The Mary-ist MacDonald

23, journalist, Order.  A Crimson Beginning character

[imarymac-blog1]

Act I - The Cellist || Mary and Alastor|| February 29, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

head-auror-moody:

With dismissive wave, he said, “No need. I’ll send a team to come and process the scene. Hopefully Old Friend doesn’t decide to return in the meantime.” Alastor nodded to himself, thinking that that was a good plan. “Well, let’s get back to the office. I doubt we’ll find anything else just by standing here, and he,” he pointed a thumb in the direction of the body, “isn’t going to come back to life to tell us anything new.” The autopsy would tell them more about the manner of the man’s death, and what all would have been involved in staging him in such a manner.

It was out his control now, or rather, he had to ask himself if he ever was in control. Old Friend had staged this, had lured him there and had left nothing beyond what was meant to be found. Then there was the matter of selecting a lead Auror to the case. He’d been implicated in the case; the initials carved out in the victim’s flesh had done that; him taking the lead on it would break protocol. And yet, Old Friend had already shown that people who got in the way of what he wanted, ended up dead. Alastor didn’t want to put an Auror in that situation.

Fuck protocol. As Head Auror he could assign a lead Auror, but still be involved in the investigation - he’d make it appear that he would only be playing his supervisory position. “With what you were saying earlier about the what to write in the article. Instead of saying that I provided assistance, just say that I was made aware of the crime and declined to comment about an ongoing investigation. More details will be provided later. Or something like that. Hopefully that’ll be enough to convey that I’ve been made aware of all the things he’s left, but that I’m not going to be directly involved.” Alastor didn’t want to Old Friend to think that he could be so easily forced into complying with whatever sick plan the Death Eater had. The Auror would continue to work in the background; he’d catch Old Friend on his own terms.

Not taking a look to look at the body again, he headed to the steps off the stage. “As a witness to the scene and the person who reported it, I’ll need an official statement from you. But, let’s do that at the office,” he said over his shoulder. With the body on display like it was, he doubted that either of them would be able to concentrate with it just sitting there. Not to mention, the sooner they got back to the department, the sooner he could send a team over to thoroughly examine everything.

Alastor walked up the aisle, trying not to think about the letter in his pocket and the similar ones in his desk. What does he want out of all of this? What’s his end game? When he finally did catch Old Friend, he was going to have a chat with him. Preferably in the company of a looming dementor. Once he pushed open the door to the outside, he felt like he could properly breathe again. The theatre was old, and it was stuffy. The body, the place being a crime scene and knowing that it could have all been a trap had run up his adrenaline. He reached up to wipe away the small beads of sweat from his forehead. “How are you holding up, MacDonald?”

Mary let a relieved sigh out when Alastor said they could leave the theatre now. Her eyes went back to the body as Alastor pointed at it, and she shuddered, imagining the body doing just that and coming to life. It was not a scenario she found at all appealing. “I’m good with that,” she nodded, trying to sound casual. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back on her heels as she looked around the room one more time.

What he was saying made sense. Mary was honestly happy to go along with what Alastor was suggesting this time around. Usually she would bristle at being told what to write. In this case, though, she was willing to follow Alastor’s lead. He knew Old Friend better than she did. It was frightening of course, to think that someone like Old Friend had been around long enough to have gained Alastor’s notice. But maybe that was Old Friend’s desire all along. From the initials on the body, it certainly seemed as if Old Friend had more than a…passing fancy in the Head Auror.

The reporter only hoped that by going along with what Alastor said, she was doing the right thing. Not for the story, because fuck that, she certainly had enough to go on. But in regards to Old Friend and what he wanted. Her confrontational nature wanted to send a big “fuck you” to Old Friend for involving her in this, for manipulating her. But Mary was also wise enough now to know that would not be a smart move. She hoped he wouldn’t take her vague comments about Alastor’s involvement as disobedience. Mary was not keen to find out anything more about Old Friend first hand.

“That’s fine with me,” she agreed. She rubbed her hands over her arms, feeling chilled. She just wanted to get this all over with, though an uneasy feeling in Mary’s stomach told her it was just beginning. It made her feel sick all over again.

It took her a moment to realize that Alastor was moving again. Decisively, he strode up the aisle, away from the stage. He did not turn back. Clearly he was a man who expected to lead and have others follow. Another time this might have amused, or even annoyed Mary. Tonight she was glad of it. His steadiness spread to her, allowed her to keep a grip on reality, keep herself together.

Mary followed his lead and hurried after him out of the theatre, not looking back. She took a deep breath of the crisp night air as the doors slammed shut behind her. She felt a little dizzy, light headed, as if she hadn’t been fully breathing while inside. The cold air was a slap to her cheeks, waking her up, bringing her back to reality. She relished the feeling of the wind on her skin, in her hair. It cooled her down, even as it made her shiver a little, finding the sweat on the back of her neck.

Mary wiped her hands on her jeans and gave Alastor a small smile. “Holding it together,” she said. And she was. As much as she could. But Mary had things to focus on. She didn’t even want to know how she’d feel when this was all over and Alastor kicked her out to go home. 

“Could use a drink though,” she said, smile twisting to a wry grin.

[imarymac-blog1]

Fun in miniature ||M&S|| March 28, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

crabbeapple:

Sep grinned at the compliment, unable to resist preening a little at the flattery. He was proud of the charmwork that went into each one of his creations and they came of a lot of hard work and practice. Even people who were surprised that he of all people would have such a job or were derisive of his career itself couldn’t deny that the magic worked into the carvings was good. And Mary was going the extra mile, openly admiring it instead of grudgingly admitting its worth.

