your local angst demon

As she grew older, the ribbon began to feel more like a reminder of her mother's expectations of her, her constant chastising that Marlene wasn't ladylike enough, that she ought to dress more femininely. Eventually she stopped wearing it entirely.

By sixth year Marlene had already chopped off her long blonde hair to a spiky chin-length, and everyone knew she wouldn't be caught dead in a skirt. So when she found the ribbon again, the weight it carried disappeared, replaced with memories of her wide-eyed, eleven-year-old self. She started to find creative ways to wear it again - as a headband, a choker, a makeshift belt for her muggle jeans. She would even plait it into Lily's hair for her, or let Mary use it to tie her endless curls up.

On her and Dorcas' second date, she had nervously presented the slightly frayed old thing to her girlfriend, along with a honeyduke's chocolate bar incase it all went balls-up and she hated it. "I don't have much use for it anymore," Marlene quickly explained (turned out ribbons did not make for great belts), "And you look good in anything." Dorcas had smiled that gorgeous, heart-stopping smile of hers and wrapped her great long arms around Marlene's torso. "Thank you." She'd whispered in Marlene's ear, making her knees go weak. "Wait, this isn't just a ploy to get me wearing Gryffindor colours, is it?" Maybe it was just nerves, but they'd both laughed for far too long at that.

After Marlene's death, Dorcas never took the ribbon off. It held her practical plait in place for two weeks, keeping her hair out of her face as she'd taken down more deatheaters than the entire order had in two years of war. The masks helped. No real faces to see humanity in, just bodies that dropped limply under her wand. She dreamed about seeing Marlene's grin, her warm brown eyes, her twin dimples reflected back at her in their faces.

And somewhere between the laughter, the jokes, and everyone assuming this was just another one of his bits, James Potter realized something rather alarming. He hadn’t been joking. He hadn’t thought before speaking. He’d looked at Lily Evans and said the first thing that came into his head. The problem was that he’d meant it. Entirely. Completely. Because somewhere along the way, James Potter had fallen utterly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

OR