everything is free now [darla]

“I’m just gonna make some tea.” Edith handed over the two pages to her friend with a nod before leaving the room, leaving Darla behind in her bedroom slash office to read her latest article. She had stayed up late -- she wasn’t sure what time, exactly, but the sun had come up and she heard Elias leave for work -- rewriting it, deciphering her scribbled edits, and she had reread it enough times to know that she wasn’t going to be able to watch Darla read it.

She didn’t know if she’d call it an epiphany, really, though she supposed that’s what it was. Edith knew she’d have to write about herself at some point -- her editor hadn’t minced words when she had told her as much -- but she thought she’d have more time, that people would be bored of her before it happened; nobody wanted to read about her; she had one of the least interesting stories out there. But he -- @Dennis Creevey of all people -- had told her it was ‘necessary’. He had been talking about the column specifically, but she could remember the way he asked ‘are you gonna write about yourself too?’ It had been right after he had called the pair of them an ‘us’, somewhere before she felt compelled to tell him things she had hardly admitted to herself.

It was Monday now, so it had only been -- Edith paused to do the mental math -- three-ish days since she had talked to him, but it was plenty of time to go over every detail she remembered. She had a lot of time on her hands when she didn’t sleep, after all. Bits and pieces came back to her at a time, never in the right order, and never with any specifics of how they arrived to that topic in the first place. Everything was just so easy, the understanding of it all, not having to explain anything. He regretted it all now, she was sure, so she had written down everything she could, figuring there would never be a repeat. She hoped that some of the more convincing things, like ‘it’s important’ and ‘it’s not your fault’ and ‘it’s nice not to feel so alone all the time’ were things that had actually been said, and not just things she wished for. Either way, she had the overwhelming feeling that if she didn’t write about herself now, after all of that, she never would.

But then she remembered what her editor had told her from the beginning: It’s all in the name. Her name, not Martha-Ann, but Edith. Anonymous stories were all well and good, but there would be so much more she could do with her name on the byline. So she had handed Darla a write up with By Edith Holthouse right at the top. That was the most worrying part, she thought, but as she considered it again, it was all pretty worrying. Her column was pretty blatantly anti-Ministry, but her boyfriend still worked there. The pen name wasn’t just protecting her or something stupid like her safety, it was for Elias too. He had already given up so much for her, she wasn’t about to risk his career on top of it. That, she supposed, is why she was showing the column to Darla first. She’d let him read it, of course, but she knew Darla would have an unaffected-by-Edith’s-overwhelming-charm opinion about it.

Edith leaned back against the kitchen counter, forgetting why she had gone in the first place. Tea, she remembered after a couple minutes of staring unfocused at the kettle. She was too comfortable (or tired or lazy or all three) to do anything manually; she flicked her wand and set it to boil and set out two mugs with another bend of her wrist. She had just finished pouring the water and leaving the tea to steep, all from her perch against the counter, when she saw Darla in the doorway. “So?” Edith wasted no time in asking what she thought, if it was incredibly stupid like she thought it was, or if it was the right decision that needed to be done, like she knew it was.

@Darla Boyd

Receiving an owl from Edith asking her to drop by and read her column was nothing unusual. It was quite normal by now to just drop by before or after work, so she could read Edith’s articles before her friend would turn them in, or before they got officially published. This time around, it was after her night shift, and Edith had been lucky enough that Darla completely overdosed on green and black tea, that she actually reached that level of tiredness which made her be hyperactive.

She took a seat on one of the chairs in the bedroom, arranging her lime green robes in the process. Darla’d let her hair loose after work, which she now regretted, for her curls were all over the place. She attempted to flip them over the shoulder as Edith handed her the article, but failed. The healer made a mental note as to prepare some hair straightening potion according to her brother’s receipt, so she would not have this problem anymore. “Alright…” Darla thoughtlessly replied to her friend, as Edith said she would go prepare some tea.

Crossing her legs as she leaned against the back of the chair, the healer glanced at the amount of pages. Two. It was a bit long, but not long enough to not keep one entertained. It was a good move on Edith’s side. She then turned back to the front page, and placing them on her lap, Darla started to read. The Ministry’s Department of Miseries A bitter smile surfaced at the name, the former Gryffindor always enjoying the word play. But following that, it was not Martha Ann Jones. It was her own name. By Edith Holthouse.

