--------------------> MAEVE'S DAY STARTED WITH BREAKFAST WITH HER PARENTS, who woke up at the unholy seven in the morning just to eat with their daughter before she rushed off to begin her day with a visit to St Mungo's Hospital. With a mere ten minutes remaining for Maeve's appointment with Andromeda, she'd taken to darting along the hallways, narrowly dodging patients, healers and nurses alike; apologises following her steps like a shadow.
The one person she ended up bumping happened to be the one person she didn't want to avoid.
"Jesus, Maeve, calm down," laughed Halley, rubbing her forehead, more joyous and the least serious Maeve had ever seen her.
"Sorry, Halley," said Maeve, sheepish, rubbing her own forehead. "I thought you worked the night shifts."
"I'm taking an extra one," responded Halley, pocketing her hands into the grey robes identifying her as an employee of St Mungo's. "Dad retired recently. I need the money."
Maeve nodded. "How have you been liking the job so far?"
Halley shrugged. "Working as a researcher here isn't as challenging as I'd like, but it pays quite a bit, so I'm trying to make the best of it before the recruitment for the Unspeakables begins."
"I thought the Unspeakables recruited someone, not the other way around."
"They do," said Halley, eyes glinting with embers. "And I'll get in this time, just you wait."
"You will," agreed Maeve.
"What about you?" Halley inquired. "We haven't talked much lately, have we? You've gotten so busy, it's like we have to make an appointment to meet you," she joked, understanding and sad at the same time.
Maeve winced. "I'm sor—"
"If you're about to apologise," interrupted Halley, "cut it out. Having work is nothing to be apologetic about. You're doing wonderful things, Maeve, I'm happy for you. I hope you're also remembering to eat enough and drink water and just, taking care of yourself."
"I am, I hope you are as well." Maeve bit the inside of her cheek. "We should catch up. All of us." It hurt to think that Bruce wouldn't be included in all of us anymore.
"We should," agreed Halley. "Sirius and I just bought a flat together. Are you free during the weekend? We could have a slumber party. I'll invite Kate and Max as well."
"That sounds incredible. I'll be there." Maeve pulled out a diary and a filled quill from her sling bag, and half-smiled. "Write me the address?"
Halley accepted the diary and quill and snorted. "Of course. Also, house-warming gifts are encouraged."
"But not compulsory?"
"Highly encouraged."
"Still not hearing they're compulsory," sang Maeve, teasing.
"They are if you want to actually enter," said Halley, in the same sing-song voice as Maeve, scribbling her address down before handing the diary and quill to Maeve, who returned it to its place in her sling bag.
Maeve giggled.
Halley tilted her head. "What?"
"Oh, nothing." Maeve giggled again. "I just can't believe after all those years, you and Sirius are back together."
Halley released a long-suffering sigh, but she sounded fond as she said, "Well, what can I say? Us humans named after celestial things are doomed to attract no matter the space between us."
"Yeah, but attraction is one thing and living together is in an entirely different category."
"Not really. At least, I don't think so. James and Lily are doing it as well. The whole 'living together to see if we're compatible' thing, that is." A bitter burst of laughter escaped her throat. "I mean, I'm barely eighteen and I've already had so many mid-life crises. Bruce didn't get to do that. His birthday was before all of ours, but now, I'm older than him. I'm older than him, and I'm barely eighteen and I don't think I'm going to live for too long, being a muggleborn at a time when muggle-borns are hunted. It's a kind of fear you can't understand, Maeve, and one I hope you never do." Halley inhaled breath before continuing, "I don't think I have much time ahead of me, but if that's all the time I'm given, I'm sure as hell going to utilize it to be epic. I'm going to live my best life, I'm going to do everything that I should be able to do. I'm going to live with my boyfriend, have slumber parties with my friends, become an Unspeakable, get married, have kids, everything."
"I'm rooting for you," said Maeve, hugging Halley. "I'm hoping you do everything you want to do now and more."
Halley's grip on her tightened. "I'm hoping you do as well. And we will. We'll do it all and then brag to Bruce the next time we meet him."
"I hope that's not soon," added Maeve, her head heavy. "I hope we don't meet him for a long, long time."
"He'll mother us and scold us for working too much. Better we avoid it for as long as we can," intoned Halley, sniffing.
Maeve nodded, vision misted and they broke apart. "I, um, I have to go now."
"Right. Those Mind Healing sessions are expensive as fuck, better not to cut it short even if you can afford it."
Maeve planted a kiss on Halley's cheek. "Bye, Halley. Good luck for the Unspeakable interview coming up."
"Thanks, Maeve. Good luck with being alive, considering your bounty is getting higher."
Maeve giggled, walking backwards. "Thanks, Halley." She winked at her, spinning on her heel and turning a corner, towards the section of the hospital dedicated to the art of mind healing.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
"Hi, Maeve," greeted Andromeda, flashing her a smile from where she sat on a sofa pushed to the pastel wall of her office. She patted a spot beside her. "How are you feeling today?"
"I'm okay-ish, I think," replied Maeve as she seated herself. "It's gotten a little stressful at work—more than usual, that is—covering the new Minister's...luminous decisions. And, um, other things." The oath the members of the Order of the Phoenix had taken prevented them from speaking about it to those who didn't already know.
"I see," said Andromeda and picked up a notepad and ink-filled quill. "I've been reading your newspaper."
"Oh." Maeve's cheeks tinged pink, as it always did whenever anyone she adored admitted to reading something she wrote.
"I especially loved reading the short stories on page four, I believe?" At Maeve's nod, Andromeda continued: "I read them to my daughter every night—it's become a bonding activity of sorts now. She's star-struck by you, you know? She laughed and smiled so hard at yesterday's story of the war between the ladybug and the butterfly."
Maeve's features softened. A fluttering, warm feeling grew in her stomach and she felt like she was frolicking on clouds. "I'm so happy she liked the story."
"She absolutely loved it," corrected Andromeda. "And so did I."
Maeve blushed and mumbled a thank you. No matter how bad the rest of her day was, Andromeda's compliment would fuel her with pure euphoria.
"I've been meaning to ask you," started Andromeda with a curious tilt of her head. "Why do you write?"
"Um, because I enjoy doing so?"
Andromeda nodded and gestured with a wave of her hand to elaborate.
Maeve's hand crept to the patch of skin infected by dark magic on her arm and she scabbed at it as she tried to explain. "Yeah, I mean, writing is fun for me. And if people who happen to read my writing like it, it just...I can't express that feeling in words but it's so incredibly lovely and sort of validating as well, now that I think about it."
"And?"
"And well, uh." Maeve raked her brain and flashed her a weak smile. "I'm afraid I can't tell you what you want to hear if you don't give me more clues on what you want me to say."
Andromeda's lips quirked into a smile. "It's nothing like that. I read the autobiography of a muggle author recently, and I wanted to, through my mad-spy skills and talent in being discreet, see if you felt the same way."
Maeve giggled and asked, "What did he say?"
"Something about how he wrote because scenes in his head wouldn't stop replaying otherwise."
Well, now Maeve felt exposed.
Andromeda looked at Maeve with sincere curiosity. "So it happens to you as well? Is it something all writers go through or...?"
Maeve shrugged, her hands dropping to her lap to fidget with the hem of her skirt. "I can't speak for all writers, but it does happen to me at times. Especially recently. Not writing the descriptions in my mind feels a lot like ignoring someone else's plea to hear them out. It's like...there are images and scenes that keep on playing and repeating themselves in my head, and the only way for me to purge them, to pacify them, to erase them and let them go is by writing them out."
Andromeda hummed and crossed her legs. "Is that why you keep writing about Bruce?" She asked and Maeve flinched.
Hell was coined to give a name to the aching absence of people you long for but aren't there.
Maeve's stories in the last few months revolved around characters with supportive, mothering personalities with names like Bryce and Cruce. Apparently, she wasn't as subtle as she thought she was.
Andromeda leaned forward and probed, "Are you letting him go?"