Speaking of admitting things, Sep had to admit that he hadn’t been expecting the answer he got to his question. A journalist? He raised his eyebrows. “The Prophet, eh? That’s neat. What sorta stories do you write?”

He didn’t know much about what journalists did, the job being one that he never put much thought to. The stories were in the paper, so it made sense that someone wrote them, of course, but he’d never thought about it beyond that. There were all sorts of different bits in the Daily Prophet, though, from big important stories on the front page, to the advice columns and daily divination segments that no one really cared about. He wondered which type of stories Mary wrote.

Sep had never been very good at writing either, so it was interesting to meet someone who did it for a living. How did she not get bored? Writing was dull as ditchwater! Even thinking about doing it for a living made him want to groan, thinking back to all of the essays they’d had to write back in school.

To each their own, he supposed. There were plenty who might think what he did was boring. Still, that rational thought did little to dissuade his bemusement over the appeal of journalism. There must be something about it that made Mary want to do it, though.

“I read the Prophet often enough,” he mused. “I’ve probably read some of your stuff and never even knew. That’s sorta cool, actually.” Sort of like meeting the author of a book he’d read or something like that. It wasn’t like Mary was famous or anything, but she’d still had her words published, so it was more than he could say of himself. He wondered if, when meeting people who had read her stories, she felt like he did when he met people who’d bought his toys, a mix of interest and pleasure and slight unease at what their opinion on his work might be.

“Anything that causes a stir," Mary grinned, twirling a curl round her finger. “Things that people want to read. Or need to know.” Mary was all for getting a good story, but she wasn’t an irresponsible type. She didn’t write things that weren’t true, and she didn’t stir the cauldron just for the fun of it. Mary wanted to be considered a reliable source, a responsible journalist. She was there for the good of the people, for the good of society. Though of course, those who didn’t want her to break certain stories might disagree.

“Most people do,” she laughed. The Prophet was the most popular news source in their community. Mary took pride in writing for it. On a personal level, she was also proud to have been considered good enough to write for them. “Hopefully it was a piece you liked,” she said, still laughing a little, a shy smile directed his way. It was always chancy meeting people who read her articles and knew who she was. Mary had definitely gotten bad reviews along with good ones. There was nothing for it, though but to keep going.

“I can’t say that I’ve seen any of your work before,” she admitted. “But I’m glad I know about it now.” She turned her head, smiling at the Hippogriff who had inched closer to her neck under her hair. Mary turned her smile back to Septimus again, gratefulness and admiration on her face.

“You have your own store, right? But you also make toys for other places?” Mary asked, curiously. Mary supposed it was good business.  Septimus could have his wares displayed in several places, which would hopefully just increase interest in his work. Mary could definitely see his creations going over well for all sorts.

[apromisetoeveryone]

Work, Weather, and Wonderful Company || Walden & Mary || February 26th, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

apromisetoeveryone:

Walden offered a small chuckle at her teasing joke, waiting to see if she was going to make a move. She didn’t so much make a move with her body, but with her words, her request was hardly one that could be misunderstood.

“I do have a few talents I could share,” he said quietly, offering another glance towards her lips before finally closing the distance between them. Taking her in a kiss, he didn’t bother being too gentle or sweet, he doubted that was what either of them wanted. He went deep, pulling her towards him and letting his hand wander down her thigh, gripping it firmly and giving a small squeeze before pulling apart again.

His grin becoming more cheeky, he quirked his brow as though asking whether he was living up to her expectations. It wasn’t as though he was inexperienced or insecure, he didn’t need her encouragement to trust that he knew what he was doing, but he figured he could tease her a little at the very least.

Rubbing his thumb in circles on her thigh, he let his eyes dart to the back, where there was a door that led to the washrooms and through to the side-alley, still a hidden alley from the Muggles but also from Diagon Alley, an odd void that was stuck between magic and Muggles that Walden often exploited for trips such as this. “You might be good with your mouth, but I’m rather skilled with my hands myself. That I can most certainly prove.”

Mary knew that there was something to be said for a bold woman, but she still liked a man who could take charge, especially when faced with a bold woman. Walden was proving he was not intimidated by her and Merlin but she liked it.

When he kissed her, it was with intention. It was not light, no hesitation. As she tilted forward, her hand pressed against his chest, holding herself upright. Her other landed on his thigh as well. She let her hand mirror his actions, squeezing. The fingers at his chest tightened into the fabric of his shirt.

Her smile also matched his when he pulled away. Cheeky, lips quirked up. She made a show of licking her lips afterwards, the smile remaining on her face. Mary did not take the quirk of his brow as a real question, more of a challenge. He was hardly the type to be insecure as far as she could tell.

Mary bit her lip, enjoying the feeling of his thumb rubbing her thigh. Warmth was spreading up from the circles, like the ripples in a pool growing larger. She could feel the tingling almost to her core. Her eyes followed his gaze to a door. Mary wasn’t quite sure where it led, but did she really care? She assumed Walden knew. Was it stupid to go along with it? Maybe. But she was enjoying the flirtation, the slight competition. One-upmanship in seduction was something she could definitely get behind.

Leaning in, Mary’s lips brushed Walden’s ear. “I’m certainly willing to let you try,” she murmured, her hand moving higher up his leg.