Darla got up from her chair instantly, papers falling on the ground in the process. She glanced towards the door way, now blaming herself for thoughtlessly thinking Edith was just preparing tea. She didn’t want to be there while Darla read it. And Darla wasn’t sure she wanted to read it. She knew she had to, she knew she was going to, but Darla wasn’t completely positive she was prepared for what would follow. She knew the articles, she knew how Sierra’d felt when opening up to Edith and the world at her own suggestion, at Ranulph’s assertions. But Sierra and Ranulph were ready. Edith was ready. Darla was not.

She felt tears in the corners of her eyes, and reprimanded herself for it. This wasn’t about her being ready or not. It was about Edith being ready. And if Edith was ready, then the one thing she didn’t need was Darla’s tears. She looked down, at the two pages which covered the ground near her feet. Darla inhaled deeply, and biting her lower lip, picked up the front page. The beginning hurt her already. Edith’s sharp sarcasm could not only vividly open wounds, but create them as well. She’d stated in the first paragraph the one thing Darla’d always reprimanded her for: not thinking things through. She’d thought this through.

Darla started pacing in the room, eyes lowering as they continued reading. She’d used the term ‘dream job’. The two words Darla’d thrown at her after recklessly quitting being an obliviator with no plans. The reading went relatively smoothly until Darla’d reached the beginning of the war, Edith’s four options. Her heart hurt a bit knowing which one her friend had chosen, knowing that if she hadn’t chosen that then Darla, her family, the Order could and would have helped her as much as possible. But Edith had taken life into her own hands, and Darla couldn’t even blame her for it. It had been war, it had been cruel, and it had been without hope.

Run. Darla tapped her index finger across the word several times, aimlessly. It was after a few moments of her mind going blank that she realised what her gesture had meant. She’d wanted to hug that Edith, the one who thought that there was nothing left for her in the world that she had to run and keep herself safe at the cost of everything else. She’d wanted to hug that Edith, run her hand through her messy hair, pat her back, and tell her everything was going to be alright. Darla realised that not only that was an Edith she hadn’t met, but it was a version of her friend she would know only though this article.

She straightened the paper, and continued reading. …and it wasn’t until I left the UK that I found someone familiar. Darla stopped at that phrase, and repeated it in her mind several times. Of course, the name wouldn’t be disclosed in the article. Of course, Edith wouldn’t say. The healer doubted if her friend would tell her if she asked. This was all about a version of her friend that she’d never met, a stranger. A sister, in pain, desperate, but a stranger nonetheless. She inhaled deeply again, and Darla picked up the second piece of paper from the ground, placing it on top of the first one.

Her hands began shaking, and reading the paper like that wasn’t an option anymore. She’d thought of going back to the desk, sit down once more, but that wasn’t an option as well. Darla couldn’t sit still. Blinking twice, the witch lowered her gaze yet again, and forced herself to continue reading in the same manner. Walking, slowly, pacing around the room which despite always seeming so big felt now completely asphyxiated and constricted. 

Reluctantly, she leaned against the wall and just anxiously tapped her hell against the floor as her lecture went on. ‘Fate worse than death’, Azkaban. Darla swallowed. If she knew the name of this person, she could definitely get the Order track them down and present Edith with a full report about them. But Darla knew what Edith had meant. Sierra’d had that fate, which was indeed worse than death. Her sister-in-law survived it only because she’d had Ranulph by her side. What happened to those who didn’t have someone supporting them, Darla couldn’t even begin to imagine. It tore her heart knowing Edith had suffered through such thoughts, such fears, and such horrors, all alone.

She froze, and the paper crumpled into her hands. Edith had been at Hogwarts for the battle. She’d been there, and Darla had missed her. Her eyes widened with horror, as her breaths got more and more intense. She’d been stupid enough to miss out on Edith years ago. Maybe she’d also been a young stupid kid, a dumb coward horrified of people constantly having her confirm deaths and care for injuries worse than she’d ever imagined before. An idiot of a friend who’d missed out on her sister.

Darla bit her lower lip, trying as much as she could to stop her tears. While she was succeeding, it didn’t feel like an accomplishment. “Change.” The former Gryffindor said, reaching the paper’s end. Edith wanted change with this column, the change Darla’s had on her mind when Edith had quit her job. It had never been about time, or lack of, it had always been that Edith wanted to be part of the change and not continue with an activity that had been in the works since 1692. Edith wanted change, not necessarily stability. She understood that now.

