that acid smile is there, tucked into the side of her mouth. (she won’t always let you see it.) she smells like leather and cigarettes and too many whiskey sours; in the morning she sleeps too long. the bags under her sharp green eyes have started to slowly purple. she starts to write longhand letters almost every day – dear petunia, if this should reach you – but before she finishes, they crumple under in her white hand, leave ink stains on her long piano-player fingers. there is a war around her just as there is a war within her belly. she will fight them both. lily evans: soldier, mother, lover, friend.