[imarymac-blog1]

researchable || Mary and Edgar || March 13, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

edgarbonesknows:

It sounded as though it had been an interesting trip all around Europe, as well as a few trips out of the continent, all to places that sounded fairly interesting. Edgar had never been outside of Europe and was curious as to the world outside of the very chunk that he’d seen.

Edgar nodded, knowing that Mary wasn’t being serious about travel writing, but thinking that it didn’t sound like such a terrible idea. If he didn’t have his family to think about, he might have considered doing more research abroad. Exploring different wizarding and Muggle communities around the world would be an incredible experience and he was sure that he would be able to learn a lot from the different cultures. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like it was in the cards for him. He would have to save those dreams until he was older and perhaps retired.

“Haven’t had a chance to do much traveling myself, unfortunately. I have some family in Italy, so I’ve been there, but other than that, I really haven’t done much at all,” he told her with a shrug. “It sounds like your travels were pretty extensive, actually. I can’t imagine being able to go all of those places now, not with the kids, anyway. Still a little young for that kind of travel.” With a grin, he shook his head. One day, maybe he could take them all on a trip. It would be good, he thought, to show the kids something outside of their small country.

“I’m sure at the rate that you’re working, you’ll have your own column in no time,” he assured Mary as the conversation moved back to her accomplishments. “I hope you start offering advice to confused old ladies, I’m sure that would brighten everyone’s day in the morning.” He could just imagine Gladys asking for advice about Krupps each week. Merlin knows he and every other person he knew had received poorly addressed letters from the woman asking an array of questions.  

He was happy to hear how her first report went, trying to remember if he had read the coverage on that. He doubted so. The event had been so small and not something that he usually went to watch, but it still sounded as though Mary had done a good job. She must have considering how she had managed to move up in her career so quickly.

“Sounds like you did a good job, then! Anyone who can put a fun spin on something that might be a little more boring is definitely meant to be a reporter in my opinion.” It was why he didn’t make a good reporter. He wrote boring things and thoroughly enjoyed them. “If you could be a traveling reporter, you know, under different circumstances, do you think that you would?”

“Travelling somewhere that you have a place to stay is always nice,” Mary commented. “And cheaper too.” Mary had spent lots of time in hostels during her trips, and even did some camping out on her own when the opportunity arose. “At least it would be easier for you and the family than it would be if you were Muggles. I can’t even imagine,” she said with a mock shudder. To be restricted to travelling by cars, buses, trains, planes, and boats was honestly something Mary didn’t even want to think about. Sure, they were fun for a lark, but for that to be the only mode of transportation, especially with young children was inconvenient to say the least. “I don’t know how they do it, honestly I don’t.”

Mary smiled gratefully. “Maybe,” she nodded, keeping herself humble. “But I also don’t mind not having a column. Gives me more freedom, y’know?” If she had a weekly column, that meant that she’d have to come up with something, well, weekly. At least an advice column would be easy enough; she’d just have to respond to the questions people sent in. As it was, Mary could cover a multitude of stories, and there was no pressure (aside from the pressure to stay relevant) to put something up every week.

“I don’t know that confused old ladies would want to write to me for advice,” Mary shook her head, laughing. The amusement on Edgar’s face showed that he had a specific idea in mind, though that clearly made the idea more humorous than it was to her. “I’d probably have to pretend to be a wise old lady myself just to get people to listen to me.” Otherwise who would take her seriously?

Mary pursed her lips, taking his question seriously. She shifted in her seat, one leg folded up beneath her as she rested her chin on her folded hands. “I dunno,” she mused. “It would depend on what was going on here, right? I mean, I guess if there was no war on, and everything was just, you know, business as usual, being able to travel and get interesting stories would be fun. I could be paid to have adventures, and really what could be better than that?” Mary grinned at him. “Since you started it, what would you do if you weren’t a researcher?”

[imarymac-blog1]

uncertainties || Mary and Tilden || March 1, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

plantsandpotions:

Mary didn’t seem to mind the final price of the potions, for which Tilden was grateful. He nodded in understanding. There might not be a potion yet discovered that could guarantee its drinker true and lasting peace of mind, but the ones that Mary was getting would at least help. Tilden wasn’t sure peace of mind was anything that could be achieved so easily anyway, but rather through hard work and acceptance of things you couldn’t change. Maybe it wasn’t even possible at all. He couldn’t really say. But if he could help his friends ease their worries even a little, then he was glad.

“Oh, it definitely has!” he agreed with a chuckle, when Mary suggested that the job had honed his charmwork. “It’s not something I expected, but I s’pose that’s the nice thing about charms, right? Most of them are so helpful and day-to-day that they crop up in all sorts of situations and places, so there’s always plenty of opportunity to learn new ones and to practise them.”

The Featherlight charm was a particularly handy one for plenty of different situations, but it also was far from the only one he’d mastered on the job here. Thanks to Mrs Mulberry, he’d also become adept at the Unbreakable charm, temperature changing charms and a Duplicating spell that was very useful when writing out customer’s bills, not to mention plenty of others.

As they spoke, he nodded at her request for a bag, ducking behind the desk to pull one out from the spot beneath it where they kept an assortment of bags in different sizes. They were crafted out of the same plain, heavy-duty parchment that he’d wrapped the potion bottles up in. He grabbed one and straightened up again, taking the parcel back to carefully slide it into the bag. He then offered it back to Mary. On the bag’s front was an illustration of a mulberry tree, Witchcraft Essentials’ insignia.

