Maeve Macmillan liked to write.
It didn't matter if it was writing her thoughts in her diary, short stories in a journal, articles for newspapers, essays for homework, letters to her parents, simple reminders on her hand, quotes on parchment to st...
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-----------------> THE DAILY PROPHET ARTICLE featured in the newspapers the next day was the one omitting Dorcas' story. Maeve was tempted to start her own newspaper company specifically to publish whatever she wanted. The only thing that quelled that idea and subsequently, stopped Maeve from crushing the Daily Prophet paper into a ball, throwing it and—rather dramatically—lamenting about life on the sofa in her house was how Dorcas' story would be printed in her column, Musings With Maeve, on Friday.
Donning the red dress she bought before Christmas, Maeve exited her house, informing her father that she was leaving for lunch and would be meeting somebody for lunch when he asked her if she wanted them to eat together, before heading to the Leaky Cauldron. Without ordering anything, Maeve waited for Regulus to appear for lunch.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited until the clock struck three, summoning her back to the Daily Prophet headquarters for work. The entire time she helped Rachel sort through countless articles, organise a plethora of yet-to-be-verified news and tips systematically and correct grammatical errors to the best of her ability; her mind kept returning to Regulus.
He hadn't shown up.
Regulus had never not-shown up. Even on Christmas Day, he had dutifully arrived, even admitting that he hadn't expected her to. Thus, one could not blame Maeve's brain for drawing horrifying conclusions for his absence, from Regulus being abducted by aliens who wanted to know how to make chocolate pudding candy to Regulus deciding to cut his friendship with Maeve. None of the theories helped quell Maeve's concerns or keep them at bay. Nerves tangled in her stomach while unsettlement seeped through her bones like rain absorbed by the ground.
Maeve returned to her house at five, dragging her feet to the sofa in the parlour in the most sluggish way humanly possible, head bowed and expression crestfallen.
"What's wrong with her?" Mavis asked her husband after taking a sip of her warm tea, motioning with an inclination of her head towards where Maeve was theatrically staring out the window, face bathed in the pre-evening sun, her elbow perched on the window sill and resting her chin on her knuckles, sighing every once in a while.
"I honestly don't know what happened, but I don't like it," Marius told his wife, frowning as he picked up the day's newspaper. "Earlier today, Maeve tells me she's meeting with Merlin-knows-who for lunch, all happy and excited and then she comes back looking like someone had just murdered a unicorn in front of her." Marius paused. "Brutally," he added as an afterthought, "with a spoon."
"Yikes."
"Agreed. Either that or maybe, it's teenage brooding," voiced Marius with sage wisdom, flipping the pages of the Daily Prophet to spot Maeve's articles so he could cut them out and save them in a folder.
Mavis glanced at him through the corner of her eyes. "Are you sure?"
"I think so? I mean, the two of us sulked plenty when we were around her age. Maeve was bound to start sulking sooner or later, and she'll cross being a teenager in what, two years? So we've been lucky so far."