The witch turned her gaze towards the bedroom’s door, right to her left. She wanted to go out, but what she could do? How should she react? Darla finally understanding Edith didn’t mean anything, not now, days, months, years later. “Change.” The healer repeated once more, gaze lowering towards the crumpled papers, and instantly stopped tapping her foot against the floor. If Edith was change, then she had to be not the one to accompany her, for Darla did not understand; as much as she wanted, as much as she tried, Darla never could. This former Gryffindor couldn’t be change along with her friend. But she could be what she’d always tried to be – stability. A pillar of stability in Edith’s life, something she – everyone – needed in a changing world. If she would have her, Darla would become such of a person for Edith.

This time, Darla exhaled deeply, her voice echoing in the empty room. Suddenly, it felt far too big once more. She rolled the two pieces of paper and stepped out of the bedroom, slowly but firmly making her way towards the kitchen. Her eyes fell on Edith, and Darla stopped in the doorway. She was using magic to finish making the tea, and Darla recalled her friend’s own words. Magic is funny like that…

It didn’t take long for Edith to notice her presence there, and even less to inquire her opinion. Darla blinked twice, and gave her friend a slow nod in approval. She lowered her gaze for a moment, thinking it was not the time for her to get emotional; she bit the inside of her right cheek, and faked her hesitation with a hairflip, as to get it all out from her face, and kept proper and direct eye contact with her friend. Darla stepped towards the kitchen counter, and unrolled the papers, placing them as neatly as she could on it. They were crumpled, perhaps the ink had been even messy in a few places, for Darla was sure that cold sweat had gotten through her several times as she read the piece, even if unconsciously and completely unnoticeable to her.

The papers were a perfect reflection of how Darla’d felt when reading the article. She placed a hand on top of the papers, and then gently pushed them in her friend’s direction, eyes glancing in Edith’s at all times. She didn’t move her hand, not even when the papers were in front of Edith. Darla did not smile, nor did she show any sign of emotion. “I am so proud of you, Edith Marcade Holthouse.” The words have been slow, clear and unyielding.

It was the first time in her life that Darla gave such an honest statement. Perhaps the truest words she’d have ever spoken. She took a soft, short deep breath, eyelashes fluttering in the process, as her features softened, and a small, warm smile appeared on her face. There wasn’t any need to add anything else; it was all there.

Edith was part of the change. Edith was the change.

She swallowed hard; Darla’s nod was slow and deliberate and spoke a thousand words. Edith didn’t move besides blinking a couple times. She needed to hear it, that this was the right thing, that it wasn’t all rubbish, that she wasn’t being impulsive, that she could see all the thought behind it, that it hadn’t been easy. Edith wasn’t going to win any awards for being able to get her point across through speech, often preferring to yell to make any sort of lasting impression. The articles took more effort, took more out of her. This one would leave her hurting for a while, she could already tell.

Darla came towards her and Edith finally took her eyes off her to look at the papers in her hand -- no, the wrinkled papers. She folded in on herself a little then, nodding once without looking up. Crumpling up something you had read usually wasn’t a good sign. She wondered if Darla even finished it; she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She was already reading her words back to herself -- she had memorized them by now -- and trying to figure out where she had gone wrong, but Darla spoke before she was able to figure anything out. Edith flicked her gaze up to take in her friend’s expression, wanting to make sure there was nothing there that would counter the words she thought she heard.

I am so proud of you, Edith Marcade Holthouse. Edith’s shoulders relaxed as she let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She wanted to ask Darla if she was kidding, if she was sure she had read the article that she had been handed, if -- there were too many thoughts going through her mind. Darla had probably been the most honest one when she quit her job and she really hoped that she was continuing that honesty streak now. She wasn’t sure when she started caring about other peoples’ opinions after so long  just doing what was right for her, but she didn’t have time to think about that now.

Edith reached out her hand and rested it on top of Darla’s -- unprovoked, sober physical contact -- but she couldn’t smile. She wanted to, of course, but it was one of those moments where she knew she should be happy, should be proud of what she had finally managed to do (after some backhanded encouragement) but it was also like those celebrations right after the battle. The war was over, the war was won, Edith could go home; none of that seemed worth it in the moment, once all the loss was factored into it. The losses had been at the forefront of her mind while she was writing and rewriting, that little nagging voice that told her that even if she wrote the article, it wouldn’t bring anyone back. It wouldn’t give anyone that year of their life back. It might not even make a difference now. That voice sounded a lot like her own, funnily enough.

There was bound to be loss with this article, she figured.

