---------------------> FIRE BURNED AROUND HER, licking at her skin while smoke poured from the hem of her dress like whips. Once the flames had called into embers, Maeve stepped out of the fireplace to the white marbled tiles aligning her house, greeted by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the flapping of wings which grew in volume.
She placed the two cacti on a tea-table before looking around, deducing that her parents hadn't returned from visiting Bruce's mother at the hospital just as an owl used her shoulders as a perching stool, digging its sharp talons into her skin. It was a bad day to wear a dress with spaghetti sleeves. Nevertheless, Maeve giggled and stroked the neck feathers of the owl when she noticed the letter it carried.
"What do you have there?" She asked the owl, who released a hoot in response.
Gently prying the letter from the owl, Maeve opened it, revealing inked words: Attack occurred two minutes ago. Come to D.P HQ immediately.
After writing a quick note to her parents about her whereabouts, Maeve wasted no time in spinning on her heel and returning to the fireplace to floo to the Daily Prophet Headquarters at Diagon Alley. Outside, dusk had dissipated into darkness. The pale crescent moon shone like a silvery claw in the night sky while the blanket of glittering stars stretched to infinity.
However, inside the confines of the pastel-walled workspace, stacks of papers scattered across desks and the floors alike like replicas of parchment-versions of Eiffel towers. Journalists and reporters yelled nonsensically, moving their arms in exaggerated motions while taking notes on any blank space available and bumping into each other.
Rachel emerged from her office into the almost-tangible chaos in the common space. Her curly dark hair was in a disarray atop her head and a vein threatened to pop on her forehead. She brought two fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly, capturing attention and prompting grimaces at the high piercing sound it caused. "Upstairs. Now," she commanded like a general to a battalion of soldiers. Without waiting for them, Rachel marched towards the spiralling staircase.
Like ducklings, all the journalists trailed Rachel, climbing up the stairs to the conference room, which had been expanded enough to fit the strength of the employees present. Maeve manoeuvred her way towards Rita, Melissa and the other intern who stood huddled near a corner.
"Is everyone here?" asked Rachel as she tallied the headcount in her head. Upon receiving an affirmative answer, her lips twisted into something grim. "It's past most of your working hours, I know, but we need all hands on deck. An attack took place a few minutes ago in Surrey. The dark mark is still burning in the sky, possibly violating the International Statute of Secrecy. I want to know the implications," she looked pointedly at the team of journalists specialising in law and matters relating to it.
Then, Rachel ordered each of them with a specific task. The other intern and Melissa were to shadow the Aurors like a sticking charm, Rita and sixteen more senior journalists were to visit the multiple sites the attack took place and question witnesses while Maeve, along with four others, was assigned on hospital duty: to get the accounts of the victims, to find out how they were faring—that is; if the victims were willing to talk to them.
"I want a progress report owled to me every two hours, even if it's nothing," instructed Rachel after allocating a mission to each of them. "The Undersecretaries to the Minister usually hold a press conference at nine in the morning. Rita, you can take that along with Maeve. The rest of you help me put things together. Go."
They went.
Maeve floo'd herself to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries due to the unavailability of her wand, journal and filled-quill in her hand like weapons for a battle. The hospital was alive with people. Noise settled at every nook and corner. Wizards and witches in grey robes moved around patients with a variety of aliments effortlessly with a clipboard in their hands.
Maeve's eyes swept the crowd until she identified one of the other journalists and marched towards him. "Have they been brought here?"
"Some, yes," the man replied, chewing on the back of his quill. "Grey's gone to get information."
"I'm back, I'm back!" Grey, presumably, announced as she wandered to where Maeve stood. "Okay, so we don't have an exact number of those injured yet. The medi-witches said there was quite a rumble of ruins from where they had to fish the victims out of."
Although Maeve's palm flew to cover her mouth, the gasp escaped. The other two didn't call her out for it, both sporting grim expressions.
"Yeah, that was my reaction too," confessed Grey, and bit her lip. "I checked. They've gotten three people till now, none of whom are unconscious. There are four of us now—Appleby's in the toilet—so why don't the three of us here take one victim each, check up on them and wait for them to wake up? Anyone new can be given to Appleby."
"That sounds like a good idea," said Maeve and the other man agreed. With that plan, they split themselves up.
The person Maeve was given had been rushed into surgery. Maeve sat on the cool, steal chair in the waiting room for a healer to exit. Appleby came by after the surgery crossed the two-hour mark to remind Maeve to keep Rachel in the circle and to give her dinner and coffee, bought from the hospital cafe. When Maeve asked Appleby if they found another victim, Appleby thinned his lips and shook his head. Maeve's stomach clenched like fists.
Somewhere past the three-hour mark, the glass doors paved way for the healers to stroll out of. Maeve jumped to her feet. "How are they?"
"The surgery went well," assured one of the healers, and Maeve remembered that doctors could only give general assessments about their patients to the press. "Thankfully, not many complications arose. We were worried about her losing too much blood, but we managed to stop it."
"That's a relief," intoned Maeve, shoulders slumping in solace.
The healer mirrored her expression. "We expect her to regain consciousness in a few hours. Once she's stable, and if she permits it, you can talk to her. Otherwise, our medi-witches will have to escort you out. We don't want to upset the patient."
