30.06.77
Lily,

My holiday's been alright, I suppose—can't complain, at least. As for James's parents—Effie is the most hospitable woman I've ever met. She's baked us more treats than Peter can consume, and that's saying something. And James's dad is spritely, at least, if a bit... eh, old. They're nice enough folks. Sirius says he's never felt more welcome (and to tell you hi). O'Brien also mentioned you in his last letter—wants your address so he can write you himself. Ask me, I think he quite fancies you...

Haven't heard about Gwen, though. You said she hasn't written you, either? Wouldn't be surprised if it was just me, or Peter, that she hasn't spoken to, but James hasn't heard from her since school let out, and he's trying not to let it show but I know he's thinking hard about it. Oh well, I suppose she's just busy revising for NEWTs already...

And yes, thank you for asking—the summer reading isn't too difficult. Sure you could catch up once you get back from the wharf. I've been tutoring Padfoot over it, so I could always help you out, some. Just say the word. I'm glad some people still actually care about their marks.

Anyway, thank you for writing. With nothing from Gwen, James's owl's been bored recently—started pecking at Wormtail (Sirius thinks it can sense he's a rat). I'll tell the others you say hi, and you give your mum my wishes.

I'll let you know if any of us hear from Gwen.

Cheers,
RL

04.07.77
To whom it may concern,

I know you're all holed up at the Potter's, so this letter can be addressed to anyone who picks it up first.

I was only wondering if any of you lot have heard from Gwen since school. She showed at my graduation celebration last day of classes, but only for an hour, and she never replied to my thank-you note for the treacle tarts. This is quite out of character, don't you think?

Also — heard Sirius got his grimy hands on a Starsweeper XXI. Let him know I'm jealous, but also make sure he's aware I could still kick his arse no matter what broom he's got. I'll have to come back to Hogwarts for a weekend this year and give him a run for his money.

Hope everyone's having a decent holiday. Try not to let Hogwarts burn in my absence xx

Jacqueline Jones

13.07.77
O'Brien,

Heard you and Lily went on a date other day—good on you mate! (Though obligated to tell you not to break her heart or I'll have to hurt you.)

I'm sure you're getting sick of these letters but was wondering if you've heard anything from Gwen since I last wrote, it's been a while, we're growing worried.

Remus and I tried Graham house Tuesday lights were all off nobody answered door post piled up on porch neighbors didn't know anything, Remus tried the nearest Muggle phone booth. (We forgot, don't know her digits.)

Starting to get worried Walker—know she's strong of course, but it's been almost a month since last saw her. Again yeah sure you're sick of these but I just really want to know if she's alright. Let us know the second you hear.

Regards
James F Potter.

14.07.77
J

I'm sorry darling, haven't gotten all of your letters. St Mungo's owls can only bring so much at a time. I'm okay, just need to be with Mum and Dad for a while.

He sends regards, by the way.

Love you. Gwen

20.07.77
Lily,

Have you seen? Attack in Surrey. Check the list of names

Pete

21.07.77
James,

I've given up on writing her, I think. Not sure what else I can say. I've told her how sorry I am at least fifty times. And I am, really, dreadfully sorry—it's horrible. She's got no one with her, you know, and I'm two day's train ride away from her. Have you lot gone and spoken to her yet? I'd assume not. Let me know when—or if—you do, and I'll send my regards. Please, also let me know if there's anything you lot think I can do. So sorry about all of this, wish it hadn't ended up so awfully. Poor girl.

     Give the rest of the boys my hello.

xx Lily

There were sixteen letters scattered all across the desk Gwen kept her post on: Nine of them from James. One from Lily, one from Remus. Even one from Sirius, though it wasn't sealed in an envelope and only looked about three sentences long. Two sleeves sealed with the Ministry of Magic logo. One signed from Hogwarts—her booklist for the year, all the items she'd need from Diagon Alley when she returned in late August. And an official-looking envelope stamped from Saint Mungo's—medical bills, she presumed, lips drawn shut at the sight.

     Not a single one drew her attention enough for her to pick it up, slide her finger beneath the cover and unleash what was inside. She knew what awaited her inside each envelope. The messy scribble of James's script—which she'd always described as though a Bowtruckle had taken a swim in an inkwell and flopped atop a parchment in mismatch manners—beckoned to her, begged her to read what he had to say, to take a glimpse at the words he'd put on the page that she knew would immediately wrap her up in a warm embrace of familiarity.

     But she did not open the letter, and she did not read what James had written, she did not even pick any of the post up. It stayed put, on her desk, untouched, unopened, unreal if she did not allow it to be.

     And she did not allow it to be.

     It was dark, well past midnight, at that point. She'd left St. Mungo's hours before, around suppertime, but had found herself wandering, weaving in and out of the Muggle shops around town and thinking that none of the people she passed on the street knew. None of the store vendors or fellow customers nor any of the passersby down the road knew why this slim girl's eyes were twinged a pained red, or why the rough-around-the-edges young woman couldn't quite finish her sentence when the till worker asked if she was planning on making a purchase, or why the odd, robe-clad girl couldn't bring herself to look at the young dads and their younger daughters giggling 'round each other.

     A memory, one that hit her much like a punch to the gut: A young Gwendolyn Graham and her parents. They are at a Muggle restaurant. Gwen is little, pink-cheeked and wide-eyed and impartial to any rules against climbing all upon the vinyl booth she has to herself. At the moment, she is five, and she does not care that half the Muggles in the place are all glaring her way.