“There you are!” he said cheerfully. “That should get it all home safely. If it doesn’t, I’m gonna have to suspect you tried to break them,” he teased, wagging an admonishing finger at her. “No swinging it at people’s heads or anything like that!” His laughter subsided, but his smile stayed in place. “It was really nice bumping into you today, Mary. Thanks for having lunch with me!”

Despite the uncertainties in their conversation at the pub, he’d come away from it feeling a little more at ease than he’d felt before. Sometimes, he considered, you just needed to spend time with friends to remind you that there was still plenty that was good in the world.

“I like the freedom you can have with charms,” Mary said by way of agreement.  Mary was more of a free thinker. She enjoyed the creativity. Transfiguration was more about rules and focus, less about inspiration. “What are ones you’ve found yourself using most lately?” Mary asked, curiously. She was always interested to learn new spells and charms. 

It was only recently that Mary had started experimenting with her combining knitting and charms. Though it had fallen by the wayside of late, Mary knew she wanted to start it again. It would keep her hands busy and her mind occupied. Knitting itself was cathartic, but once she had mastered a pattern, it was less necessary to pay it her full intention. To infuse the yarns with magic, though, it would require more effort. 

“Me? Try?” Mary said, her eyes wide and innocent. No, she certainly wouldn’t be trying to break her purchases, not after what they had cost her. She wasn’t going to moan and complain about the price, because it was what it was. She’d rather contribute to the livelihoods of Mrs. Mulberry and Tilden anyway, so she was happy to patronize this shop instead of another. Witchcraft Essentials was known for making potions of quality, which was another reason Mary was happy to get what she wanted from there. 

“Come on, that was one time Tilden,” she said teasingly. When Mary fought, she used anything at hand. She doubted she’d have cause to fight off an attacker this time around. But one never knew. As recent events had shown her, Mary couldn’t really be sure of anything anymore. Her grip on her bag tightened a little before she forced herself to relax a little.

“I’ll get these somewhere safe as quickly as possible,” she promised. And not only because she didn’t want to spend too much time out in the open. Though it was long past time to go home. All at once, exhaustion hit Mary. She was almost afraid to leave the cozy atmosphere of the apothecary. But Mary MacDonald didn’t let fear keep her down for long. “My pleasure,” she smiled. “Maybe next time I’ll actually get to finish it,” she grinned, winking at Tilden before heading for the door.

[strikes-goyle]

Why Me?|| Mary and Ramsey|| February 20, ‘80

[imarymac-blog1]

strikes-goyle:

Ramsey made a face, shaking his head. He lifted a hand and rubbed his thumb with his finger, using it as a symbol for “money.” 

“Not necessarily. Companies sell on the world market. They don’t need to tailor their products to Britain unless the ministry makes them, or bans them- which they won’t do when big business lines their pockets in the back room…. allegedly, ‘course.” Goyle added as a quick save, He didn’t exactly know how the inner business of the floo network worked, but he was jaded enough to believe he had some idea. It was government after all, and all politicians were the same- bunch of crooks. 

“Been only recently that the ministry turned their attention to anything to do with Floos n’tha, an’ thats only been since the security crack down, funnily enough,” he scoffed. 

“I’m more concerned with the ministry spreading my business ta anyone who pays for it,” he shrugged. Things seemed so helpless now as the war reached a stalemate. It felt like nothing was ever going to get resolved. 

“All the information is sold to private contract companies, who then analyze it n’ report back ta the aurors, or defence secretary, or policy makers an’ what not…”

He sighed, “Bottom line, if yer using a floo, you can assume they are collecting information on you, point blank.”

He huffed a laugh, “yah theres rocks they put in the top of your floo conductor, supposed ta keep control of air flow an’ dust build up. Seemed like a good idea on paper. Bunch of idiot bureaucrats at the ministry spent millions right,” he shook his head, a smirk plastered on his face as he considered the sad stupidity of it. “Gave the contract to a company, and wherever they made them- China, er Mexico or whatever- well they put bunch of chemicals that react to floo powder. Damn things heat up like a mother and then eventually explode. Course all of this got hushed. ‘Member those fires in North Cumberland, 6 months ago?” he shook his head again and sighed. 

Part of him was happy that someone was finally taking an interest in this stuff. It was all tax payer money that was being bloody wasted and sent to fucking muggles in China to build a faulty product. Figures. Solidarity and brotherhood, my ass. 

“It was a fucking money grab. Cheapest price, cheap muggle labour, they don’t know hydrophlame in floo powder reacts to sodium hydroxide. They don’ even know what bloody floo powder is, innit!” He dropped his arms and leaned back in his seat. She’d gotten him distracted enough to remain seated, for now. 

Ramsey would never call himself a racist, in fact he thought the opposite of himself when it came to muggles. They could live their muggle lives and do what they wanted, but he didn’t see why he should have to pay to support their failing way of life. They were lazy and wasteful, it was just a fact.

Half of them dropped out of school an’ the other half were having 12 kids before the age of 30. Who was supposed to pay for all that? They had their own system, let their politicians deal with it. The true England belonged to the wizards. All the culture and charm and money was created by the wizard nation, not the bloody muggles. The wizards were here first and deserved the right to have their own culture and be proud of it, not to have to accommodate all the muggle special interests. But he wasn’t racist….

“But don’t they have to meet certain standards in order to sell within Britain?” Mary asked, frowning. She was sure that many standards were fairly, well, standard, but they couldn’t be so wildly different that the companies could get away with so much more outside of the UK. She had already determined that Ramsey was rather paranoid, so she couldn’t fully believe that it was as bad as he was implying. Mary did not doubt that corruption was all around them, but there had to be some honest workers out there.

