didn’t know this part  —” she waved around the litter, “ — was mandatory.”

“It’s all part of Emma’s ‘let’s become lower class’ act. She has to bring us down to her level.” Lilith levitated a piece of rubbish into the can. “Must make her muggle ancestors exceedingly proud.”

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“Don’t talk about me like you know me.” Lilith had touched a nerve. Several in fact. “Better do-it-myself than the alternative, which is apparently to disappear for several months at a time. Fuck you.” He shook his head, annoyed with himself for bothering to lash out at all.

“Don’t,” She suddenly spat, “don’t you dare act as if you’ve ever needed me.” Lilith urged closer, eyes hardening, voice softening, “You’ll never truly need me.”

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Asher just stared at her, his annoyance reaching its peak. “Good, that means you can go now. Or do you have other things around here that you’ve stored for yourself?” More than ever he wondered if their friendship had been genuine, or just due to the circumstances of living together.

“Oh, it’s a nerve I’ve touched.” Lilith practically coed, tucking the knife away into the waistband of her underwear. “You must not worry, I touched nothing the dimmest house elf couldn’t fix. Or perhaps yourself. You’ve become very do-it-yourself these days.” Though that was not the issue at hand.

When: 21st November 1979 Where: Winbourne House Who: @lilithmulciber​

“So, what do you think?”

“I think we better head indoors before this rain ruins my hair.”

WHEN: 22 November, 1979; evening WHERE: The Wimbourne House WHO: Frances Bletchley & Lilith Mulciber ( @lilithmulciber​ )

It was without invitation that Frances wandered into Lilith’s room and, wordlessly, began to handle the things around her room with gentle curiosity.

“Careful. Edges only.” She would not have fingerprints on photo frames. 

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Asher barely spared Lilith a glance, her voice feeling more like an irritant than anything soothing it might have once been. Even being around her these days made him want to scream. Whenever anyone brought up the word trust to him, he wondered if they were aware of just how badly he had been burned. “Do you expect me to have taken an inventory of the place for you? A photograph? It’s the same as its always been.”

Lilith, it seemed as usual, was more concerned about something in the background than the boy who sat before her. “It better be where I’ve left it,” She was determined on finding something she’d hidden at the beginning of the year. And found it once she was on her hands and knees, tucked behind the headboard of Asher’s bed. It was revealed to be a butterfly knife. “Thanks for keeping her warm for me.” She spoke from the floor.

“Pause,” she motioned with a single digit, before pulling out a flask from her purse. Lilith unscrewed it, pouring a dash of the liquid into her tea. “Now you may continue with your tale.” Dreadful as it was. Now she could bare it.

“Is cleaning up used condoms and other rubbish how you imagined spending your days in JWL?” She tossed a napkin dramatically into the bin they were levitating to follow them around campus.

“Something’s out of place,” She murmured. “What have you done differently?”