"Of course, I understand. Thank you so much," responded Maeve, to which the healer nodded his head before the band of doctors strolled away. Vaguely, she heard them ask one of the medi-witches behind the desk if the patient's guardian had arrived yet only to be told she didn't have any. Maeve ached for the victim as she returned to her seat. It felt like she was struggling to swallow down a still-beating heart.
The girl was transported to her own room. Maeve sat on one of the chairs that lined the wall outside. She managed to send reports after the span of every two hours writing about the victim's condition but fell asleep with her head against the wallpaper at around the three-thirty mark in the morning.
However, since Maeve had engraved Rachel's order in stone and imprinted the command in her brain-cells, through some base, innate alarm, a little over two hours later at five-forty, Maeve rose with the sun, eyelids fluttering open when the golden fingers of sunlight poured through the ceiling-to-floor windows. Maeve rubbed her bleary eyes and walked towards it, using the excuse to stretch her limbs. In a pearly glow, morning reclaimed the blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds which drifted lazily in the gentle breeze. The dawn chorus of melodic birdsong drifted in as the dappled sun shone through the trees planted around the hospital, creating mysterious shadows.
Like hit with a remembrall, Maeve's eyes widened to saucers as she recalled the report she had to send Rachel and scampered to write it. That was how the healer found her, zipping back from the owlery located on the roof to the chair she'd spent the night on.
"Miss?" The healer called out, startling Maeve.
"Um, yes. Hi. Good morning. Are you okay?"
"Good morning," the healer returned cordially, although the faintest glimmer of amusement showed on the dimples on his cheek. "I'm doing well, thank you for asking, and you'll be glad to know that she's woken up and—"
"She woke up?" Maeve couldn't contain the absolute joy and relief that tailored her tone. Upon receiving an affirming nod, she clapped her hands together in delight. "That's wonderful! Is she doing okay from all the..."
"I don't think it's sunk in for her yet," the healer informed her. "To the extent that it should, at least. She woke up a few hours ago. We just told her about you and she's agreed to see you. At any point her breathing gets rapid, you'll need to leave, okay? We don't want to stress her."
"I understand," replied Maeve, and felt sheepish for a moment upon forgetting the entire reason she came to the hospital in the first place. Basking in the solace of the girl now being safe and having woken up from a tedious surgery, Maeve interviewing her had slipped away.
The healer cast a look that screamed you better before gesturing for Maeve to follow him. The healer led her to the girl's room, informed her where the medi-witches were stationed in case of an emergency before leaving after Maeve thanked him.
Bracing herself to appear as dignified and professional as she could with a line of drool on her chin and her hair in tangles after her odd sleeping posture, Maeve knocked on the door, waited to be called in and entered.
The room was as generic and bright as all hospital rooms were, with scarce furniture and the smell of too-honeyed potions stinging the air like needles. On the bed, laid a girl with a blanket thrown over her.
Bandages wrapped around her like a second skin. Violet and indigo bruises that were yet to fade remained prominent on her face, although it looked like salve had been applied over it. She looked like she was Maeve's age. She looked like a teenager visiting family during the holidays from Hogwarts. She looked familiar; like Maeve had written the curve of her name at the to address of a letter back at Hogwarts. But, for the life of her, Maeve couldn't place a name on her face.
When Maeve realised the girl was staring at her with a distrustful twist of her peeled lips, she forced herself to speak. "Hi," Maeve greeted the girl with a weak wave of her hand, ignoring the constriction of her throat whenever she gazed at the hospital bed. "I'm, um, Maeve from the Daily Prophet? I was wondering—if it's alright—if I could please ask you some questions regarding what happened earlier?"
"Would it matter?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Don't get me wrong. I didn't say it's okay for them to let you in because I wanted to do the interview, I just wanted to see who the Prophet sent this time to pretend they care."
"What—"
"This isn't the first time the Prophet has interviewed me for being a victim of the Death Eaters," the girl cut in, intent to not allow Maeve to explain, her tone matter-of-fact. "I know how this works. My mum was murdered not six months ago, the Prophet sent reporters, I told them what happened in detail and it was just brushed under the rug. The story I told them was summarised to a number in the victim tally count. So, what's the point, huh? You're not going to write anything I say anyway. I'm muggleborn, after all. Nobody wants to read about the poor muggleborn nearly being killed because they think I don't deserve to be here anyway. That's why you didn't print the last time I spoke to you lot anyway, right? Ultimately, why would anyone magic want to read about the loss of life when that life belongs to a muggle? Who the bloody hell cares, right?"
Maeve's lips parted with shock. With a jolt, she remembered writing a condolences letter to the girl. Her brain pieced the puzzle together and finally, provided a name: Dorcas Meadows.
Maeve's throat parched. She tried to gather words to say but found herself speechless. There, in the Dorcas' words, laid the tragic truth: There was no such thing as the voiceless. There were only the deliberately silenced or the preferably unheard.
"I do," Maeve spoke after a while, voice soft. "I care."
Dorcas scoffed, then winced at the sear of pain that coursed through her at the movement.
"I do care," Maeve repeated. "I can't promise others will but—if it's alright —if you tell me your story, I'll make sure it's heard."
"I doubt the Prophet would allow the story of a mere muggleborn to outshine the reasons why people should vote for our beloved, pathetic Minister to stand another term."
Maeve cracked a smile at Dorcas' sarcasm, but the ring of truth in the statement echoed in her heart. "I have my own column," she elucidated. "If I won't be allowed to put your story into an article, I'll dedicate a whole column towards it."