“I guess if you’re going to change things, you need to know how they worked in the first place?” she offered. She supposed if what he said was true, the Ministry had just been operating under the ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ rule. Many people used things they didn’t fully understand, after all. It was only those who worked in the Floo department who really had to know what was going on.  

She wondered whether he had any reason to be so cautious. Although these days, Mary supposed it paid to stay alert and wary. Constant vigilance, as Alastor would say. Who really thought of others tracking their Floo movements, though? Even less people had to come up with the idea of perhaps selling the data. “Someone who pays for it, like individuals? Or companies?” Mary asked. Either way, she didn’t see why anyone would want Ramsey’s private information unless they were targeting him specifically for something.

“All the information is sold to private companies?” she asked incredulously. The Floo network was used hundreds if not thousands of times a day. “They analyze all the information from every person, every day?” It seemed ridiculous and, frankly, a waste of resources. What was there to be learned anyway, other than people’s shopping or visiting habits? Maybe if the Aurors were trying to catch a criminal the information would be useful, but otherwise…. “Aside from trying to catch a criminal, what use do tha Aurors, or defence secretary, or policy makers have for all that information?” It seemed very (to use an American term she had recently learned) Big Brother of the Ministry to be doing this. And time consuming. She was curious whether Ramsey could actually enlighten her as to a reward for all of it, or whether he was perhaps exaggerating a tad due to his paranoia.

“I remember,” Mary said, a hint of disgust in her tone. To think that shoddy workmanship and a lack of planning had resulted in such a disaster….Mary shook her head, pen to paper as she wrote down the facts of an actual disaster she could write about. Talking about the Ministry keeping tabs on everyone was a little far fetched and conspiracy theorist even for her. She had no trouble writing about the truth, but Mary did want to be taken seriously. If she were to go on about the Ministry spying on everybody, she would lose her credibility. Besides, they would deny it.

“The least they could do is use wizarding factories and labour,” Mary remarked. She had nothing against Muggles, but it just didn’t seem practical to her to involve them in creating something used for the wizarding world. And obviously it was an important component. It had caused fires for Merlin’s sake! Mary didn’t think that the Ministry entrusting delicate matters to Muggles who had no idea was the wisest choice. But then, she had questioned a lot of the Ministry’s choices lately.

[charity-h-burbage]

Barflies | Charity & Mary | April 3 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

charity-h-burbage:

Charity couldn’t remember what she was drinking, but she liked it. She’d also lost count of how many of them she’d had, and thought it would probably be a bad idea to ask Stanley to tell her. Maybe Mary knew? No, can’t ask her either. Mary was drinking just as much as Charity was so if Mary was okay, Charity was okay. She decided that was sound logic, so that’s what she’d follow. Good logic, Charity. So smart.

So she did come here regularly – that was good. Very good. Charity couldn’t remember why she should think that was good, but she knew that it was good. I should tell her that’s good. 

“Oh, that’s good! So good! I came here because I was shopping and I heard some pretty girls mention it. I haven’t been to a bar in a long time so I don’t know good places anymore. I used to, I used to go out all the time. Traveled a lot, too. Do you travel? Because if you don’t, I always tell people, ask anyone, I say this all the time – you should. It’s so great. People are so nice, you know? And the world is so beautiful.”

She’d forgotten how babbly she got when drunk – even worse than she was at any other time. Soon she’d be spilling her deepest secrets to this stranger. That happened a lot. 

She remembered one particular night at a music festival in Paris, she’d met a muggle girl named Emmie who’d owned a very nice bottle of tequila. Emmie no longer owned that bottle of tequila, as they’d drunk it all together, but she was now in possession of all Charity’s memories of her engagement. They’d been talking about boyfriends, he’d come up, and Emmie had noticed that Charity was still hurt, so she’d asked for the story. The bottle had passed back and forth as she poured her soul out, but by the end of the night, she’d felt better, and Emmie had become a very dear friend. The friendship forged in the fires of tequila and tears, they called it. They’d thought that was clever in the aftermath of the alcohol, and now it was so silly they couldn’t stop. She should write Emmie, she thought.

“What do you do for work? Or do you work? Wait – you said men at work were being mean, so of course you work. I’m always scattered, it’s not the alcohol, I swear. I mean, probably partly, but not entirely.”

It might be mean of her, and slightly judgmental, but Mary couldn’t help hoping that she didn’t end up like Charity. She didn’t ever want to be so desperate that she’d admit her aged loneliness to a random stranger in a bar. She also hoped that she’d have her life more together by then. Mary knew that she couldn’t possibly know what her life would look like in the future, though. The past few years had taught her this if nothing else. 

“Well, exploring is good,” Mary approved. “Just think of it as travelling...to different pubs,” she teased. “Do you still travel a lot?” Mary wondered if Charity wouldn’t be happier if she did. But what did Mary really know about the blonde? It wasn’t really her place to judge. “I did a little bit of travelling right after school.” She was eagerly awaiting the day she got sent somewhere outside of London on assignment. 

There was plenty to keep her occupied within the city, of course. London was huge and sprawling, with many nooks and crannies for Mary to delve into and explore. But to be sent somewhere, to be the one chosen to go and cover an event or a story...Mary was waiting for that. She knew she could do it, and she knew she could go anywhere to track down a story. What she was waiting for was the recognition from her superiors that she could do it. 