"In a way, writing is also a way to immortalise things, isn't it?" Maeve intoned instead of answering straightly. "It's timeless. What I write now can be read by somebody a hundred years later."
"It's a way not to forget," summarised Andromeda and jotted something in her notepad.
Maeve nodded her head. "Exactly." She fidgeted with the belt of her dress. "I am writing about Bruce a lot, yes—but I don't think it's because I'm letting him go. Writing about him makes me feel like he's still there beside me. It feels like I'm holding onto him."
"That is understandable and completely okay," said Andromeda, smiling slightly. "The reason we hold onto someone for as long as we can, even when they're not in our lives, is because they are a part of who we are. If we let them go, that part of us dies. If we let them go, we think we die along with the memories too. And isn't that what life is all about? Trying to survive at all costs? Even if it breaks our heart over and over again?"
"I—I suppose so, yes."
"Anyway, what's your favourite thing to eat these days?"
Maeve blinked at the abrupt change in topic but gathered her thoughts and answered. "I don't have anything in particular, to be honest, but I do find myself craving fish and chips a lot these days."
"I understand what you're saying." Andromeda sighed dreamily. "There's this lovely place at Hogsmeade called Three Broomsticks which serves the best fish and chips ever."
"Oh Merlin, yes!" Maeve recollected the times she and her friends would visit Hogsmeade and spend time at that pub. Halley would order fish and chips and the rest of them would steal her chips, only leaving her fish to eat. Later, they'd have competitions to chug down butterbeer the fastest and Bruce always lost. Maeve's smile faltered. "So, how was your day?"
"It was wonderful. My husband gave my daughter a piggyback ride around the house and my daughter turned her nose into that of a pig's."
"That sounds cool."
"It was—but Maeve, if you are feeling uncomfortable at any point, please voice it out instead of deflecting the attention to me."
Maeve flushed. "Sorry."
"It's alright, Maeve, you do not have to apologise. It's just an observation I made from our interactions together and a technique I thought we could try out to combat it. You're a good listener," complimented Andromeda. "You're attentive to those around you as well. I think working on you being a tad more attentive to your own behaviour, thoughts and emotions would be the next goal for us to have, which could help greatly long-term. Is that alright with you?"
"Yes, definitely."
Andromeda smiled and proceeded to ask her opinion regarding baby turtles.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
In metal, The Quibbler had been engraved. It glimmered when it caught the rays of the sun and fluttered Maeve's heart whenever she saw it. The four-storey building had ceiling-to-glass windows as walls on the ground and top-most floors and concrete walls for the middle ones. Only six months old, the furniture was polished, and the marble floors gleamed under the lights. Lavender wafted through the air, being a calming scent.
Maeve took the elevator up to the third floor, carrying a large box filled with vegetable quiches and fruit tarts close to her chest, her sling bag tapping her leg as she walked.
"Good morning, everyone!" She greeted as she stepped out.
People lifted their heads and smiled up at her from their tables and cubicles, chorusing out a "Good morning, Maeve."
"Ooo, are those tarts I smell?" asked Xenophilius, gliding towards her.
Maeve giggled. "Yup! There's this lovely, quaint new bakery that's opened up near Saint Mungo's. They deliver as well, so do let me know if this tastes nice, and we can order from them for tea-time."
"Will do," Xenophilius grinned, reaching for the box and placing it on one of the spots of a long table that wasn't piled with papers. "How did the Mind-Healing thing go?"
"As always," Maeve replied, gazing downwards as she fidgeted with her fingers. "It's a little frustrating and annoying at times, but it's definitely helping me."
"I'm glad about that," intoned Xenophilius, clapping her on the back. "Shall we get started with today's briefing then?"
"Yes." Maeve straightened her shoulders and cupped her mouth. "Team One, please come to Meeting Room 1 in five minutes. Team Two, proceed to Meeting Room 2. Team 3, arrive at Meeting Room 1 in fifteen minutes, and Team 4, the same with Meeting Room 2."
After hearing an affirming response, Maeve and Xenophilius quickly compared notes and tasks before splitting up, with Maeve heading towards Meeting Room 1 and Xenophilius, Meeting Room 2. Maeve briefed the teams about the things they were expected to do that day, instructing them to do more digging on specific news, cross-check other articles, and keep her updated on the developments of certain headlines she found equally intriguing and concerning.
When Team 3 were dismissed, Xenophilius marched into Meeting Room 1 with a visible scowl and handed her a letter with the seal of the office of the Minister of Magic.
"The Minister is holding a press conference," said Xenophilius, dully. "Again. For the third time this week, and it's only Thursday."
Nearly two months ago, Millicent Bagnold had triumphed over Harold Minchum, becoming the Minister of Magic and, as all the Ministers before her, doing a terrible job at it.
The formidable Auror forces, consisting of wizards and witches trained to fight dark magic, had been reduced to over-qualified bodyguards for her and security detail for her family at best, and babysitters and errand-runners for her husband and children at worst.
However, unlike former Minister Minchum with his reserved and borderline cold demeanour, the current Minister was talkative and tentative—at least in theory. Practically, she was a gifted demagogue who was more interested in media interviews than actually doing her job.
How revolutionary.
Maeve grimaced. "Great. I'll tell one of the new employees to cover it."
"Na-ah-uh," said Xenophilius, waving a finger side-to-side like a pendulum. "Our esteemed Minister specifically requested either you or me to cover it. I think it makes her feel important."
"I did it the last time," pointed out Maeve. "It's your turn now."
Xenophilius pouted. "But Pandora!"
"What about Pandora?"
"We got married."
"That was two years ago."
"Yes, but she'd like me to be sane, which I won't be if I have to not only attend this spectacle of a conference but also, actually pay attention." He wielded the second-best weapon in his arsenal, the puppy-dog eyes. "Please, Maeve? Please take it this time?"
"Nope."
"Please?"
"Na-uh."
"I'll do all your paperwork for the next week," he bargained, bringing out the ultimate weapon he knew she couldn't refuse.
On the inside, Maeve rejoiced and danced. On the outside, she stared at him, unimpressed. "For the rest of the month," she told him, voice neutral.
Xenophilius opened his mouth to argue. Maeve made a show of glimpsing at the Ministry summoning. Xenophilius shut his mouth with a clank and said, "Deal. Now, shoo."
Maeve grinned, yelling, "Don't forget your end," before apparating to the Ministry of Magic along with a freelance photographer they'd hired recently.
Press conferences were held at a hall. Clusters of chairs had been labelled with the media houses and arranged according to importance, with the Quibbler sitting right before the podium behind which the Minister would speak.
When Maeve arrived, journalists, reporters and photographers were seated in their respective chairs. The photographer—Mark—and Maeve traded a look and took their own allotted seats ahead.
While waiting for the Minister to waste their time by making a fashionably late entrance, Mark clicked random pictures and changed the lens of his camera and Maeve jotted down a note for the 'Love, Somebody' column in one of her diaries. Due to the various articles Xenophilius and Maeve had lined up along with the ad spaces purchased by businesses to promote themselves, a 120 words or less column was the most they could spare for Maeve's hobby.
Yet, it was popular. Yet, it was valued. Yet, it was helpful.
And that was enough. And that was everything.
After finishing the note, Maeve checked it for any spelling errors.
Dear Everybody,
Don't be afraid to start over again. This time, you're not starting from scratch. You are starting from experience. It doesn't matter who you used to be; what matters is who you decide to be today. You are not your mistakes. You are not your mishaps. You are not your past. You are not your wounds. You can decide differently today and at every moment. Remember that. You are offered a new opportunity with each breath to think, choose, decide and act differently in a way that supports you in being all that you are capable of being. You are not less than. You are enough.
Love,
Somebody.
When Maeve found no inconsistencies, she smiled, proud of herself. The Minister chose that moment to walk in, hand already waving at the reporters and a polite smile plastered to her face like cookie-dough on James' face when they'd been little, and he'd decided to engage in theft when he thought his mother hadn't been looking.