Dorcas looked at her in a spark of consideration. "What did you say your name was again?"
"Um. Maeve. Maeve Mac—"
"I know you!" Dorcas exclaimed with dawning realisation, pointing a broken finger at Maeve before dropping it when a flash of agony flew past her eyes. "You're that girl who wrote the story about the wind who kissed the tree! And all those odd stories about turkey vultures," she recognised before wrinkling her nose. "You're not very good at writing."
Maeve's face was flooded by an overwhelming amount of redness. She bit the inside of her cheek and admired the burnish eggshell shade of the hospital tiles. "Perhaps," she agreed to disagree, "but I still enjoy it."
"They're so bad, it's funny," Dorcas chortled, laughing until she coughed. Maeve rushed to her side to pass her a glass of water from the table.
Despite the brief flare of anger and embarrassment that crept into Maeve's veins, she felt ecstatic that although somebody assumed her writing and creativity to be horrid, they not only still took the time out to read it but also found it hilarious enough to make them break out into laughter. In such dark times, it was all Maeve hoped her writing brought, especially from a girl who had lost her mother and possessed grievous wounds.
"I'm happy you think so," intoned Maeve, her tone genuine and sincere before adjusting the weight on her feet. "So, I can, um, do that. Write your story, I mean. If you'd like, I could show you how I'll write it before publishing it. That way, you can change anything that I wrote incorrectly. It'll be like it's coming directly from you."
Dorcas stared at her with a scrutinising, sharp gaze. All traces of merriment vanished.
To fill the silence, Maeve continued to speak, voice thick with emotions: "I'm so, so very sorry that all this happened to you; and that your first impression of journalists was so bad and in your second impression, we had to meet in these unfortunate circumstances. I understand why you're reluctant to speak to me about this, and I also understand why you might not consent to speak to me, and that's okay, I'm not going to force you. I just wanted to apologise—for how you were treated before. I hope you get better soon," said Maeve, fidgeting with her fingers before she turned to leave.
"Wait," Dorcas called out hesitantly, making Maeve pause and swivel. "Are you sure you'll write my story?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at Maeve.
"Yes."
Dorcas studied Maeve before nodding her head, grimacing as pain shot through her at the action. "Okay then," she said. "You don't need to show me pre-hand. I'm trusting you to write it properly. And if you break it, well, you wouldn't be the first journalist who did that and I doubt you'd be the last," finished Dorcas wryly. Before Maeve could respond, as if she didn't want to hear it, Dorcas began her tale of bravery, desperation and cruelty.
Perhaps, her account of the story would shed light on how they were attacked. Perhaps, her story would help identify some of the faces behind the skull masks donned by the Death Eaters. Perhaps, her petrifying experience would be a lantern of warning for others. Perhaps, it would be a lesson of caution to all. They were in a war, after all. Nobody was safe. Today, it might have been a poor muggleborn. The next day, it could be a poor pureblood.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
After exiting Dorcas' room, Maeve checked in with the other three journalists she arrived with. Apparently, unlike Dorcas, the majority of the victims hadn't awakened yet. There were eight victims in total—all of them in the middle of eating their Christmas dinner together in a nice neighbourhood when the Death Eaters broke through the doors, jets of dark magic leaving their wands, hardly allowing time for the victims to defend themselves.
Five were killed at the location while three had succumbed to fatal injuries at the hospital. Only four had survived, out of which only Dorcas had regained consciousness. It was chilling to think that Dorcas, with her broken bones and bruised body, had gotten away with the least injuries.
Appleby, perhaps the only one among them with a time sense, reminded Maeve that it was eight-thirty, and she was due for a press conference at nine. Eyes lighting up in recollection, Maeve quickly thanked him before rushing to the bathroom to wash her face and use her fingers as a make-shift comb to re-tie her hair in a presentable ponytail. Checking her breath and grimacing at the results, Maeve stopped at the hospital cafe on the way to the floo, bought a pack of mint and popped a handful in her mouth, praying it would do the job. Then, she stepped into the floo and was transported to what was dubbed the Press Room at the Ministry of Magic.
The first face she saw upon stumbling out of the floo was Rita, black-rimmed horned glasses perched atop the bridge of her nose and feet tapping impatiently. Her visage was pristine and polished, but her frenzied mannerisms showed what her features masked. Maeve wondered how awful the scene of crime must have been for Rita to have been affected so badly.
"Are you okay?"
Although Maeve had spoken softly, Rita leapt at the sound of her voice and whirled around, startled. The tension in her posture loosened when she recognised Maeve and waved her away. "Yes, yes, of course, I am. It's nearly nine now. Really cutting it thin, aren't you?"
Maeve's cheeks reddened like twilight. "I'm sorry. I, um, stopped for mints."
Rita arched a pale brow, unimpressed. "Mints?"
"Yes."
"Do you have more?"
"Yes," replied Maeve and handed the rest to Rita, who gulped them down like they were medicine.
"Excellent," commented Rita, who returned the now empty package back to Maeve to store in her never-ending pockets. "You got your diary and quills?"
"Yes."
"Then let's go."
Rita trooped forward and Maeve threaded after her to a tall, closed-door the colour of burnt autumn leaves. Rita showed her press badge to one of the Aurors keeping guard and pulled Maeve along with her when they were allowed to enter. Inside the mahogany-painted walls were roughly twenty chairs arranged in rows and columns. A podium stood at the very front with the emblem of the Minister of Magic while a flag hung as a backdrop.