“I work for the Daily Prophet,” Mary replied. “As a journalist. What do you do?” Mary found it easier to just ignore Charity’s self effacing babbling. Just get to the point was her method with this woman. Mary was also curious to hear what Charity did in her day to day life. She was definitely a character and Mary wanted to see where she fit into the wizarding world.

[imarymac-blog1]

Act I - The Cellist || Mary and Alastor|| February 29, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

head-auror-moody:

If he thought about it a bit more, her original question made sense. Alastor shook his head though, “Not looking for anything in particular, no. As the only Auror on this scene, I have to at least take a brief look around. When we’re done here, I’ll have to send in a team to collect the body and to process the rest of the crime scene,” he explained. Not a single centimetre would go unsearched; he’d make sure of that. If Old Friend left anything, they’d find it.

It’s not your fault. He was glad she couldn’t see his face when it flinched, as if being poked. His fault or not his fault, he wasn’t entirely sure what the truth was, but the reality was that it seemed like Old Friend targeted his friends. Why that was the case, he hadn’t a clue. Some fault had to lay with him he felt, after all, the bastard was still out there - that was hard to forget with the reminders like this one.

On the other end of the hall, he found another door similar to the one that had led the out of the other wing. Alastor tried the door handle, but it was locked. Once again, he had to turn off his light. How long has Old Friend been around? As he was about to give an answer, he realized that he wasn’t entirely sure. It felt like a very long time. “A while,” he finally said, focusing his attention back to unlocking the door. With a swish of his wand, he could hear the faint click of the lock retracting. He tried the door handle again and pulled. A cool wind escaped the growing opening. “Part of his success in remaining hidden is because he usually doesn’t pull shit like this. Must be years of being repressed, forced to stay in the shadows that’s got him all attention seeking.” Holding the door open for her, he peered back into the dark hall, looking for any moving shadows. While he would have said that Old Friend generally didn’t stay this close to a crime scene, who could really assume anything now? The game had changed, and he didn’t know the rules or the objective.

The darkness had him on edge. Anything could be hiding in the wing, waiting to pounce and ambush them. Lighting his wand again helped a little soothe his anxiety. “We probably won’t find anything anyway. Just because he wants attention doesn’t mean that he would have been careless. He’s experienced, that I can tell you. I’ve been trying to track down his first murder. Like with anything, firsts are generally messier and have mistakes.” The first kill - he’d been shit out of luck with that. No trace of an Old Friend before he even knew of Old Friend. But Alastor knew there was something out there that had yet to be discovered; no one was perfect and no murderer left absolutely no trace.

As he scanned the walls, but much like the other wing they had been through, there were only old props and musical instruments laying around and covered in dust. He was disappointed, as he always was whenever he tried to find any more clues and didn’t find any. “Well, unless you see something, MacDonald, I think we’re just about finished here.” He started making his way to the stage. “Don’t suppose you brought a camera,” he asked. Taking pictures of the crime scene now would be ideal, just in case something were to happen before more Aurors showed up.

Mary nodded her understanding, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. It made sense that Alastor would want to examine everything. He didn’t get to be where he was without being thorough. She could appreciate that, though she desperately hoped there wouldn’t be any other unwelcome surprises. Or any surprises really. She didn’t see herself getting over this one any time soon.

She wasn’t sure if Alastor was trying to be evasive or if he just wasn’t sure how long Old Friend had ‘been around’. . Tonight, Mary was not interested in questioning him too much. Alastor was the only one keeping her sane at the moment, the only illusion of safety she could cling to. Not that she was clinging. But still, she trusted him to protect her against anything else that might come her way, and hoped that she could do the same. He was letting her be at his back after all, wasn’t he? Or was that just because he wanted to be in the front instead, ready to face whatever danger might come from that direction.

Realizing what he was about to do, Mary held her own wand higher to diffuse the light from it. Alastor’s went out as he unlocked the door. Her heart picked up its pace again when he opened it. There it was again, the fear of the unknown. Of what was on the other side of that door. Probably nothing, but at this point, she couldn’t be sure. Mary couldn’t really be sure of anything at the moment. She didn’t think Old Friend would leave anything that could harm her as she was  supposed to be his voice, supposed to write about what she had seen. But perhaps he hand’t expected her to venture and explore. What if he had set booby traps for whoever came to investigate? He couldn’t know everything, even if it seemed like he knew a hell of a lot.

She swallowed, listening to his confession. If Alastor hadn’t been able to find a trace on this guy, he had to be good. Mary did not like the thought of that at all. “Well it never hurts to look,” she said with a sense of bravado she didn’t really feel.  She bit her lip, following her own advice and continuing to look around the area. Not that she could really see a damn thing.

Mary shook her head, giving Alastor an apologetic look. “I should have brought one,” she said. She knew how valuable photographs could be. But no, Mary MacDonald had come armed only with her wand and her pen. “I can go get one if you’d like?” she offered, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. She was torn between not wanting to leave him and wanting to get out of this place as quickly as possible. Though she didn’t look, she was aware of the body still on display on the stage. It took effort not to let her eyes be drawn to it again. Not that it mattered at this point. Mary was already sure she’d have nightmares for weeks after this.

[perennialgrace]

Not Getting Any Older || Daisy & Mary || March 16th, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

perennialgrace:

The other girl told her her name, but it wasn’t familiar to Daisy. Still, she felt sure she knew her. “I’m Daisy,” she told her, forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers. Besides, the girl had told Daisy her name, so it was only fair. She tilted her head, frowning at Mary as she considered her. She looked a little bit older than Daisy, but just as totally and utterly confused. Maybe more so.