She wanted to remember this moment, actually making Darla proud. She knew she had never heard those words from her before, supposed she wouldn’t be hearing them again any time soon. “This,” she started slowly, moving her hand just a bit so she could tap her finger on the papers, “Is my only copy.” She managed a smile then, a small one but still noticeable. “Did you really have to get it all smushed up?” She laughed and leaned back again against the counter, bringing her hands up under her glasses to rub her eyes with the ends of her fingers, already thinking ahead to the next things she needed to work out.

“I--” She started, straightening her glasses before crossing her hands across her chest. “Do you--” Edith looked away but quickly looked back at the other woman, as if seeing her would be able to prompt her question. “My name needs to be on it, doesn’t it?” she finally asked, almost dejectedly.

Darla felt Edith’s gaze analysing her, her features, everything regarding her outer demeanour. She had wondered for a few moments whether or not she should soften anything about her expression, and allow her friend to realise perhaps more easily how impressed, proud, and touched to her very core she had been by her article, by Edith pouring her soul and heart out on paper, a side of her friend’s whom she only say through the ink. But Darla decided against it. If anything, Edith should understand how honest and serious Darla was being right now.

She’d taken note of the slight loss of tension in her friend’s shoulders, and blinked once, but still maintained eye contact. It felt somehow like a nice change – Edith caring. Ever since she had started writing for the Daily Prophet, the mere fact that her friend asked her to read everything she wrote before it was published, Darla had understood that Edith was taking everything seriously. Perhaps the period of time spent unemployed had done her well. Perhaps Darla’s own brutal honesty had done well. But perhaps it was Edith finally taking a step forward and finding her own place in the world, in a system that required change, in an altering society that required her.

Darla was undeniably proud. Her words had been unyielding but her sentiments were much more profound than that. She knew Edith would perhaps never know them, or how much Darla herself reprimanded her own person for losing contact. One day. Perhaps; or never. The dilemma was definitely there, if Darla was ever going to be as brave as her friend was now. But she doubted it. Or perhaps she should change as well. The Scottish tried to empty her mind, for, right now, Darla could only see Edith. She couldn’t really think of anything or anyone else than Edith.

The sensation of Edith’s hand over hers had sent shivers down her spine – but not in a bad way. Darla had mostly been taken aback, for she had not seen the gesture, her eyes fixed on her friend’s. She remained so. Darla’s gaze did not move, nor did her hand, nor did she shift in her place. Her back remained straight, her posture firm, and her seriousness obvious. Edith understood that she meant it, and for once her honesty hadn’t been taken with apprehension. But Darla also understood that while her sincerity was now valued by Edith, this was not to be a happy moment. And it wasn’t.

Edith’s life would completely change after the publishing of this article. She knew. The smile she sketched was not out of joy, or happiness that her friend seemed to be open to moving on properly. No. Darla’s smile was out of pride, out of satisfaction that, right now, Edith seemed to be embracing properly her new self, the person she’d become after the war. It took Darla a lot, but she was genuinely honoured and delighted to be this specific Edith’s friend. More than that, she was glad to be this Edith’s sister.

Darla blinked as the writer broke the silence, and then lowered her gaze as she felt Edith’s hand moving. “Ah.” Was all the former Gryffindor could let out, her voice even cracking in the process, as she quickly retrieved her hand. She felt bad for compromising the only copy Edith had, but, on the other hand, it was also her friend’s fault for having only one copy. She knew how emotional Darla could get; the type that should never be let around original copies unless they were strictly work related and were of no direct sentimental value. Nonetheless, Edith smiled, and even laughed, causing Darla’s own features to soften. She mirrored Edith’s own smile.

“Well, can I really be blamed for the fact that you made only one copy? Tsk, tsk.” She let out a giggle, finally feeling the tension from her own shoulders disappearing. Darla took a deep breath as she ran a hand through her hair, and felt genuinely exhausted. While she’d felt hyperactive and overdosed on green tea when she’d arrived, Darla was emotionally worn out right now, which brought her much more fatigue than physical drain.

Her friend hesitated in asking questions, inquiries which Darla already knew. She settled with Edith’s last one, deciding not to mention the others; it was for the best, not forcing Edith to say anything, but simply allow her to offer as much information as she wanted. Nonetheless, Darla would answer even the unspoken questions. “It’s great.” She commented, simply. “Just as it is.” Darla offered her friend a single nod, her serious demeanour resurfacing once more. “You don’t need to edit a single thing about it.”

