it was, perhaps, no secret that kitty’s tear ducts operated on a hair trigger. she could recall once in fourth year openly crying over breakfast not including croissants. when she was home for the summer, she saw a baby bird struggle on its first flight and wept. two weeks ago she couldn’t help the flow of them when she finally got a project for potions to go off without a hitch. it was just how she was; the sort of thing she would definitely change about herself if she could ... but had long accepted she couldn’t.Â
when kitty was first given the news about jacob, she knew she shouldn’t bother to leave the dorm room, so constant was her crying. she chugged water periodically, took shuffling trips to the kitchens to allow the elves to coddle her, and tried not to sob that much harder at any offered condolences. tried not to push people away too far. Â
breakfast was her first venture out after a near forty-eight hours of this routine. and her hair was washed! that in and of itself was perhaps why she was even able to go out and feel alright about it --- a good last shower cry before stepping out into the world was very fortifying. she was a crier, and she figured people knew that; but she still didn’t want to show up after two days of semi-isolation and cry into her oatmeal. she couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact or say anything to the people sitting down around her ... until her owl landed in front of her bearing her copy of the prophet. “ um, “ she started. cleared her throat once, before flicking her gaze briefly upwards. “ sorry. but I can’t --- I can’t read that. if you maybe wanna read it instead. you can, uh. you can take it. “
