𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨-𝙧.𝙖.𝙗

𝟭𝟲-𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗽𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝘀

IT IS QUIET IN THE HOSPITAL WING, where Jo sits, posture pin straight and bloodied hands knit together over her lap at the end of Dorcas's hospital bed, across from a cross-legged, cross-armed Marlene. Jo figures that soon enough, Snape will have run his mouth to whatever professor he could find, and McGonagall will be storming down to grab her by the ear and give her a scolding like no other. But for now, she sits, uncomfortable in every sense of the word, watching and waiting for life to return to Dorcas's face.

Her knuckles are raw, red, leaking blood that drips down the lengths of her fingers and dries before they reach the tips. It would be easy enough for her to clean it, heal, but there's something about the throbbing and the swelling and the bleeding that makes her feel grounded, distracts her from the way Dorcas sleeps still in front of her, from the way Marlene's gaze keeps shifting back to her. So Jo watches the blood, and she bites down on her tongue until she can taste it.

Regulus is waiting for her, just out the door, a little down the hall. Jo thinks about that more than she should be. She thinks of him, twiddling his thumbs and watching the door, waiting for her. She thinks of herself in his eyes, with bleeding knuckles and wild eyes and a wand pointed at McNair. At Dolohov. At Reed. She thinks of reversed knees and foul Blugers and broken noses and wonders, with a burning shame in her gut, what that must look like in Regulus's eyes.

Her eyes flash back to Dorcas, though, and it's gone in an instant, replaced by the flare that fueled her in the first place.

"She really regrets it, you know."

Jo's head shoots up at Marlene's voice. It's been a while since she's heard it, so low and loud and smooth and thick with confidence. She forgot what it was like and is so focused on it that Jo misses the words that they form. "What?" she questions.

Marlene blinks at her, face scrubbed clean of makeup; puffy and flushed red from crying and rubbing and crying and rubbing again. Her eyes are wide and blue, and they stare straight through Jo. "Dorcas," she clarifies, sniffles, swallows, clears her throat. Jo thinks she might cry again. Her voice gets thicker. "She really regrets having it out on you. Cries about it all the time."

She doesn't know what to do with that. She lets the words sit on her lap and she stares down at her hands again, nail picking off the dried scales of blood. "Oh."

"She was really scared that you would judge her for going out with me," Marlene continues, eyes trailing on the ground now, like she's speaking to herself, like she's trying not to cry. "Not because I'm me, but because I'm a girl. Got defensive, said a lot of stuff she didn't mean."

"I don't care that she's got a thing for girls," Jo says, voice rough, run raw from the yelling. "I'd march down the streets of London shouting my support to the rooftops if that's what she wanted."

"How's she meant to know that?" Marlene counters at once, tilting her jaw up at Jo.

Jo is quick to answer. "Because I'm her best mate," she insists, edge in her tone now, "and I've always supported her and I've always protected her."

And it's true. Jo knows it's true. From the moment they spoke, Jo has always looked out for Dorcas. Stuck her neck out for her. Stepped in front of curses for her. Spit venom at anyone who crossed her. And now she's split her knuckles on Snape's face for her.

Marlene adjusts, wiggling in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. "Jo, I like you," she starts, "but, as far as I'm aware, you fancy blokes, and you're a pureblood. A very rich one at that. You and Dorcas live very different lives and have had very different experiences. You can't blame her for being anxious, especially not when she found out before she was ready," Marlene tells her, words sure and confident and coming out easy but hitting Jo hard.