She returned her attention to her surroundings, her forehead creased in an uncertain frown. “I think we’re in Diagon Alley?” she said, nervously. Because she really wasn’t sure. She’d only ever been to Diagon Alley in the daytime, but she didn’t remember it looking like this. This looked… darker, and scarier. “And I dunno who your mum is,” she said, quite reasonably, she thought.

Wherever they were and whyever they were there, the ground was not particularly comfortable. Daisy clambered to her feet, dusting her clothes off haphazardly as she moved closer to the remains of a doorframe. Before she’d taken more than a few steps, though, she accidentally kicked something, which made a clattering noise as it rolled away from her. She frowned, leaning down to scoop up what looked like a stick, and her eyes widened when she realised what it was. A wand! Had someone lost it? She looked around, but couldn’t see anyone other than the dark-robed people, and Mary. She didn’t think it was Mary’s, so she slipped it into her pocket. She’d wanted to get her hands on a wand for forever, but her dad would never let her use his. Which was so unfair. But she could sneak this one home and try it out!

The wand stowed away in her pocket, she returned her attention to her surroundings, moving closer to the ruined doorframe she’d noticed before. It had been blasted apart. “What happened?” she wondered aloud, shooting another worried glance at the figures in dark robes lying on the ground a short ways off. “I think we should get out of here,” she said, turning back to Mary.

Clearly this girl didn’t have any more idea about what was going on than Mary did. She wasn’t sure whether that was good or not. What Mary was sure of was that she didn’t like not knowing what was going on, of waking up in a dark alley in Diagon Alley with a stranger instead of her mum or her da. 

Getting to her feet, Mary decided she should probably look for clues. Daisy seemed to have the same idea. She jumped a little when Daisy kicked something, and then shook her head at herself. Looking down, Mary noticed a stick of wood amongst the rubble. Mary immediately recognized it as a wand. There was something else familiar about it. Just to be on the safe side, Mary picked it up, feeling a tingle in her fingers as she did so. Not exactly sure where to put it it, she tucked it up her sleeve. Her pockets were too small. 

“Something bad,” Mary said, moving closer to Daisy. She felt nervous, and not just because she didn’t know where her parents were. “I don’t like the looks of them.” She nodded towards the people lying on the ground, the last of the sunlight reflecting on what looked like masks. 

Mary moved forward, looking for the wands she was sure they had too. When she found them, she held them up towards Daisy. “Should we hide them or take them with us?” she asked. She didn’t know what was up with these guys--it wasn’t Halloween--but they gave her an icky feeling in her stomach.

[imarymac-blog1]

Fun in miniature ||M&S|| March 28, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

crabbeapple:

Sep grinned, pleased, when Mary agreed to accompany him. His good mood was only further bolstered as she continued her praise of his creation. He liked this witch a lot. The anger he’d felt at the person who’d knocked the box from his arms in the first place had evaporated and he was thinking that this had been quite the happy accident, all considered.

Her question made him laugh, the sound sharp and raucous. “Nah, no worries, it’s just charmwork. He looks and acts like the real thing, but he’s just a toy. Don’t need food or watering and he won’t make a mess.”

The charms that were worked into each of his little figures were actually very finicky, tricky magic, but practice and interest had made Sep adept at them. He’d struggled in just about every subject back at Hogwarts, but Charms had been the one he’d actually been good at. Encouraged by his own inkling of natural talent in the subject, he’d always been more engaged in Professor Flitwick’s class than any of the others (except for Care of Magical Creatures, which he’d also very much enjoyed) and that had paid off.

“The charms’ll wear off after a few years,” he added, slightly reluctantly. He didn’t like admitting that the magic wasn’t perfect, so he hastily went on with, “But I can always re-cast them if you bring him back to me, no problem.”

It was something he had to do on occasion, though he’d not been in business for more than a few years and the only toys he’d had to re-charm so far were some of his earliest successes, when the charms had still needed perfecting. Any of the toys he made now ought to last a good handful of years before the magic started to wear thin. Even without the spells giving them the illusion of life, the toys were still good though, at least in Sep’s prideful opinion.

With both of them back on their feet, he set off walking again, leading the way to the toyshop down the street. He cast a sideways glance at Mary walking beside him. “What d’you do, then?” he asked curiously. Her name wasn’t ringing any bells (not that that really surprised him, as he wasn’t great at remembering names or faces unless he’d met the person several times) and she looked a bit younger than he was, so he didn’t think they’d been in school together. Or if they had, she’d probably been enough years below him that he’d never paid her any attention.

Mary smiled, her relief evident. She hadn’t been too put out at the idea--after all it was just a wee beastie, how much could it eat and how much of a mess could it make? But it was still reassuring to know that she didn’t have to do anything except dote on it. That would be easy enough.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she nodded. Looking at the perfectly rendered Hippogriff on her shoulder, Mary didn’t think she’d tire of him, even in the next few years. The bitty thing had already charmed her. Not to have Septimus renew the Charms would be akin to killing the creature. “It must take some significant skill to have it last even that long,” she added. Mary could tell that Septimus saw the charms wearing off as a failing. There were plenty of magical objects out there that required spells to be renewed, or that got dangerous or ill-behaved the older it got.