Two of the chairs right below the nose of the podium contained the words The Daily Prophet hovering over them in gold. Rita took one seat and gestured for Maeve to take another, with the hologram disappearing as soon as she did. Journalists and reporters of lesser-known newspapers surrounded them. Numerous wizards and witches in plum-coloured robes, which identified them as the esteemed members of the Wizengamot, were also present, seated at the back with their expressions hidden by the shadows.
Maeve's nerves tangled up like her hair that morning while a strange sort of giddiness oozed into her like serotonin. This was her first press conference. If only it wasn't under such unfortunate circumstances. The Senior Undersecretary strolled in a minute later, flanked by other members of the current government and two armed Aurors. He made his way up to the podium, his harsh countenance drawn in gravely as he charmed his wand to amplify his voice and began to speak. "A tragic incident occurred in the break of this morning—"
"Last night," Maeve corrected under her breath and because the podium was so near, the Senior Undersecretary caught her mutter.
He flashed her a look caught between gratitude and annoyance. "—that started last night," the Senior Undersecretary continued without stopping a beat, although the wording of his transition could have been performed better. "The Minister and I are horrified. It saddens me greatly that we have lost eleven, precious, muggleborns lives in Surrey due to the atroci—"
"Five precious lives were stolen in Surrey," amended Maeve, voice lifting and her tone as flat as some believed the earth to be even while her fists tightened around her quill as if she imagined it to be the Senior Undersecretary's neck.
Those like Dorcas literally fought for their lives. The least the Senior Undersecretary could do was remember the amount if he couldn't bother to know the names of the victims. Jamie, Brandon, Mary, Kate, Celeste, William, Tracy, Tom, Dorcas, Edward, Elisabeth. Swallowing, Maeve continued: "Another three succumbed to their injuries in the hospital. Six muggleborns and two half-bloods, if you want to be exact. That's without including their muggle relatives who have been murdered in their own homes the past months. There are only four survivors. Their families ask us, journalists, answers and we can only recite whatever you tell us. So, please tell me what to tell them."
"You're letting your emotions guide you right now," Rita whispered to her harshly while tugging her elbow in a warning. "Be composed. That's not how you question the Senior Undersecretary."
"You already know what happened, miss," responded the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic with a charming smile.
"I do, but I'm not confident you do," said Maeve with a hint of snideness.
Her counter fell on deaf ears as the Senior Undersecretary spoke over her, his booming voice bouncing across the room. "Death Eaters attacked and the eleven of them were unfortunately caught in the cross-fire. Their families have the Minister's sincere condolences."
"But giving answers isn't limited to knowing what happened. It's also about letting their families know what actions are going to be taken to prevent what happened to their loved ones from happening to anyone else," stated Maeve pointedly, tapping the end of her quill against her diary. "What measures will the Minister's be taking?"
"Thank you for asking, Miss. The Minister has created a detailed plan to strengthen security to protect the wizards and witches of our country while simultaneously countering terrorism, by—"
"Wait, just wizards and witches?" Maeve interrupted, causing a brief flash of annoyance to flash across the Senior Undersecretary's face before he masked it.
"Yes. Now as I—"
"What about the muggles?" Maeve cut in once more. Beside her, Rita hissed out another warning which went ignored.
"And why," started the Senior Undersecretary slowly, like she was dim, "would the Minister of Magic be inclined to include muggles, those that have no magic?"
"They're still humans," answered Maeve, just as slow, like it was obvious. "And they're one of the most affected victims, even if they don't know it. Nobody reports on muggles who died because of You-Know-Who. We only take notice whenever a person with magic does, so, we don't even have the exact number of muggles who were killed. Even then—although we don't know that exact number—they constitute a major demographic on the victim chart of the Death Eaters. Surely, people who are defenceless due to their lack of magic should also be protected by the Minister of Magic considering the perpetrators are those with magic."
"The Minister will look into this, thank you. Your suggestion has been noted, miss," said the Senior Undersecretary politely.
Her 'suggestion' was futile, Maeve knew. With the election coming up, the only demographic that would be protected was the Minister's voters and potential voters—all of those born with magic in their veins.
"Continuing from where I left off earlier, it has also been brought to the Minister's notice that the authority of the Auror department has been giving rise to rightful concerns. Hence, the Minister shall be retracting those powers in another week or so," said the Senior Undersecretary solemnly, taking away the powers of the Aurors just as Maeve had suspected they would. "I would also like to assure the public that to make sure those in the Auror department are, well, Aurors, we'll be providing them with an enchanted broach of sorts as an identifier, one which can only be worn by them."
After the Senior Undersecretary, to the best of his ability, justified every action and lack of action taken by the current government came the question and answers round, where he masterfully prevaricated when journalists asked pointed questions, answering but not-answering it simultaneously much to Maeve's temper.
His go-to responses to questions holding the Minister accountable was to request more explanation, bounce the question back to the journalist, claiming the question was not accurate in terms of facts, offensive, speculative or based on a faulty premise. If the Senior Undersecretary was feeling generous, he would appeal to nationalism, attack the opposition, acknowledge the question without answering it or ignore it entirely. How lovely.