Haz tells her she looks just like a Bowtruckle, the way she is climbing so nimbly about, and he joins Gwen in giggling after Blythe asks what a "Bowtrinkle" is. Blythe laughs, too, after a moment, because even though she still doesn't know exactly what her husband is referring to, she knows it must be something foolish, because he made their child laugh, and the only thing Blythe loves more than her daughter is hearing her laugh.

In a blink, Gwen is no longer a child. Her father—dead. Her mother—hospitalized. Gwen—unarguably, decades older than she need be.

The house, while on one hand much too large for Gwen alone, still managed to compress down on her in a claustrophobic pressure, the breath tightening in her lungs as she tried to draw a heavy sigh in. She was alone in a place where she undoubtedly needed someone the most.

She wished, selfishly, suddenly, for her grandmother. Hats, as young Gwen always called her, always knew just what to say in order to right everything. She was wise, too; beheld all the secrets of the world in that tiny little frame of hers. Gwen's parents had always laughed at how smart she was, how much she read up on the Wizarding world, even though she wasn't born into it.

And now, she was all Gwen had left.

     Of course, Gwen had dealt with death—her father's dad, her mother's eldest sister, the lonely old man from up the road who'd always leant Gwen sugar when she needed it for the Muggle recipes her mother was teaching her. Gwen knew death well, though never had she been forced to welcome it like such an old friend, and never without a shoulder to lean on.

Although—and it came back to her as quite a shock—she did have a shoulder to lean on. James's. Lily, Remus, Jackie, Walker, Peter, perhaps even Sirius. Gwen had plenty of shoulders to lean on, she remembered, but the issue then became that they were all at least a day's train ride away. Same as her grandmother, and now same as her mother, who was holed up in a seedy hospital bed, not even understanding that the once love of her life was forever gone.

And so, on the first night of the rest of her life without either of her beloved parents, Gwen was alone.

     She wandered around her old house some much like a ghost—traipsing around, bare feet padding aimlessly around the house she already knew so well. Taking onto her tiptoes to peek high onto her father's liquor shelf, gather in and take mental notes as to what inhabited it. She checked her mother's vinyl stash, and in it, found a few familiar-looking covers, at least, and those she took from their sleeves and tentatively placed onto the needle.

     Hunky Dory, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, both by a name Gwen could imagine Sirius shouting at a Gryffindor party. A Song For You, by a band called Carpenters—daft name. All The Young Dudes—cover regarding three slim men who reminded Gwen a lot of the gangly teens she knew as the Marauders. None of these titles sparked any sort of recognition in Gwen's mind, but she knew she'd spotted a few of their album covers on the floor of the Gryffindor dormitory before.

     Bowie was her absolute favorite, she decided a good while later, pumped up on her father's good Firewhiskey. She was once again staring down at the pile of letters strewn across her desk, and, as Bowie had described her a few songs ago, feeling very much like the devil's daughter. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol coursing through her system that was causing such the sense of judgement over herself, or if she was truly in the wrong for ghosting all of her friends—not to mention, the literal Ministry of Magic.

She picked up the one on top. The only one from Sirius Black. What kind of odds?

20.07.77
Gwen

heard about your dad today. i know you hate me and vice versa but i wanted to extend apologies. he was a great man

enclosed is a box of toffee from hogsmeade i know you like this brand and i wanted to extend an olive branch since we are both sort of in the same boat now

you don't have to reply or anything

best
sirius

Gwen's brow furrowed. She read over the letter again, having somehow missed a few letters and details due to however much alcohol she'd ingested. Still, she couldn't think that she was imagining such a letter in her drunken state; Sirius had really written her. And not to call her a slag, either.

She glanced down to a small box she hadn't before noticed, sitting beneath the letters and whatnot. It was her favorite type of toffee, after all. How Sirius knew, Gwen had no idea, and she was definitely sure it wasn't for her to find out. She appreciated it, anyway. And a part of her hatred towards Sirius melted away, as though the toffees had acted as a sort of olive branch between them.

     She knew, honestly, that it had been James who had told Sirius what kind of sweets she liked most. That James had told Remus to send over the photos from the Muggle camera Lily had pulled out at a party before (one of Lily and Gwen, arms around each other's neck, and the other of Remus and James with Gwen smushed between them in the middle).

    James knew what it was Gwen needed. By the book. He knew her better than she knew herself, and that was clear. Again, Gwen was overcome with the sense of need for James Potter, the maddening realization of where she would be without him. The exasperating fact that he still hasn't learned how to love someone without swallowing them whole. James, who gives out bits of himself like a vendor on a street to anyone who passes. He would kill for the people he loved, or die for them—and Gwen, for the first time, had a shudder, the thought of ever losing him trailing up her back like a paranoia in goosebumps and bringing a tremble to her breath.

She needed James, more than she had ever needed him before, and it killed her to not be with him.

So the next morning, once she was sober enough to hold a quill, she did the next best thing.

22.07.77
To all at the Potter household

Thank you for everything. It hasn't gone unnoticed, and I apologize for my lack of responses. Already looking forward to seeing you lot again next term.

From Gwen

P.S. — James: I love you, darling. Longing for your touch more and more every single day. See you.

via speaks!
cillian murphy wizard dilf you will be missed greatly
so many updates bcus i'm so happy recently ☺️☺️🍂🧡 hope this update makes u all feel my joy