Darla bit her lower lip, a bit hesitant, for Edith’s dejection was especially obvious. But right now, her friend didn’t need her to be kind. The writer needed her to be honest. “Your name…” She couldn’t speak, for words were unnecessary. Darla merely nodded twice in approval.

“I… will be here. No matter what happens.”

Edith ignored the teasing reprimand for making only one copy. Her mood had already shifted back to the serious, as much as she hated dwelling there for too long. It had been days, at this point, that her laugh a few seconds ago might have been her first one since Dennis. Ugh. This could not be a good idea. If she published this week, that meant that she had almost no time to prepare for any fallout from the article; what was she thinking? Edith shook her head and glanced up at the ceiling. Fuck.

But it was as if Darla could sense her hesitation, knew her unspoken questions, and she had never been more grateful for the opportunity to remain silent. It’s great. Edith nodded, positive that thanking her now was unnecessary. She nodded again as Darla continued, silently agreeing. Edith hadn’t wanted to edit anything out -- her editor had promised her more lines for this sort of thing -- but now her only question was if she really should publish it at all.

The name, the story, the consequences. No, she ignored the word ‘consequences’ for now, not wanting to think ahead to the next time she waited around restlessly, waiting for Elias to read the column. She didn’t think she would publish it if he didn’t think it was a good idea, but his unwavering support throughout the whole thing told her that scenario was unlikely, no matter how much that small part of her was hoping for a reason to not have to be honest with the whole of The Prophet’s readership.

Darla nodded again, this time about Edith’s name, confirming what she already knew. The article wouldn’t mean anything without it; she knew that, as much as she hoped it wasn’t true. She looked back at her friend as she spoke, honestly surprised by the words. She had stopped counting on Darla to ‘be there’, for reasons that Darla was now well aware of, but she wasn’t about to bring that up now. Edith didn’t want to be mad at Darla, didn’t want to lose the only -- second? -- person who agreed with her about this so far.

She reached up, fingers interlaced as she straightened up and stretched her arms high over her head. She hadn’t had a proper sleep the past few days, nothing more than an hour or two at a time, and she could feel it everywhere. Her shoulders were especially sore after all the time she had spent at her desk; she supposed she’d have time to feel better later. “Thanks,” she finally said, crossing her arms across her chest again as she leaned back against the counter once more.

“I’m not like, scared, or anything,” she reassured her (and herself, a little bit). “It’s not like I have a reputation to maintain or think that anyone is going to want to murder me--” again “--but I dunno. Just seems like I should be worried, y’know?” She was probably giving herself far more credit than she was due, assuming anyone who wasn’t involved with her column read it anyway. “I’ve only told this stuff to one person,” she hoped that Darla would assume she meant Elias. “I dunno if I want everyone knowing things about me.” Sleep deprivation made her somewhat honest, apparently. Huh.

She sensed Edith’s slight scepticism, nonetheless, Darla decided not to comment. Not now. It was a delicate time for her friend, and she didn’t need to make it all about herself. However, it was true; Darla would be there for Edith should she need any help with what would follow after the publication of her article. Times were changing still, despite the fact that there was no more opposition to the inclusive government. She supposed Edith’s column was, in a way, this opposition, an act of rebellion against the government which promised and never yet did what it should have.

Perhaps this was what was needed for everything to regain a proper balance after the war. Edith being a change and shifting the balance in the favour of things being done, rather than promises being made. However, Darla kept to herself. She was certain her friend had thought everything through already, and now she just had to be there for Edith, to reassure her that this was the best decision she could have taken. And it was. Darla was genuinely proud.

Darla nodded once at Edith’s remark, realising that it was more of a reassurance to Edith’s own person than to the healer herself. “It’s normal to feel anxious.” Darla replied calmly, taking a deep breath of her own. Edith mentioning she’d only talked about this with someone else hadn’t been hurtful, but the fact that she hadn’t told Darla first about it all was. She’d thought they were closer than anyone, the two of them, sisters, forever. Nonetheless, she realised she was being hypocritical; Darla herself had plenty of things she was keeping from Edith, and perhaps not share anytime soon. Still, as two-faced as she felt, Darla couldn’t but be slightly jealous of Elias and how he’d replaced her as Edith’s best friend.