By the time the press conference got over, the sun was high and bright in the sky and Maeve was brimming with annoyance at the absence of clarity like the effervescence bubbles of a glass of champagne. Rita guided her out of the room to the hallway before Maeve could run after the Senior Undersecretary, decide to embody her house's mascot and effectively badger him.
"Let's split the work," suggested Rita as she leaned against the wall, looking through the notes created by her Quick-Quotes Quill. "I'll write about the press briefing with the Senior Undersecretary, and you write a short, crisp article under the heading, 'Eight people died in an attack in Surrey' while mentioning whatever notes you made while speaking with the victims. Okay?"
Maeve nodded her head slowly as her mind processed Rita's words through her sleep-deprived haze. Maeve wondered for a faith-forgotten moment if Rita would omit certain questions and change certain answers regarding the briefing with the Senior Undersecretary. She tore out that thought from the roots of her mind as soon as it was planted. Despite whatever qualms Maeve had with Rita's style of journalism, Rita was still a journalist. She would do her job. Instead, she asked Rita: "Okay, but could I change the heading?"
Rita looked surprised. "Why ever would you want to do that?" She asked, gobsmacked and when Maeve opened her mouth to respond, Rita shook her head. "You know what? I don't want to know. No, don't change the heading. Write it as it is, and let me read it first to make any changes, understood?"
Maeve pressed her lips together. "Understood," she echoed dutifully despite her hesitance, which could be understood if one compared the following versions of a heading:
A man attacked eight people in Surrey.
Eight people were killed by a Death Eater in Surrey.
Eight people died in an attack in Surrey.
'A man attacked eight people in Surrey,' or 'A Death Eater killed eight people in Surrey.' These were the simplest and the most direct description: active voice, with full prominence given to the subject of the verb that was, the man—or the Death Eater—who attacked and killed eight people.
'Eight people were killed by an attacker in Surrey.' This version is in the passive voice, giving prominence to the eight people rather than the Death Eater who killed them. Although it's a longer sentence, the meaning is less clear and the information that a man was involved had been lost.
'Eight people died in an attack in Surrey.' This was the version Rita instructed her to use. The eight people who died were the subject of the sentence, and the Death Eater—the attacker—had been omitted from the sentence altogether, making the deaths sound almost accidental.
Words mattered. Those who made their living from words knew exactly what they were doing when they chose to write sentences in such ways; moving responsibility away from the perpetrator of the action towards the victims. A slither of shudder crept along Maeve's spine as she wondered why.
Rita smiled, satisfied, and clapped her hands together, the sound bringing Maeve back to reality. "Great! I'll give you three other things to do. Take the rest of the day off, complete the articles and owl them to my desk as soon as you can, preferably before tonight, in time for tomorrow's morning paper. Get some rest. You did well today."
Maeve's smile was dipped in sincerity and a blush bloomed on her cheeks. "Thank you, Miss Skeeter," she mumbled, her previous reluctance quelling in the face of a compliment.
Rita returned her smile and shooed her away.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
Diagon Alley was clothed in white, winter colours but the streets were paved with flowers. There may have been a story behind why, one which Maeve wasn't privy to, but she enjoyed the parade of petals that had been thrown on the road anyway.
Unknown to Maeve, all the sellers of Diagon Alley no matter how big or small were required to pay a pricey monthly commission to the Ministry of Magic, and the lady who sold flowers had spent the money she earned buying her young son a Christmas gift for the first time in years and cooking up a feast for the holidays, the first he had had. She hadn't paid attention to the depletion of her wealth like she'd tended to her son, to give him joy in bleak times. However, the only currency the Ministry knew was gold and she hadn't been able to meet it.
While Maeve, with a faint smile, would assume the lady selling flowers and her son were at home basking in yesterday's festivities; they were actually behind bars, huddled together for warmth in the cold cells of the Ministry while the Death Eaters roamed free. Apparently, the workers of the Ministries had priorities as to who they jailed for committing a crime. Apparently, murder was okay but outstanding payment crossed a line.
The thorns of the roses sold by the mother littering the gravel were proof of her futile struggle. For most others, it went ignored or, like Maeve, went filed under the assumption of a celebration—because people forgot flowers were used to mourn as well. The delicate blood-red petals crushed under soles of shoes and heels until they stained the concrete, final and defiant of humanity's heavy step. Overhead, grey tones hid the polychromatic sky. Scattered trees arched towards each other creating a canopy of ephemeral snow-covered budding blooms.
The Leaky Cauldron stood at the edge of Diagon Alley. Snow covered the sign yet warmth radiated from it. A bell chimed as she stepped in through the door, bringing a waft of chill with her. Even in the glow of morning, the atmosphere was dark and shabby. Maeve adored it.
"Hello!" Maeve chirped cheerfully, leaning against the barman's counter and depleting the minute amount of energy she still possessed. When the barman parroted her greeting, Maeve asked, "Could I please have a bottle of something alcoholic?"
Her request made Tom the barman's eyebrows climb. "You old enough to drink, miss?"
"I'm more than seventeen," confirmed Maeve.
The barman continued to eye her suspiciously.
Maeve produced the badge identifying her as an intern of the Daily Prophet from the vast space inside the pockets of her outer robes and handed it to him. The barman checked her birth-year printed on it, nodded to himself and returned it to her. "Firewhiskey or elvish wine?"
"Firewhiskey, please."
"Coming right up. Would you like anything else?"
"Eggs, maybe? I couldn't have breakfast."