Next to Maeve, Mark stood up, camera aimed and flashing. Maeve readied her quill, leaning forward in anticipation.
Eventually, the Minister spoke, explaining about a bill she intended to introduce in the Wizengamot that the citizens should look forward to. A bill that would empower the Aurors and the Wizengamot to throw suspected Death Eaters into Azkaban without a trial.
Maeve's emotions tumbled like dominoes. Her anticipation turned to bafflement, and then disbelief mixed with mortification, and lastly a sinking, lingering feeling of dread.
The Minister claimed it was so the suspected Death Eaters wouldn't harm anyone else. She said she intended to change the delay in imprisoning Death Eaters that had prevailed in her predecessor's term by omitting the long trial process entirely.
Maeve was inclined to point out a few things, like how every single person in Britain was entitled to a fair trial for any crime they were suspected of committing, and like how this could be misused by the authorities to hand anyone they disliked to the Dementors by accusing them of being Death Eaters.
But she never got the opportunity. The Minister refused to take questions, and not even Maeve yelling them at the top of her lungs as the most politically powerful person in the country had taken to ignoring her while being escorted by a blank-faced Amelia and dark-eyed Moody out of the room.
Well, Maeve's day turned dreary quick.
Having noted relevant points, Maeve decided to pen down the actual article after her lunch break and bade Mark goodbye, apparating to Diagon Alley, hopeful the bustling environment would lift her mood.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
"Hello!" Maeve said, sunnily, crouching to her knees, her sling bag sweeping the gravel ground.
In front of her, the flower lady and her son—Martha and John—smiled at her, sitting on chairs with a large basket of red roses before them.
"Hi, Miss Macmillan!" John greeted gaily and pointed to his teeth. "Look! My tooth fell out!"
"Wow," gasped Maeve, inclining closer as if to inspect, "that means you're growing up."
"I'm already grown up," said John, puffing out his chest and Maeve giggled, ruffling his hair, causing him to grin.
"It's a pity then," said Maeve, pulling out a chocolate from her bag. "Because I only give these out to—"
"Me, me, me! Could I have it? Please?"
"Of course, love." Maeve handed him the chocolate and turned to Martha. "Hi, Martha. How have you been doing?"
"Quite well. Mr Teller asked me if I was free tomorrow evening."
"Ooo," sang Maeve, giddy and ebullient, taking Martha's hands in hers. "I'm so, so happy for you, Martha! I hope it goes well. Would you like me to watch John for you during that time?"
Martha's eyes were hopeful and hesitant. "Could you please? You've been so busy lately, and I don't want it to be a bother or—"
"None of that, it'll be my pleasure. John's been asking to see my workplace for some time...Is it alright if I take him there? I can show him how things work?"
Martha sniffed and used her sleeves to wipe her eyes. "I—thank you, Miss Macmillian. For everything you've done for us."
"Oh, really, it's been my—"
"I know it's nothing for you," Martha cut in, "I know you probably do things like this all the time, but it means everything for us. You paid our rent when we couldn't, released John and me from the Ministry cells, sued the Ministry for us, bought our roses every time you come to the Alley, and just, been so kind to us. Thank you."
Maeve blushed, bowing down, and mumbled something incoherent even to her own ears.
"I'd love that," continued Martha, "I'd love for you to show John around your workplace. He looks very interested in journalism, and given how amazing journalists are—" she smiled at Maeve, clear to who she was referring to "—I'd love for him to pursue a career in it."
Maeve reflected her joyous countenance. "I'd love for that too, but I don't want to project or force him into it. I remember James—my friend—changing his prospective careers nearly every day when we were little. John's still young, but regardless of whether his interest in journalism is fleeting or permanent, I'd be honoured to nurture it. He's going to be great. He will be, whatever he does, whenever he does it."
Wetness gathered in Martha's eyes and she reclined forward and hugged Maeve to the best of her ability when a basket of flowers separated them.
"Thank you," whispered Martha again and Maeve patted her back.
"Of course."
"Oh! I want to hug Miss Macmillan too!" Was all the warning they had before John joined, going around the basket of roses to hug Maeve specifically, beaming as he did.
Maeve giggled when they broke apart and Martha smiled. John still didn't let go.
"Martha? Could I please have some roses?"
"Of course, Miss Macmillan," said Martha, collecting stems. "The usual amount?"
"Yes, please."
Martha handed Maeve roughly a dozen roses. Since the Ministry incident half a year ago, the stock of flowers they kept had grown, and they received customers other than Maeve—a local, small-time celebrity with her newspaper business and alter-ego Somebody— as well.
Maeve accepted the roses, thanking Martha, and packed them into her never-ending sling bag. She usually paid for the number of roses she'd buy at the end of the month, all together. Maeve waved Martha goodbye, and then, was about to do the same for John when he—with his cheek resting on her stomach and hands around her legs since he wasn't tall enough to meet her waist— tugged on her dress.
She smiled down at him, and said, "I'm sorry, John, but I've ought to go now."
He looked up at her with wide, starry eyes. "To do journalism stuff?"
Actually, she was due to have lunch with a friend, but Maeve chuckled and hugged him once again. "Yes, to do journalism stuff."
"If I do journalism stuff, does that make me a journalist like you?"
"Of course."
"Then I have something to tell you," he told her, pride staining his voice, and she pulled back, smiling encouragingly. "I did journalism stuff."
"Really?"
"Yes!" John bounced again. "I kept looking out for suspicious folks, and I found one! He had very long white hair and super costly clothes and this ugly snake cane even though he walked perfectly fine and he was going to the dirty alley mummy told me never to go to!"
Maeve froze like an ice sculpture, tracing John's outstretched arm to Knockturn Alley.
John misunderstood her stillness and faltered, looking down at his shoes. "Did I do a bad job?"
"No, no, of course not!" Maeve rushed to assure, placing his hands on hers and drawing patterns on his knuckles with her thumbs. "You did an absolutely wonderful job, John! I'm so proud of you."
John perked up again. "Does this mean I'm a journalist like you now?"
"It means you're a much better journalist than me," said Maeve, honesty lacing her tone like fondness.
"That's not possible," said John, matter-of-fact.
Warmth bloomed in Maeve's chest. "Thank you for saying that," she said, voice thick, before swallowing her emotions and saying, "Hey John? Could you please tell me how long ago you saw this suspicious man? And if he ever looked in our direction?"
"Oh," John frowned. "He didn't look anywhere except his nose. He looked a bit green, honestly, like he was gonna throw up. And um, it wasn't that long ago. I saw him heading there when you were buying flowers from mummy."
Maeve thanked Merlin in her mind and ruffled his hair once more. "Thank you so much, John. Say, now that you're a journalist, would you like to come to the newspaper-making place with me tomorrow?"
John's eyes lit up. "Can I? Can I really?"
"Definitely," responded Maeve, standing up, and flashing a smile to Martha. "I got to go now, but I'll pick you up at your house tomorrow evening?"
"Okay! Bye, Miss Macmillan!"
"Bye, John. Goodbye, Martha." Maeve gave them both one final smile and wave before applying an invisibility charm and an enchantment to silence her footsteps, and sprinting towards Knockturn Alley, abandoning Martha to John's insistence that he had to buy sixty diaries and a sling-bag and quills since he was a proper journalist now.
Maybe Maeve being John's only exposure to a journalist wasn't the best idea.
Discarding those thoughts with a shake of her head, Maeve entered Knockturn Alley, whirling around widely to spot platinum hair. The stench of the alley hit her nose, and Maeve resisted the urge to nauseate. Looking down, she grimaced when she noticed what looked like spit—at least, she hoped it was spit, considering the alternative was pee—near her heels. Bits of food and plastic littered the cobblestoned road, contributing to its unhygienic reputation.
Forcing herself not to focus on that, Maeve ducked and dodged people, maneuvering herself through the crowd and halting when she saw a flash of white inside a run-down, shady-appearing Apothecary shop. All businesses in Knockturn Alley took only cash and kept no record of their sales, leaving no trail and serving as no alibi for their customers.