“And maybe try to think of it this way.” Darla paused for a moment, trying to carefully choose her words. “It’s not about everyone knowing your story, it’s about the right people knowing.” She blinked twice, and slowly approached Edith, leaning against the counter next to her friend. “Think about all those who will read this and will finally be able to maybe realise they’re not alone. It’s not easy to share, but it’s not easy to cope with it either. And many are perhaps using your column to do that exactly.” The former Gryffindor paused, hesitating for a moment.

“Putting a real name, a face, on one’s story makes it so much more important.” It was a sad truth, but a truth nonetheless. She was sure things would change for the better with Edith’s decision.

Feeling a bit odd with the level of honesty the conversation had reached, Darla found her gaze trailing; around the room, then back at Edith, and then she couldn’t but notice a scar on her friend’s hand. “What’s that?” Darla asked, letting the healer inside her suddenly take over. She did not let herself act and touch Edith, however, she did shift in her place, and titled her head to the side, to glance better at the scar on her friend’s arm. Was it new? Darla tried to recall the last time she’d seen Edith not wearing long sleeves and… she couldn’t remember it.

“I’m not anxious.” It wasn’t the word that had set her off, but the tone of voice that Darla had used, like she was one of her patients. That -- the sympathy, the pity, the ‘there, there, it’ll all work out’ -- was not what she needed to hear. Edith pushed her glasses back to perch on top of her head, giving herself some space to properly rub at her eyes with the heels of her hands. Of course she was anxious; how could she not be? She was trying to make a point with it all, and she still wasn’t totally convinced that this was the way to do it. She didn’t think she had political intentions, but it was going to come across like she did anyway. She needed a ‘next step’, something more than ‘take a nap’, which was all she could think about. There wasn’t a grand plan, but she could feel people's’ expectations being built up already.

She tipped her glasses back down to her face, straightening them up as Darla settled into the counter next to her. She didn’t agree with most of what Darla was saying, especially It’s not about everyone knowing, because it was, wasn’t it? Yes, people were going to read it and there would be a small selection of people who might appreciate it, but even to people with similar experiences -- was she trivializing everything? She hadn’t had it near as bad as so many others, hadn’t really lost someone. Even Darla had said she was playing the victim a few months ago. Edith didn’t know if she could really trust her change of heart; her writing wasn’t that powerful.

“Okay,” she said instead, resigning herself to agree. She knew her name needed to stay, but that didn’t change the rest of her feelings about it. She didn’t know what she was going to accomplish with it, if anything at all. Words like necessary and useful had been thrown around about it the other night, but the farther away she moved from that whole conversation, the more weight she felt she was putting on it. She thought she had written the article for a reason other than hoping @Dennis Creevey would read it, but now she wasn’t so sure. It was hard to wrap her head around.

It was easier to not say anything else. She had said everything she needed to in the column, anyway. Anything that wasn’t in that column would probably not be said to Darla at all. Things had clearly shifted for them in the several months since they had been in contact again, but not even necessarily in a  bad way. In a realistic way, maybe. Different experiences, different world views, but Edith had done her best to make her aware of some of the necessary details, the things about Edith that made her her.

“Hmm?” Edith had reached up to scratch her head and she followed Darla’s gaze to the thin scar running the length of her forearm. “Car accident,” she said quickly, instinctively. It was an explanation easier than the real one, though from time to time she had still needed to explain the mechanics of a car accident to the more curious magical folk. But to explain why she had been averse to having an injury magically healed? It had never seemed worth it.

That is, until she recalled the pages of writing just inches from her.

Edith held her arm out, mentally preparing herself for the words that were sure to follow, that Darla was so good at her job that she could take care of the scarring then and there. She had been opposed to having it treated by wizards at the time, but now she was certain she wouldn’t get rid of it if she could. It wasn’t that she wanted to constantly be reminded of things -- and this was such a small reminder, compared to what others had to live with -- but she was slowly starting to not completely mind the reminder.

“It’s from the surgery I had to fix my broken arm.” She wiggled her thumb as she stared down at her palm, letting Darla know which bone she had broken: the one on the thumb side. “It needed seven screws.” She clenched her hand into a fist before relaxing her fingers again and glancing up at Darla. She had left out details of the Battle from her column on purpose, and she was still on board with her previous decision to not tell her anything she hadn’t already. Darla didn’t need to know that she had dodged a curse but fell down some stairs anyway, waking up a broken arm and people with real problems. That wasn’t necessary info to make her next point any more clear, she thought. “Honestly, it was preferable to apparate to Liverpool and go to A&E than to have another wand pointed at me.”