July 5th, 1893 — The Florist Potts', Hogsmeade

Alice was still in her mediwitch robes when she rushed through the Potts' shop. Floo powder dusted her hair and swirled about in her wake as she anxiously searched for Calla. The letter had taken a long time to reach her, far longer than it would've taken to fly from Bartonburg to High Street, and Alice had required the better part of an hour to comprehend its contents. Sloane was presumed dead. Sloane, Calla's best friend from childhood (possibly longer, Alice had never heard the story of how they met), was gone.

She ought to have gone to Edison first, or perhaps even the Bixby house to pay her respects to Wallace, or anywhere but here. Her relationship with Calla wasn't perfect these days, it hadn't been since December and Calla's confession. They weren't at odds by any means, but there was a certain level of awkwardness that carried through their interactions. They were working through it (however silently, as Alice had never addressed that conversation again) and there was progress being made. It was just...not the same.

Whether or not it was the same no longer seemed to matter as Alice tore through the shop silently searching for Calla. It didn't need to be the same for Alice to recognize Calla's need for a friend, for her to understand the gravity of this loss. "Calla?" She called as she entered the greenhouse, her shoulders sagging in relief as she spotted the Hufflepuff digging in one of the back beds. She rushed towards her friend and sank onto the soft dirt besides her. "Calla, are you alright?"

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