Runes had been engraved in the doorframe, making it impossible for anyone but humans, and those who had enchanted their faces to hide, applied invisibility charms to shield themselves from eyes or drank disguising potions to step in; explaining why Lucius Malfoy was there, in his bigoted, expensive glory.
When Maeve had been in her first year, he'd been in his seventh. Bits of information dawned in her mind from the letters she'd written to him, fitting like pieces of a puzzle. Lucius Malfoy was a germaphobe. If he was willingly in an Alley with open sewers, dirt and grit, it drew attention.
Upon casting a charm to eavesdrop—and thanking Merlin that there weren't any privacy wards on the shop itself, possibly so others knew what happened should any of the occupants inside screamed, either from pain or terror—Maeve quickly produced her diary and filled quill as well, sitting on her heels and using her thighs as a make-shift desk.
"Alright, Mr Malfoy," started the shopkeeper. "Before the payments are settled, I'll read out your items, just to make sure nothing's been missed, yeah?"
"Nothing better have been missed," said Lucius Malfoy, narrowing his eyes and a chill slivered through Maeve's spine like a snake, leading her to almost drop her quill.
She recognised that voice. Mortification dawned on Maeve like the crack of dawn.
Suddenly, for a brief moment, she was transported back to the battle scene at Diagon Alley, hit with a variety of creative curses including one which induced vomit; and when Maeve had emptied her stomach on the Death Eater, she recalled him mourning his expensive robes in that same voice before she had managed to fire a body-binding curse on him.
Staggering herself back to reality, Maeve gave herself a butterfly hug to steady her breathing, and calm her heart. Clutching her quill until her knuckles whitened, Maeve listened as the shopkeeper muttered something about egotistic snobs before listing, "So that would be Vial of Ptolemy, Powdered Moonstone, Adder's Fork, Jobberknoll Feathers and Sopophorous Beans, yeah?"
"Yes."
"And ya want them all in 30 kilograms each?"
"Yes."
"Alright, got ya, sir. Hope you got your money ready, 'cause it's gonna be a lot."
"I do." Maeve watched him make a small, velvet green pouch visible from his outer robes. "When can I expect my purchases to arrive?"
"It'll take a week," the shopkeeper speculated. "Maybe sooner if ya got the right money for it."
"As soon as possible."
"Then three days, I reckon. Pay up now, and it'll be delivered to your address."
She heard Malfoy sniff. "I'll pay half now and the remainder when I receive my purchases."
The shopkeeper laughed heartily. "Not gonna happen, son. You pay everything now or get nothing later. I'm an honest businessman. I don't cheat."
"Well, that sounds completely believable," said Lucius Malfoy and the shopkeeper laughed again, sharper this time.
"Look, if you want your stuff, pay now. Or else leave. I've got other customers to deal with."
Lucius Malfoy looked around the empty shop and arched a pale eyebrow, drawling, "Again, completely believable." He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered something Maeve couldn't decipher and said, "Alright. Fine. I'll pay full now. After all, if you cheat, it's not my ire you'll be facing, but the Dark Lord's."
Maeve lost her balance, saved from falling backwards by steading her palms on the street. Wide-eyed, she checked her diary to see if she'd coherently noted down his purchase and volume, sighing in relief after double-crossing. Dusting her hands with a grimace, she packed up her diary and quill, created a mental reminder to buy John anything he wanted from Honeydukes and promptly exited Knockturn Alley, lifting the invisibility and silencing charms as she did.
Recalling the ingredients which Lucius Malfoy was purchasing, Maeve grimaced, wishing her potion's partner, Severus Snape, had been with her. He'd have probably figured out whatever You-Know-Who intended to do with these ingredients with a single grimace.
Trapped in thoughts, she nearly passed Leaky Cauldron had she not bumped into a customer who was exiting it. Apologising profusely, Maeve braced herself and walked into the open doors of the pub. The bell above the door chimed as she stepped in and the bartender, Tom, smiled at her before returning to wiping glasses. Scents of food floated through the air and if Maeve hadn't been hungry earlier, she certainly was now.
She surveyed the pub area, recognising no face but Tom's. She marched to a four-seater table and sat at the open seat closest to the window, which would give her a view of Diagon Alley. "Hi, Regulus."
Regulus, all blurry and instantly forgettable features thanks to notice-me-not charms and other enchantments, looked shocked, then mad. "What gave me away?"
"Nobody wearing such expensive clothes would step into this pub on a street littered with pick-pockets," answered Maeve distractedly, plopping her sling bag on the chair beside her's and observing that he'd already applied a plethora of security and privacy charms.
"Huh," Regulus let out, blinking like he hadn't considered that. He sunk into his seat. "I've been trying all summer to trick you into approaching someone who wasn't me."
"Really? I hadn't noticed," said Maeve in the tone of somebody who had, indeed, noticed. "I'm rooting for you to get me tomorrow."
"I will," declared Regulus, with confidence he really shouldn't possess after failing for nearly three months.
Maeve pulled out a rose from her bag, waiting as Regulus pushed a quarter-filled tall glass of water to the midpoint of their seats, before sticking it in.
"So," started Maeve cheerfully, elbows on the table, "how was your day so far?"
"It was alright, I suppose."
"Did you do anything cool?"
"Not really."
"Then, out of all the not-really-cool things you did, what's the highlight?"
A corner of Regulus' lip curved. "Kreacher made banana pancakes for breakfast."
Maeve sighed dreamily. "That sounds delicious."
"It was," confirmed Regulus and furrowed his brows. "I haven't introduced the two of you yet, have I? I should soon. You'll love Kreacher, he's just the most caring, dotting living being on the planet—elf, or otherwise."
Maeve giggled. "I'd love to meet him." Her visage faltered into a bundle of nerves. "I hope he likes me, though. Is there anything he likes that I can bring as a gift? Or is he someone who'd think that giving gifts is like bribing people for love and pretentious and stuff? Or does he like gifts? Oh Merlin, what if I give him the wrong gift? He'd hate me, and I'd not be able to face you if he does, so I'd have to move to Ghana and buy a cacao bean plantation and m—"
"That's a good contingency plan," interrupted Regulus, his voice complimenting. "But, I assure you, Kreacher will adore you."
Maeve picked at her lentifold wound. "You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. You're a very likeable person."
"No, I'm not. I have a bounty on my head to prove it. It's like, five-hundred gallons higher today."
"I'm proud of you for making so many enemies, but Kreacher isn't going to be on that list. You don't have to worry."
Maeve hesitated. "It's not...Well, um." She sighed and smoothened her fringes. "Kreacher means a lot to you. You mean a lot to me. And...I don't want to lose you in case things go sour. I want to prevent all that so it needs to go well, you know?"
Regulus' throat went dry, so he couldn't verbalise his response, only nod. He could empathise with her, on some level at least. He'd felt the same way before meeting Maeve's parents, who were mercifully easy to please and like. Kreacher, on the other hand, had served his family for scores of years. Hence, distrust and doubt came to the elf as naturally as they did to Regulus.
However, Regulus was confident that like himself, Kreacher would also be charmed and taken by Maeve, even if it took time. Regulus was willing to wait until forever became a distant memory or fell apart if that was how long it took for Kreacher and Maeve to form a companionship.
Maeve drummed her fingers on the table, jolting him back to the present. "Hogwarts is starting soon, isn't it? Are you excited for your seventh year?"
Regulus shrugged. "It'll be busy, with N.E.W.T.S and everything. Being Head Boy and Quidditch Captain doesn't help."
Maeve's mouth dropped and she stood up abruptly, clapping her hands together. "You're Head Boy?"
"Um, yes?" Regulus cleared his throat; because he hadn't attended all those speech-training classes when he was younger for nothing. (He'd attended it because his mother wanted him to, but that was another issue entirely.) "Of course I'm Head Boy. I receive perfect marks, I've been Prefect since my fifth year, and I've never been assigned detention. There's no better candidate."