"Definitely, miss. You go on and sit. I'll bring it to ya."
"Thank you," said Maeve, looking at him like he was the reincarnation of Merlin, to which the barman chuckled and motioned for her to sit again.
Maeve chose a two-seater table at a corner closest to the bartending counter. Pulling out her trusty diary and filled ink, Maeve scanned her notes and began writing drafts of the article to share with Rita. She wrote two versions of the article—one which had Dorcas' story intertwined with the facts of the article while another one did exactly what Dorcas predicted would happen: reduce her traumatic experience to a number on a tally count of You-Know-Who's victims. Maeve wanted to see which article Rita would pass onto Rachel. Regardless, just to be safe, Maeve also detailed Dorcas' story under the heading of 'Musings With Maeve'.
Informing the barman, Maeve made a quick trip to the Daily Prophet Headquarters located at the same alley and dropped the articles on Rita's desk, noting how exhausted her colleagues were, most of them sleeping in uncomfortable positions on the floor and shadows clinging to their eyes.
Upon returning to the Leaky Cauldron, Maeve made her way to the barman again.
"I kept yer' firewhiskey and eggs on your table," Tom told her, nodding at the table she chose. "Eat first. No good to drink on an empty stomach."
"I will. Thank you," chimed Maeve, scabbing the dark patch on her arm absentmindedly. "Um, if it's not much trouble, could you please send a cuppa of tea to each of the people at the Daily Prophet?"
"As long as ya' pay, miss, it's no trouble at all," answered Tom, laughing as he tossed a rag cloth over his shoulder.
Maeve thanked him once again and headed to her table.
Dutifully, she ate her eggs and then, poured firewhiskey into a teacup and sipped it daintily. She finished her eggs and ordered more, which she was told would arrive a little late due to them having run out of stock. She finished her teacup of firewhiskey and this time, poured more liquid from the bottle into a mug.
By the time a person neatly dressed with dark hair and blurry, forgettable features approached her, Maeve was on her second mug of liquid fire. "Oh, Merlin, you're like a tree!" Maeve suddenly exclaimed in awe, pointing a finger at him. "A very tall tree! Wow. Does it hurt your neck to have to look down on others all the time?"
The person in front of her tilted his head. "I haven't given it much thought. I think so?" His voice carried all the confusion she felt.
"What is your opinion on pursuing knowledge?" Maeve asked, a slight slur in her voice as she squinted her eyes up at him, tightening her grasp on the tall glass. She looked for a specific answer to confirm her suspicion that it was Regulus with glamours.
"The urge to do so is ever-present and everlasting," came her immediate response and Maeve beamed like fireflies.
"Hi, Regulus!"
"Shh," Regulus told her pointedly, placing a finger on his lips as he seated himself opposite to her and applied charms to restrict others from hearing what they were conversing. "What's the point of pain-stakingly applying glamours to hide my identity if you're going to shout out my name?"
A red hue blossomed on Maeve's cheeks like roses. "Right. Sorry."
Regulus faintly smiled to convey that it was alright. Then, his lips parted with something akin to astonishment as he took what she was holding and the fiery liquid it contained. "Maeve," Regulus appeared concerned, "what are you drinking?"
"It's iced sewage water," Maeve declared ominously in response, raising the glass in a toasting motion towards him. "But instead of water, I used fire-whiskey. And instead of coffee powder, I used pepper." She took a sip before coughing out smoke. "So, pepper was a bad idea."
"Really?"
"Yes, the pepper amplified the fiery taste. I suppose I should have chosen something with an innate cooling property to balance out the—"
"Maeve," Regulus interjected. "I was being sarcastic."
"Oh." Maeve blinked, pouting as she looked at her drink. "I really thought it would taste good. My gran—Merlin, rest her in peace—wasn't known for her sage wisdom. She used to insist that a shot of firewhiskey with pepper in it would cure colds." Maeve smiled fondly. "She also used to claim she got a lot of colds."
A ghost of a smile fleeted past Regulus' lips before his features grew gaunt. "What are you doing here?" His eyes swept over warily to their surroundings, lingering on the more suspicious occupants of the pub.
"We agreed to this place yesterday, didn't we? Besides," Maeve paused to absently trace the rim of her glass she hugged to her chest, "I don't know where my dad keeps the firewhiskey back home, and I couldn't summon it, either since I don't have my wand. But luckily, this place has firewhiskey, so here I am."
"Here you are," Regulus echoed, leaning forward to place his arms on the table that separated them. "But that doesn't answer my question. I meant, why are you sitting here, now, in the afternoon, doing nothing but drinking firewhiskey, and making me question my choice to befriend you?"
Maeve's demeanour brightened to rival the dawning sun outside, her features softening like pudding. "I feel so happy whenever you call me your friend. It just brightens my day and makes me feel all warm."
"Maeve," Regulus' cheeks pinked slightly as he brought her back to the matter on hand, "why are you doing this?"
"Well—" Maeve set the mug of fire whiskey on the table. "—I heard that people drown their sorrows in firewhiskey to feel better, so I'm testing that to see if it's true. And, it may look like I'm doing nothing but that's not the whole truth. My organs are diligently digesting the drinks I just consumed, and I'm talking to you." She didn't smile, but he could hear one in her voice. "I'm doing an absolute and noble act of living."
