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'grief can taste of sugar if you run your tongue along the right edge'
[Hieu Minh Nguyen, from Not Here]
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The Diggory household was a little wooden home that resided in the extensive fields and hills on the outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole. It was neither too big nor too small, and although there were no blank walls or empty spaces, the home was not cramped, but warm and inviting.
There was usually a scent of baked goods lingering in the air that would mix with the faint flowery scent from their garden, and never would a room be empty of antique (but loved) furnishings and lace tablecloths. Mrs Diggory had a love for vintage aesthetics, so it was not out of the ordinary to find delicate curtains with old rose patterns, or warm-toned floral wallpaper common in the early 1900s. Scattered around their varying coffee tables and shelves were old, thick books of Amos Diggory's about magical beasts, beings and spirits.
They held vividly detailed illustrations that Ivy and Cedric would spend hours looking at in their younger years; fond memories that sparked her love for the Care of Magical Creatures subject at school, and her fascination for the magical wonders of their world in general. Every year, she would eagerly go through her books for the year ahead as soon as her mother returned from Diagon Alley; something her brother would tease her about the way all siblings do, though would fuel her addiction by finding rare, second-hand books about creatures she'd never heard of to surprise her. These days, however, her new textbooks for the budding school year lay unopened upon her desk.
On the sill of Ivy's open window, which looked out to the overgrown lavender of their garden, (currently occupied by bees and butterflies alike), and allowed a warm breeze to float in, was a handful of succulent plants in pots of different proportions and material; happily basking in the morning sunlight. In the corner of her room was an acoustic guitar resting against the wall; a Christmas gift from Cedric, where he promised to teach her how to play after the tournament was over—but its steel strings remained untouched, and a light layer of dust covered its once gleaming wood.
Hogwarts trunk lying discarded at the foot of her bed, with pieces of green and silver uniform hanging out of its agape edges, Ivy, despite the summer holidays nearing an end, had yet to go through the belongings that had remained stuffed in the bottom since the end of fourth year. Amongst these items—schoolbooks, empty perfume bottles, old quills—was a framed photograph of her family just last Christmas. Wrapping paper was all over the floor and her brother had his arm slung around her shoulders, beckoning her to smile for the camera. She couldn't seem to find the will, nor the energy, to put these items back around her room, to feel the familiar tug in her heart at the sight of his vivid smile, even if this task could easily be done in mere minutes.
Laying on the beige carpet was Ivy Diggory in a simple tank top and shorts, paler than usual in such sunny months, staring at the ceiling with her hands atop her stomach. Though she would love to overwork herself the way her father did to distract himself from this unforgiving reality imposed on their family, Cedric's dead and gone eyes played in the back of her mind like a moving photograph constantly on repeat. So, Ivy stared at the ceiling the way she did when she was little and daydreaming; eyeing the way the painted colour of the roof was a slightly different shade than her walls whenever the heavyweight of her brother's absence got her attention.