Maeve collapsed to her chair with wide eyes. "Oh no, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to imply there's someone more deserving or anything—because there isn't, you're really going to be a great Head Boy, congratulations! I, um, just, I didn't know, or it must have slipped my mind if you've already told me this, sorry. I meant the 'You're Head Boy' part in an 'Oh Merlin, I'm so happy for you' way, not anything else."
Regulus blinked. "Uh, wait. No, um, I didn't misunderstand what you're saying, you did, but—no, please don't speak, I'm not done yet, thank you—when I explained the whole part about me getting perfect marks and such, I meant it in a self-prideful way, not as a defence. So, um, don't worry, you're okay. Yeah."
Well, his speech-training classes ended years ago, so who cared if he didn't frame things eloquently?
(His mother cared, but that was also another issue entirely.)
Maeve appeared visibly relieved. She closed her eyes momentarily. "Oh, thank Merlin."
Regulus shifted on his chair. "You don't have to walk on thin ice with me. I'm not easy to offend, and when I am, I'll let you know."
"I'd appreciate that but," Maeve bowed her head to the point her chin touched her chest, "it's not as much as me walking on thin ice with you, and more of me not wanting you to feel bad. I don't like it when you're upset, let alone because of me." She raised her head, and Regulus imagined she balanced a crown. "You're doing such dangerous and cruel things, and your childhood is going away, you're almost an adult, and that's very sad. I want you to feel happy, or at least, peaceful. If the world can't allow you peace, I'll create it for you here, with me."
"Um," Regulus was saying, blushing so hard he thought his nose might start bleeding.
In his most humble, unbiased opinion, although Regulus had been named after a star, it was Maeve who was the light of the stars made manifest on earth.
He turned his head towards the other customers and watched them like it was an entertaining play. Maeve took to sitting straighter, fidgeting with her fingers and humming a tune under her breath.
From the corner of his eyes, Regulus spotted the precise moment Maeve's eyes widened, and yet, he jumped in his seat when she slammed her palms on the table, vibrating the cups and utensils.
"You're good at potions!" Maeve blurted out, her countenance brightening like a sunrise over a meadow.
Recovered, Regulus threw her his best, offended glare. "Excuse you, I'm brilliant at potions."
"Excellent!" Maeve picked up her diary, flipped the pages hurriedly and slid it to him. "If it's alright, could you please take a look at these ingredients and let me know which potions could be made from them? Altogether, that is."
Regulus hummed, leaning forward and taking the open diary. Creases formed on his forehead as he read the list. "These are very specific, rare and expensive ingredients," he observed aloud. "Factoring in all the ingredients on the page and adding a few that aren't present, I can venture to guess...Veritaserum?" He nodded to himself, passing the diary back to her. "Yes, it's Veritaserum, most definitely."
"Veritaserum?" Maeve echoed. "Isn't it another name for the truth potion?"
"The truth serum," corrected Regulus. "But yes."
Maeve's shoulders slumped and she deflated like a balloon.
"If I asked you why you're asking me this," started Regulus, "would you answer?"
Maeve shook her head, lips pressed together in a line.
Regulus nodded his head and let her know, "I haven't ordered yet. Shall I fix us some pot roast?"
Maeve twirled a strand of her wavy, gold-lacquered hair around her finger. "Yes, please. Thank you."
Regulus summoned a house-elf and ordered pot-roast, salad, chamomile tea and orange juice. Maeve hummed as she looked out the window. Her eyes lit up. "Oh, there's Andromeda," she mused aloud, softly, watching Andromeda navigate through the crowd towards Honeyduke's, holding the hand of a little girl with rainbow hair.
Regulus' whirled around so fast, Maeve was scared he'd get whiplash. His lips parted as he rounded on Andromeda. He followed her with his eyes, soaking in her movements and steps until she disappeared from view before fixing his attention on Maeve. "How do you know her?"
"She's my mind-healer," answered Maeve, and realised that while she'd told Regulus about visiting a mind-healer, she'd never mentioned a name. Then, she had the audacity to frown so adorably, Regulus reckoned his heart would need a Healer's attention, and say, "How do you know her?"
"She's my cousin."
Maeve tensed. "The one who uses healing spells to make people wish they were dead?"
"No. She's the one who ran away in the middle of the night with her boyfriend and my family's jewels."
Maeve whistled lowly. "Wow." Then, she added, "Are every one of your cousins' healers?"
"Pretty much." Regulus nodded before pausing. "Well, technically, only Andromeda is. One of my cousins quit to be a Death Eater, as you already know, and the other one learnt healing but doesn't practise it. On humans, at least."
Maeve piqued a brow in confusion.
Regulus elaborated in clarification: "She spends all her time healing peacocks now."
"Peacocks?" Maeve echoed, bewildered.
"White peacocks, yes. Apparently, they're high maintenance and injury-prone."
"How are they injury prone?"
"My cousin has a temper."
"Your cousin hurts them and then heals them?"
"No, my Death Eater cousin hurts them and my other, non-practising cousin heals them."
"Oh," said Maeve, mostly out of a lack of saying anything else. "Um, it sounds like your non-practising cousin really shouldn't allow your Death Eater cousin near peacocks. Or, you know, humans."
"That's what I keep telling her. She doesn't listen."
"Which cousin are you talking about now?"
"Both of them."
"Oh."
Their food arrived. Maeve thanked the house-elves and Regulus nodded curtly to them. Neither of them made any move to eat. Regulus stared at the window again, nose scrunched up like he was willing Andromeda to return.
Maeve remembered Sirius telling her how his mother had prohibited him from interacting with Andromeda back in their third year. She remembered Halley squeezing Sirius' hand and commenting that it was disgusting how his family was pretending his cousin was dead just because she liked a muggleborn. She remembered Sirius grinning, holding eye contact with Halley pointedly and proclaiming his family would be pretending he was dead in a while as well since he also liked a muggleborn. She remembered being repulsed by Sirius' family and being over-the-moon over Halley's spluttering yet joyous state at her boyfriend's declaration.
The steam emitting from the pot-roast eventually stopped. Andromeda still hadn't passed by the window of the Leaky Cauldron.
Maeve nudged Regulus by touching her foot with his under the table, startling him. "Hey, Regulus?"
"Yes?"
"When's your birthday?" Maeve asked randomly to restart the conversation.
"What's today's date?"
"The seventeenth."
"Then it was eight days ago. Why?"
"Wait, what? I'm sorry?" Maeve blinked. She couldn't remember them doing anything special eight days ago. They'd eaten lunch at the Leaky Cauldron pub, same as always, and later that night, her parents had narrated stories as they ate dinner and played another round of snap, where Regulus had lost for the first time. "Your birthday passed already?" Maeve unsuccessfully tried to keep the hurt from her voice. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Does it matter?" Regulus looked bored but his tone was dipped in desperation.
Maeve willed a smile to her face and served him a generous helping of the roast. He clearly didn't want to talk about it, so Maeve wasn't going to push him. "No, it doesn't. Do you like the roast?"
Regulus picked up the cutlery and ate a piece of the roast. "It's not entirely abysmal."
"Not entirely abysmal?" Maeve quipped an eyebrow. "That's high praise coming from you."
"I'm aware."
Maeve gulped down her orange juice while Regulus daintily sipped his chamomile tea, dapping his mouth with a napkin after setting the cup on the table.
Then, he informed her, nonchalantly, "Sirius ran away on my birthday."
Maeve's fork was halfway towards her plate. "Oh." She rested her fork on her plate, pulled out another rose from her sling bag and handed it to him. "I'm sorry I brought up bad memories. It mustn't have been easy to tell me this. Thank you for trusting me."
Regulus nodded his head, and wordlessly dropped the rose with the other one, and watched a petal fall like his mood.
Regulus remembered his fifteenth birthday as a hurricane of heartbreak. An occasion to celebrate his birth had transformed into one allowing him to regret it.