Regulus blamed his current situation on the astronomy tower. If he'd just been more careful; if he'd expressed his uncomfortableness to her being there with him that fateful day when they'd met, all of this could have been avoided. But—
But then he wouldn't have figured out the identity of the person whose supportive words, for the last six years, had made life bearable despite the constant hurdles thrown his way. But then, he wouldn't have gained a friend in Maeve.
"Regulus, you're doing that thing again."
Regulus jerked his attention back to Maeve, whose eyes sparkled with merriment. "Sorry, I was... I got distracted."
"Yes, that was obvious," Maeve noted, her filter lost with her dignity. She fished the green olive out of her drink and tossed it up in the air, attempting to catch it with her mouth only for it to bounce off her nose before falling on the floor. Maeve frowned slightly, proceeding to say aloud, "I ordered eggs and more drinks a little while back. Are you sure you don't want a drink? You look like you could use one."
"I don't want a drink. I don't think you should drink any more either. It's hardly one in the afternoon."
"So? Hangover potions exist for a reason. We shouldn't be selfish enough to stop poor potion masters who sell it from making a profit due to our responsibility and sense of time. That would be rude."
Regulus' face went through a plethora of expressions upon hearing her statement, from the bizarre thinning of his lips to cocking an incredulous brow to sighing as he attempted to comprehend the entire stupidity of her words. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
The house-elf brought over the drinks and Regulus pushed the eggs in front of him away, feeling his hunger dissolve along with Maeve's last brain cell.
"Yay!" Maeve grabbed both the tall glasses of fire whiskey from the tray carried by the elf, one of them slopping a little.
"I said I didn't want a drink," Regulus reminded her.
Maeve blinked. "I know, I heard you. These are both for me."
Regulus snatched the glasses out of her hold, and when Maeve protested, he asked, "Are you okay?"
"Nope," Maeve responded cheerfully.
Regulus' eyebrows shot up at her bluntness.
He opened his mouth to ask her a question, but Maeve beat him to it by saying, "Let's not talk about that right now. Instead, let's concentrate on the immediate crisis."
"Which is?"
"I'm craving pudding."
"Pudding?"
"Chocolate pudding, if you'd like to be exact."
Regulus sighed. "I didn't want to comment on this, but you eat much more sugar than the recommended intake by healers. It's not healthy."
"But it is delicious," said Maeve, thumbing the rim of her glass again. "And...and I know not everything has to be symbolic, but...Chocolate pudding—Well, it comforts me more than people do."
Regulus remembered the story Maeve had told him when they were conversing about the meaning of life. He understood how much it meant to her, considering she had built the foundation of her entire belief system on that bowl of dessert. His features softened. "I see."
Regulus summoned the house-elf and ordered two bowls of chocolate pudding. Next, pulled his plate of eggs back towards him. It wouldn't be the first time he had breakfast food for lunch. In the silence that embraced them, Regulus took the opportunity to analyse Maeve, who had been clearly thrown off her usual course down the golden brick road.
Regulus tilted his head, brows meeting in contemplation. "Weren't you wearing the same clothes yesterday?" The tip of his ears burned with embarrassment after the question left his lips.
"I was," confirmed Maeve, flushing as her gaze flicked downwards to watch her fingers fumble with the utensils. "I, um, didn't really go home last night or this morning. A thing happened and I needed to be there."
"I see," spoke Regulus eventually, noting the way she evaded mentioning exactly what thing happened but glanced at his left forearm from the corner of her eye. Swiftly, he changed the topic. "How are your studies coming along?"
Bafflement painted on Maeve's features like a fine work of art. Except, not even Van Gogh could have painted the stars Regulus saw in her eyes. "My studies?" She repeated like she had heard him incorrectly.
Creases appeared between Regulus' eyebrows. "You're in the seventh year, aren't you? The N.E.W.T.S are right around the corner."
Maeve grimaced and bowed her head, absently poking the eggs with her fork. "Oh. Yes. Right. I am that. A seventh year. I will be doing that. The N.E.W.T.S. Yes. I do know that. And I studied. I totally, absolutely, completely studied for my N.E.W.T.S. Which I did, in fact, remember was coming up soon. Yes, I did. Because I am in my seventh year. And I have to take that. Take my N.E.W.T.S, I mean," rambled Maeve in a way that suggested the stark contrast.
"You don't want to? Take your N.E.W.T.S, I mean."
"I don't think anyone wants to take exams."
Regulus inclined his head. "Excellent point," he conceded and leaned forward, lacing his fingers in front of him.
A house-elf appeared with a pop, placed the bowls of chocolate pudding before them, bowed and then vanished. For all Regulus could fault the Leaky Cauldron, at least the service was quick unlike the Dancing Dragon—something he could applaud them for. Although, Regulus had to take points off for the shredding wallpaper and blasphemous interior decor. He took a bite of the chocolate pudding, decided he was judging too harshly and maybe, just maybe, the eye-offending design scheme had been set up on purpose for some grand reason he didn't know and promptly added those points back in favour of the Leaky Cauldron in his head.
When Maeve swirled the chocolate pudding with her spoon instead of directly eating it, Regulus re-focused his attention on her. "Do you want to talk about what's bothering you now?"
"My N.E.W.T.S now," groused Maeve, before she sighed, halting her stirring of the pudding to sip her glass of firewhiskey like it was tea. "There was an attack last night in Surrey," she informed him and Regulus stilled. "Eight people were killed in their homes—a place of safety and comfort. The Minister offered nothing but condolences and I could only give apologies and a promise. I feel quite pathetic. I always assumed I could revolutionise the world as a journalist, but..."