It all went downhill when the candles of the strawberry birthday cake had been lit; when Sirius had begun clapping and singing a muggle birthday song. The argument escalated. Words had been spat, hands had flown to wands. His mother had cursed Sirius with an unforgivable for the first time.
After Sirius had screamed till his throat went hoarse, covered in sweat and tears, their mother had dropped her wand, shocked and mortified by her actions. She'd just been summoning an apology out her throat when Sirius had decided he had tolerated enough. His older brother had pushed past their frozen, wide-eyed father and stomped up to his room, returning a minute later with a bag.
"Come with me," Sirius had begged Regulus, a hopeful hand outstretched. "We won't have to put up with this any longer. We deserve better. We're worth better. Come with me and let's run away. I'll take care of everything, I'll take care of you, I promise; just run away with me please."
But Regulus had stood there, as still and cold as an ice statue, the wax of the candle melted into the frosting of his birthday cake, before putting on his best haughty expression because he could vaguely but distinctly hear his father comforting his mother in the next room, his mother who was wailing and weeping at her own behaviour, at the push she had given Sirius to leave earlier that day.
So Regulus had stared into his brother's hopeful and desperate and promising eyes and said, "I think it's better for all of us if you don't come back."
Regulus saw Sirius' expression fall like leaves and wilt like flowers, hurt and pain painted over his features. Unable to stomach being the cause of Sirius' crestfallen disposition, Regulus turned and walked towards his mother, who he'd chosen over his brother.
However, he still flinched when the door shut with a bang behind him and even though he knew what that meant, Regulus twisted his head ever so slightly and confirmed the ugly truth: Sirius had left. Sirius wasn't coming back.
If Walburga had given Sirius the push he needed, Regulus had locked the door behind him.
"—lus? Are you okay? Do you need a Healer?"
Regulus snapped back to reality, Maeve's voice anchoring him. He smiled tightly at her. "No, I'm alright, thank you though. I just...got lost in my thoughts a bit."
"That's the scariest place to get lost in." Maeve's concern seemed to grow ten-fold. She remembered a line she'd read in a book, about how some people bleed with their tears and others with their thoughts. "Do you...do you maybe want to talk about it?"
Regulus shook his head and used his fork to push around the meat on his plate.
Maeve nodded and placed another serving of pot-roast on his plate. "So, Regulus," she began, lips curling up into a grin, "I heard the most mind-blowing opinion on baby turtles earlier today, and before I share that, I must ask: what is your opinion on baby turtles?"
Regulus looked like Maeve whenever a teacher had called her up to answer a question and she'd not paid attention. "Should I have an opinion on baby turtles?"
Maeve gasped. "Of course you should! Have you ever seen one?"
"Once," revealed Regulus, his tone glazed with nostalgia. "My parents used to take us to the sea when we were little."
"And?" Maeve prompted. "What's your opinion on them?"
Regulus winked at her and ate his food.
Maeve pouted, tossed an affectionate glance his way and followed his move.
Neither of them talked for the rest of lunch, but the quietude between them wasn't awkward. Rather, it was the kind of soft serenity that settled upon two people who were comfortable with each other enough to let the silence speak volumes, in the loveliest manner it could.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
Maeve returned to work after lunch with Regulus, the hours ticking by due to the sheer hecticness of cross-checking, confirming, selecting, reviewing, designing the layout and finally, approving the printing of articles, ads and photographs. When the clock struck six, the employees of The Quibbler bade each other goodbye, leaving, while another set of employees arrived, greeting each other and ready to start the night shift.
Maeve disappeared with the first half of the employees. Normally, Maeve would take the morning shift and Xenophilius the night one, but he apparently had to visit his ill mother that evening and had forgotten to give her prior notice, so they'd been unable to switch. However, since they had more reliable employees on roll that night, and considering Xenophilius lived close-enough to their workplace he could apparate in a jiffy if owl'd, and as Maeve herself could easily be summoned by a fire-call should she be required, they decided to take it easy that evening.
After drinking water, Maeve apparated to Moody's townhouse and knocked on the door.
Peter Pettigrew opened it. "'ello Maeve-y!"
Maeve repressed a flinch at the name Bruce used to always call her, and instead, fixed a grin. "Hi, Peter! How are you doing?"
Peter shrugged, stepping aside and allowing her to enter. "Okay, I suppose. You?"
"I'm doing good, thank you for asking. What about your grandmother? Is she okay?"
"Gran's doing better," replied Peter, smiling slightly. "She joined a yoga class."
"Woah, that sounds fascinating!"
Peter shrugged again. "I guess. She made a ton of friends, so at least, she isn't lonely anymore."
The smile Maeve directed towards him was gentle and sincere. "I'm delighted to hear that." Her eyes swept the general area. "Where is everybody? It sounds really quiet."
"James and Lily are on a quadruple date with Sirius and Halley, Frank and Alice, and Molly and Arthur," explained Peter. "And Remus...he's got this little problem tonight, so he can't come. Some are at the Weasley's house on babysitting, and others are here, but they've locked themselves upstairs, playing cards and applied that privacy spell."
Maeve's brows furrowed. "You're not interested in playing cards?"
Peter's gaze dropped to his feet and red coloured his cheeks like acrylic paint. "I, uh, don't know how to."
Maeve brightened. "Come on then."
"Where?"
"To that table there. If it's alright with you, I can teach you to play Snap."
Peter's eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Of course." She paused. "I probably should confess that I'm terrible at playing Snap though."
"That's alright," said Peter, tone merry. "Let's do this."
They did it. Maeve dug up a deck of cards from a drawer in the living room and sitting on the carpeted floors, she taught Peter to play cards her way—the losing way, with poor strategies and even poorer luck that Regulus exploited every time. Yet, they had fun, laughing and making up rules at their convenience.
So when Moody, still in his maroon Auror robes, appeared at the townhouse shadowing Dumbledore, Peter smiled sadly at Maeve, as if he knew without the powers of divination that their time together had been abruptly cut short. Maeve flashed him a guilty, apologetic expression which he waved off.
"It's alright, Maeve-y," he said, and Maeve's heart burnt. "Thanks for playing with me."
"It was my pleasure and still, I'm so sorry. We should have a re-match soon," she told him.
In response, he smiled again and agreed in a tone which suggested that he knew that soon would never come but was indulging her words. It both irked Maeve and made her pity him.
Dumbledore greeted them pleasantly and glanced at Maeve steadily before going up the stairs, which Moody was already climbing. Maeve trailed after the Headmaster before she halted, whirled around and ran back.
"Peter!" She called out, startling the chubby man. "I forgot to give you something."
Peter seemed confused. "You did?"
"I did." Maeve reached into her sling bag and pulled out a red rose, handing it to a shell-shocked Peter with a smile. "Happy Give Somebody A Rose Day."
Peter accepted the rose with surprise intertwined in his face. "It's for me?"
"Of course," said Maeve, with that seemingly ever-present smile of hers. "I adore, appreciate and value you tremendously, Peter. Have a nice evening, goodbye for now!"
With that, she raced out the living room, down the corridors and up the stairs, trying not to delay the meeting between the M.A.Ds. She couldn't have known how Peter would stand there for nearly twenty minutes, watching a rose intently with wide eyes and ignoring how the thorns pierced his skin.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
Upstairs, in a room with the privacy and security of Gringotts' best vault, Maeve, Dumbledore and Moody sat around a circular table, a bowl of acid-pops placed at the centre.
Maeve started that day's meeting by showing them her diary. Moody first, then Dumbledore. "Do you recognise these ingredients, by any chance?"
Dumbledore looked alarmed. "Yes, these are used to make truth serums."
"Exactly." Maeve returned her diary to her bag. "Lucius Malfoy was buying them earlier today in enormous quantities."
"It is quite concerning." Dumbledore hummed, lips downturned. "Did Everybody tell you this?"
"No, I found out myself."
"Oh?" Dumbledore arched a brow, suddenly curious. "How?"
"I followed strict procedures, examined the routine of my subject and analysed their behaviour."
"She stalked him," Moody translated with ease.
"I don't stalk. I investigate," corrected Maeve.
Moody snorted and opened his mouth to counter when Dumbledore spoke, bringing them back to the matter at hand: "Did Malfoy see you, by any chance?"
"He didn't," stated Maeve, confidence radiating from her. "I was very careful."
Dumbledore hummed noncommittally, which made a ghost of a frown touch Maeve's lips. "You don't believe me, do you?"
"Only being cautious, my dear girl," said Dumbledore, leaning back.
Maeve's frown deepened, but she didn't let herself ponder on his words or tone. "The truth serum, much like its name implies, was invented to force out the truth from somebody who wouldn't want to share, right?" At Moody's nod, she continued: "And Malfoy bought the ingredients today. How long does it normally take for the potion to brew?"
"An entire moon cycle," answered Moody. Being an Auror equated to being familiar with truth serums. When Maeve stared at him blankly, he translated, "About a month."
Maeve smiled slightly at him in gratitude and resumed to speak: "So, this means, Lucius Malfoy is expecting to interrogate multiple—obviously resistant—people in a month. And the only way he could do that was if there was an attack and captives had been taken, or if people were kidnapped from their homes and taken hostage."
"We might not be able to prevent either of them," acknowledged Moody, begrudgingly. "And we don't know the targets."
"Yet," Maeve added, and asked, "What's the expiration date for the truth serum?"
"It lasts till the end of the next lunar cycle, so a month."
"It's not going to be easy to brew such a large quantity of truth serum. It's a very difficult potion, right? It needs a lot of care and has to be watched over the entire day?" At Moody's nod, Maeve continued, "So that means they have a master potion maker within their ranks, which is expected, but it also means it's going to be brewed in one location, right? Unless all the other Death Eaters will spend their time brewing, which given they have high, public jobs and need to maintain appearances, they can't. The truth serum also can't be transported easily—not such a large quantity, at least. Like, a ton of vials will be needed. If they're going down that route, I can find out." She could ask her parents to approach the shopkeepers under the disguise of buying vials and check if they were sold out. "But I don't think they will. They'll need holding cells to interrogate their captives, as well, won't they?"
"It's all there in the Malfoy Manor," interjected Moody, rubbing his chin and probably recalling details from raids he'd led into the household. "They have a large potions lab and their basement had holding cells—apparently, it's part of the architectural design of the estate, used frequently when hunting muggles was still legal. Probably still used for that same reason now, but more secretly."
Maeve flinched, storing the first part of Moody's words in her mind and crumbling the rest. "That's what I was thinking. I think they'll be holding people under the Malfoy Manor until they're ready to be interrogated with the truth serum in a month."
"We'll follow this closely," Dumbledore finally spoke, voice like gravel. "Alastor, find out if you can conduct a surprise raid on the Malfoy Manor in a month. Maeve, confirm whether this is just a theory or a fact. I'll do a little digging of my own."
Moody and Maeve nodded their heads.
"What I don't understand," Dumbledore added, "is why Everybody didn't inform you of this?"
Maeve's gaze narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"If, truly, such a plot is in play, surely Everybody would know, or at the least, have an inkling of this." Are you sure he isn't hiding information from you? Are you sure he isn't a double agent?
"What I don't understand," said Maeve, voice hard like granite, "is why you expect Everybody to know everything? At its core, the Death Eaters are an organisation, much like ours. The people downstairs don't know one-eighth of the things we discuss up here and the things they do know are filtered to the maximum—and these are the people that you personally selected, vouched for, and claim to trust. So, I don't understand why you'd expect Everybody to know each and every thing that occurs among the Death Eaters, who trust absolutely no one and are so secretive, you had to resort to the second-hand information of eighteen-year-old me," she finished, voice icy. If you don't trust him, that's fine, because I do. And if you don't trust me, stop pretending that you do. "I wonder, next, if you're going to ask Everybody to let us know which colour undergarments You-Know-Who wears."
Moody burst into laughter. Dumbledore faintly smiled.
Regulus had two weeks of summer holidays left before he returned to school for his seventh year. It made sense that Voldemort wouldn't tell him anything since he'd be at the castle the following month. Besides, Regulus served as a link between the students of Hogwarts and the Dark Lord. Maeve doubted he'd be given information regarding attacks that would involve neither parties nor require any extra manpower.
"My apologies, Maeve," said Dumbledore. "In my effort to be cautious, I did not realise I doubted your source, and indirectly, you. I misspoke, and for that, I truly am sorry."
Maeve ignored his words. She'd talk with Andromeda about her frustration and anger during their next session. Right now, she had to concentrate on other things.
"We have a bit of time to look into that," she spoke and brought out another diary from her bag, one with scribblings of dates and names and times and places and information. "Everybody told me they'd be attacking the Muggleborn Support Organisation."
Halley was part of it. In the pureblood-favouring world of theirs, the M.S.O. provided lawyers for those who had been wrongly accused of a crime, and also those muggle-borns who wanted to take a pureblood or half-blood to court. Along with that, they led peaceful protests when the Wizengamot passed bias-filled laws, when the government was being particularly unfriendly, connected unemployed muggle-borns to job opportunities, tried to ensure a safe working environment, provided financial relief for those muggle-borns who were either unemployed or desperately seeking money; among other things. So, of course, being a target of You-Know-Who had always been a matter of when.
"I dug into a bit more," continued Maeve, flipping through the pages to find the right one, and proceeding to read aloud the notes, "and they'll be doing it the week before everyone leaves for Hogwarts. The M.S.O normally holds a party for all the muggleborn students on the 20th, which is right around the corner. You-Know-Who is planning to wipe out seven generations of muggleborn students and everyone else present there. I told you this yesterday, and you told me you'll construct a plan and tell me today. What's your plan, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore used his wand to draw glittering red shapes in the air, illustrating his plan as he explained.
When he was finished, Maeve only had one word to tell him: "No."
"At least think about it a bit more."
"I did, and no." Maeve's voice was as hard as the thin, straight line her lips had pressed into.
She glanced at Moody, who lifted his hands in surrender. "Now, now, girl—Maeve," he hastily amended, "don't look at me. I agree with the plan, for the most part, at least. But, Albus, the Death Eaters will be party-crashing to kill, not to talk. If we ought to win this battle, we must do the same. I suppose, though, a good scapegoat is almost as welcome as a solution to this problem."
"The scapegoat is the solution to this problem," said Dumbledore, his voice grim.
"But we could use a bit more force and properly maim—"
Dumbledore shook his head. "No."
"Well, what's the bloody point of using stinging charms and disarming curses when they're firing killing and torturing ones at us!"
"Humanity."
Maeve snorted and spoke before the vein on Moody's forehead could burst. "I find it laughable that you're talking of humanity when a few seconds ago, you advocated for killing people."
"I never—"
"Sorry, right, scapegoats was the word you used. Both of you." Maeve's cheeks reddened with rage. "They're humans, Mr Moody, Headmaster. People. And you're reducing their lives to being scapegoats for a plan we don't even know will succeed—which, by the way, shouldn't count. The probability of success shouldn't have to depend on the deaths of people."
Dumbledore wore an expression of calmness. "I did use the term scapegoats, but as a metaphorical meaning, not entirely literal. They might not die, Maeve. We can protect them."
Maeve cocked an eyebrow and looked strikingly similar to Minvera Mcgnagall whenever she heard something stupid. "Pray tell. How?"
"We have Aurors in the Order," Dumbledore pointed out. "Many of them, in fact. Trained, capable and skilled. The rest of the members aren't bad at defence either. We can help. It'll be fine," he added upon recognising the deadpanning look Maeve awarded him.
"We've known each other for half a year now. You just proposed using people like worms are used to bait fish. What in Merlin's name about me made you believe I'd approve?"
"Not approve," said Dumbledore lightly. "I merely assumed by now, you would have understood that although it's hard, a slight amount of worms need to be sacrificed to catch the big fish. Have you heard about the trolley problem?"
"No."