"It's not what you expected?"
"It's lesser than what I expected, and not quite as fulfilling as I thought it would be."
"That sounds like life in general."
Maeve giggled, nodding her head with a smile bespeaking tragedy. She finally tasted a generous spoonful of pudding. "I suppose, yes. I just...I feel like I have the ability to do things but not the guide on how to use my ability to do things. I wish I could do something more, you know?"
"Not really," admitted Regulus.
"Yeah, me neither."
Perhaps it was her wording. Perhaps it was the way she said it. Perhaps because it was Maeve 'Writer' Macmillan who said it, but both of them broke into laughter, the jovial sounds bursting out of them like a dam.
After what felt like a lifetime, Regulus' peals of chortles had been reduced to giggles. However, Maeve was still going strong with tears welling up in her eyes as a side-effect. He was about to tell her to take it easy when the convulsions of her shoulders shook too much, her head hung too low and the sounds of her sobs became too loud to be mistaken for anything but.
"Wait, are you crying?" Whoever amusement and concern in Regulus' features melted away like candle wax as panic and alarm replaced it.
As a response, Maeve bawled louder, tears streaming down her before burrowing her face into her arms on the table until Regulus could hear soft, hiccoughing sounds.
"Um." Flight or fright instincts abandoned Regulus. He downright froze, his mind as blank as a white canvas. Children were supposed to be by-products of their parents, so really, it was Walburga and Orion's fault that Regulus had the experience of a toddler when it came to comfort people when they were upset, or in Maeve's case, wailing like she'd failed the N.E.W.T.S.
"Um," Regulus tried again before reaching over to awkwardly pat Maeve's back. He tried to remember what he'd seen Aunt Lucretia do to get one of her children to stop crying, back when she and his father were still on speaking terms. "There, there. Don't cry. Everything will be okay."
"You—" Hiccough "—don't—" sob "—know that," came Maeve's muffled objection.
Regulus' eyes widened at her wet tone and his patting of her back grew more frantic like he was trying to push the tears from her stomach like one would push food out of somebody's throat if it went down the wrong pipe. "And you don't know if it will be good either." His retort did nothing to calm Maeve's weeping. "Uh, think of happy thoughts! Sprinkles! Confetti! Chocolate pudding! Quidditch! Oh, well not Quidditch for you. Um, writing! Think of writing! Writing is nice, isn't it? A lovely activity to express yourse—"
"Apparently—" Sniff "—I'm a bad writer who—" Hiccough "—makes too many—" Another sniff "—grammatical errors."
"Uh, I'm sure that's not true. I've seen your writing, remember? I think it's nice," commented Regulus, withdrawing his hand to shrug his dragon-hide coat and put it on her.
It was still winter and she had been shivering slightly. Maeve had sacrificed her wand for Regulus the previous day and given how busy she seemed to have been that morning, he doubted she had enough time to buy another wand and re-apply warming charms to her clothes as he had.
Maeve didn't say anything. She continued to rest her head in the crook of her folded arms on the table until her hiccoughs had dissolved and her sobbing had been reduced to steady intakes of breaths. Meanwhile, Regulus finished eating his share of chocolate pudding as well as Maeve's. She didn't give off the impression that she could finish it considering her current state and her earlier consumption of scary amounts of firewhiskey and eggs, and Regulus was not one to waste food.
"That felt good," proclaimed Maeve suddenly, lifting her head like she wore a crown to reveal red-rimmed eyes and tugging Regulus' coat closer to ward off the chill before flashing him a grateful smile and proceeding to wipe her nose using a tissue.
Her abrupt shift of moods did nothing to simmer the bewilderedness Regulus had carried ever since he met her that destined day on the Astronomy tower. "What, crying?"
"Yes, crying. I think I might try screaming next. I don't believe there is any emotion in the world that can't be expressed by screaming. I wish we were at the astronomy tower right now. The height would give off the impression that I'm screaming at the world, which is exactly what I want to do right now."
"You could scream here and now. It might not give the same effect, but the logic still stands."
"I think I will." Maeve beamed like a flare of light through tear-stained cheeks. "Scream with me?"
"Of course," answered Regulus, in a tone that implied she was daft for asking, that she needn't ask such things because he would do it and more for her anyway.
She looked at him. Every prolonged stare and tiny glance was a proclamation; it felt absolutely physical to Regulus.
"One," she whispered to the space of air between them.
"Two," said Regulus, mimicked the low volume of her voice.
"Three," they said in a union and yelled. In frustration. In anger. In insanity.
Maeve's head was tipped back to face the wooden ceiling and her fists were thrust up jubilantly as she shouted until her throat was hoarse. Regulus' eyes were blissfully closed, cheeks flushed and hands cupping his mouth as he screamed until the air had left his lungs; until he began to cough.
Regulus cracked his overcast-sky eyes open after they stopped and met Maeve's blue ones, which contained laughter like wands contained magic while her lips stretched into a smile so wide it looked like a sea of constellations scattered across the Milky Way galaxy, like an abstract painting. Her smile resembled something holy; something divine and heavenly. Her smile was the warmth of the gods on earth, and Regulus could get drunk on it like it was the finest nectar, like it was ambrosia.