"It's a fascinating muggle scenario. It creates a fictional scene in which an onlooker is presented with the opportunity to save five people in danger of being hit by a trolley by diverting the trolley to kill just one person. The plan I displayed before you presents you with a real scene but the same opportunity—save five people by diverting the course of the danger to the road walked on by only one. The question is, will you take the opportunity?"
"You're asking the wrong question, sir. The question is, will I be able to handle the guilt of knowing that my choice killed a person?" Maeve's voice rose like the break of dawn with every word that left her mouth. "The question is, will I be able to write an article and mention the death toll knowing that I played a major part in it? The question is if I pass by that person's family member in the street, would I be able to live with myself?" She shook her head. "I don't think I'll be able to and I don't want to test that out."
"What we want to do and what we have to do are two seperate things, Maeve. We're facing the trolley problem now, whether or not we desire to. We can't control that, but we can control the number of deaths that occur. The plan I explained earlier reduces the number from five to one. It's very unfortunate that a person has to die for five others to live, but it's for the greater good."
The moment that phrase left Dumbledore's mouth—he had tried omitting it completely, but some habits were difficult to let go of—he knew he messed up. Beside him, Moody tensed and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Here we go again."
Maeve, meanwhile, stared at Dumbledore, her face void of emotions. "Many atrocities have been committed by people throughout history in the name of the greater good. That does not make them any less atrocious. Or are we conveniently forgetting about Grindelwald now?"
A flash of emotions passed through Dumbledore's eyes. He looked pained. "Maeve," he began, gentle yet cautious like she was a cornered animal he didn't want to frighten, but Maeve cut him off.
"After the first time I properly recall hearing that phrase, Headmaster, my best friend died." She stood up. "Sort out your priorities—and yes, human lives, every and any amount of human lives is a priority whether you recognise it as such or not—and then, call me. I hope you sort it out soon, or you'll have to take to reading the Quibbler the next day to know You-Know-Who's juicy gossip like the rest of my readers. Have a lovely day."
Dumbledore sighed tiredly like he carried the weight of the world on his back when Maeve exited the room, the sound of her footsteps thundering as she climbed down the stairs. He turned to Moody. "Could you please talk to her?"
"You're the one who spends most of his time around teenagers and children."
"If you can't tell by the way I just triggered a young girl about the death of her best friend—again—I'm not quite good at it," said Dumbledore dryly, prompting another snort out of Moody, this time in agreement to his words.
"She's visiting a very expensive Mind Healer every week. Sorting out the girl's issues sound like her job, not ours. Besides," said Moody, snorting, "I don't think us talking to her will solve any problem."
Dumbledore sighed again. "This is what I was afraid of. Miss Macmillan is wise beyond her young age, but it doesn't change the fact that she's still young. Young and passionate and lacking the experience in this world to understand why some sacrifices are necessary."
Moody snorted once more but didn't rebuke Dumbledore's words. His career as an Auror had played a catalyst for him witnessing terrible, gruesome sights. Like the Headmaster, he too played with probabilities and concentrated on statistics. Unlike the Headmaster, Moody's priority was the complete vanquishment of the dark wizards and witches rather than the stopping of war and the ratio of lives saved to lives lost to not scramble out of control.
So of course they butted heads like rams with Maeve, who prioritised something as simple yet controversial as life.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
Maeve apparated straight home. She found Regulus sitting on the bed and reading a book in the guest room he'd made his.
Perceiving her disposition, he shut his book and placed it on the nightstand. "Trouble in paradise?"
"It was never paradise to begin with. Just an illusion." Maeve sighed and fell onto the bed in a dramatic fashion she felt was fitting.
Regulus rolled his eyes at her antics. "What happened?"
"Disagreement."
"Ah, the normal sort?"
"Yes." She allowed her fury to lessen and her heartbeat to even. "Hey, Regulus?"
"Hmm?"
"Is It alright if I ask you a question?"
"Depends on the question."
Maeve opened her mouth, closed it, and repeated the process.
Regulus took pity on her and waved his hand towards her. "Go ahead."
Maeve sat up, folding her legs beneath her and facing him. She looked uncharacteristically serious that Regulus imitated her stance.
"Tell me," stated Maeve softly yet vacantly. "Would you kill to save a life?"
"Depends on whose life I'm saving."
Maeve lifted an eyebrow and when she spoke, her voice was incredulous, upset, angry and disbelieving simultaneously: "The value of people's very lives are different?"
"Yes." Maeve frowned but Regulus added, "If I had to kill to save your life, for example, I would do so without hesitation."
Surprise splashed on Maeve's features. A rosy hue surfaced her cheeks but hesitation was clear in her voice, "I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing you feel that way."
Regulus shrugged and shuffled the deck of cards. "All I said was my truth. It's okay if you're unsure about it."
A good man might have told her no life was less than another. But compared to Maeve, oh how Regulus would make the rivers run red. He was not a good man. He was selfish, but in the least, he was honest.
He hadn't wanted to grow fond of Maeve. Really. But at some point, she had smiled at him, and he'd known he had blown it.
"What about you?" Regulus asked her. "Would you kill to save a life?"
Maeve flinched and said, "I don't want to."
"What about if you need to?" He pushed. "What if you need to kill someone to save another person's life?"
"No. It's currently no, and I'm hoping it stays that way."
By the way his eyebrow arched, Maeve knew he'd caught her words. "Currently?" Regulus echoed.
Maeve sighed, tipping her head back to face the ceiling. "Given how things are going, I can't promise anything for the future, but I'll try. I'll give it my best and even more. But I hope it doesn't come to that. It shouldn't come to that point where I have to make that choice. It's not fair."
"Life rarely is. You have to make the best of what you're given and demand more anyway."
"Then I demand fairness." A tear escaped her eyes. "And fairness to me is letting people control whether they die or live. It shouldn't be my choice that's their sentence. It shouldn't be anyone's."
At this point in his life, Regulus could probably give an award-winning lecture on fairness and choices and coercion and if he was discussing this topic with anyone other than Maeve, he would have.
But this was Maeve.
And he cared about how she felt, and wouldn't dare impose the ugly truth on her when she was on the verge of sobbing.
Regulus didn't know what to say to make her feel better. Then, he did. "I want a hug," he said.
Maeve looked at him through misted eyes. "I know you feel uneasy with physical contact." She sniffed. "If you're saying that to make me feel better, I do appreciate it tremendously, but I don't want to hug if it's at the expense of your comfort."
At her proclamation, Regulus' smile was genuine in the way it crinkled a bit near his eyes. "Now I want a hug more."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," he replied, and moved first, scooting closer to her and circling his arms around her waist, resting his head on her neck.
Maeve stilled for a second, startled at him actually hugging her, and then, she relaxed, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in the crook of his neck.
He felt her eyelashes flutter and suppressed a shiver because other things ranked his priority list higher than asking Maeve when she'd switched her perfume from vanilla to lavender; because Maeve's body began convulsing. Drops of water fell on his skin. Regulus patted her back, saying nothing, just holding her until her crying had reduced to hiccoughs.
Now writing Maeve's name on her back with his fingers, Regulus said, "I never did tell you my opinion of baby turtles, did I?"
Maeve choked out a mix between laughter and hiccough, loosening her grip on him before eventually releasing him, ending their second hug together. "No, you didn't." She wiped the tears clinging to her cheeks using her hands, and Regulus wished he could magic away from her sadness. "What is it?"
Regulus smirked. "I think they're adorable."
Maeve laughed again, and it sounded like the wind chimes hung at the holiday home near the beach his parents used to take him to. "I knew we were friends for a reason," she announced, beaming, and proceeded to share her mind-healer and his cousin, Andromeda's, unpopular opinion on them, which had repulsed Maeve: apparently, they tasted great.
DISCLAIMER—
I am a vegetarian. I do not know whether or not baby turtles taste great. But I do strongly believe they are adorable. Oh! Also, I know Millicent Bagnold came into power at 1980 and it's currently not-1980 but for the sake of this story, let's imagine she came into power early :)
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!