“I work for the Daily Prophet,” she replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked at him briefly before focusing her gaze forwards again. “I’m a journalist.” Mary tried not to appear anxious at her own words. There were those who thought journalists distasteful, always looking for a scoop, always so nosey. Some found themselves alarmed to be talking to one. Others looked down on her doing the job. There were plenty who were still of the opinion that women were better supported to secretarial or supportive, administrative positions.

It didn’t bother Mary so much as sometimes make things awkward. For as many as thought it was odd, though, there were just as many who supported her. They applauded her initiative and admired her abilities. And if the number wasn’t quite even, she could at least pretend it was. 

Mary only hoped that Septimus wasn’t put off by her chosen profession. Mary knew how to take things off the record. She was planning on asking Septimus if she could write a story on him anyway, so she hoped his reaction was at least not unfavourable. 

[apromisetoeveryone]

Work, Weather, and Wonderful Company || Walden & Mary || February 26th, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

apromisetoeveryone:

His eyes flashed with amusement and it was difficult to hide just how entertained he was by her reaction to his job. He was glad to know that she didn’t seem to think he was absolutely repulsive, in fact, she was acting quite maturely. It was obvious that she wasn’t pleased by the news, but nor did it seem to bother her very much. Excellent.

“So long as you aren’t going to be killing anything in front of me…..”

Walden wanted to laugh and tell her, ‘Well, now you’re ruining all of my fun.’ but he worried that might take things just a step too far. There was no need to let her into that side of his personality, not when he was just planning a one night stand before never seeing her again.

Chewing his lip, he watched as she delicately ate the cherry, knowing exactly what was coming. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen this trick done, but it made him even more eager all of the same. She was beautiful, and she was holding nothing back when it came to seducing him. It was a good sign and he was eager to get things moving along now that they both knew a little more about each other. It was about as much as Walden wanted to know, and as much as he wanted to share before finally making a proper move.

“Well, I guess I can swallow my doubts then. You certainly are good with your mouth.” Leaning so that his face was inches from her own, he raised his eyebrows. “I don’t suppose you could show me exactly how you just did that little trick of yours? I’d love to be able to be just as good with my mouth.” Walden had actually tried to tie a cherry stem with his tongue before, but he had been incredibly drunk at the time, not to mention high, and it hadn’t exactly worked out the way he had wanted. He had wound up swallowing the stem by accident. Not that he was about to let Mary know that, he didn’t think she would be overly impressed.

Mary didn’t doubt that Walden knew this trick. While it was fun and definitely sensual, it wasn’t exactly original. Still, it got the point across. And it did require some oral dexterity. Just because it was a well known trick didn’t make it easy, as anyone who was trying it for the first time could attest to. Besides, she liked the way his eyes remained on her lips. It lit a fire in her belly and made her heart beat a little faster.

“I don’t think it would work as well with my mouth open,” she replied honestly, pretending at innocent. It was true, though. Mary didn’t think it would be an easy trick to perform with mouth gaping for an audience. It would certainly not be as attractive either. Half the fun was in having him watch the way her lips moved, her cheeks hollowed as she manoeuvred the stem in her mouth.

She licked her lips. “But perhaps if there was some way for you to feel my tongue….” she mused. Mary smirked at him. She leaned just that little bit closer, her hand coming to rest on Walden’s knee. For balance of course. “Maybe you could show me what you are good at instead,” she suggested, her voice low. “I’m sure you have some talents I might…enjoy.”

Their flirtation was getting bolder now, almost brazen. Mary knew that anyone who looked at them would know what was going on. But she doubted anyone knew her, and frankly, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t a public figure, didn’t have any image to uphold. She was just a girl in a bar with an interesting, attractive man who, just as importantly, found her attractive and interesting. She doubted it was an uncommon sight here. In any case, Walden was the only one she was focusing on for the moment.

[imarymac-blog1]

uncertainties || Mary and Tilden || March 1, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

plantsandpotions:

Picking out a bottle of Sleeping draught and watching Mary pick up some Energy potion for herself, Tilden supposed she made a fair point when she said she’d run out of room for any more purchases. He felt a bit bad, wondering if he’d inadvertently talked her into buying more than she’d intended. She was smiling, though, and more than that, she was Mary MacDonald; he doubted she ever got bullied into doing anything she didn’t want to do. Certainly he wasn’t a forceful enough person to manage such a feat.

“Absolutely!” he agreed with a laugh and a nod, pointing in the direction of the front desk, before starting off that way to lead her to where she could pay for her goods. “I can carry some of that if you like,” he offered as they moved through the shelves. “And we’ll wrap them all up, so they’ll not be a bother at all for you to get home, don’t worry.”

It was standard practice for a shop that sold quite a lot of delicate merchandise. The last thing any of their customers needed was their pockets or bags filled with spilled beetle eyes or Forgetfulness potion. He and Mrs Mulberry also cast Featherlight charms on the parcels, so that they wouldn’t be a burden for shoppers to carry while they were out and about.

Reaching the desk, he spotted Mrs Mulberry over by the front window, busy rearranging the display there, so he moved to stand behind the counter himself, rather than disturb her. He wasn’t a stranger to the customer service side of the apothecary, though usually he was shut away in his work room away from it all. “If you can set all those down on the counter there, I’ll write you up your receipt,” he told Mary.

It took only a few moments to glance at the price on each of the bottles’ tags and put together the bill. Tilden wrote it out as neatly as he could on a piece of parchment. “It’ll be 5 Galleons, 6 Sickles and 19 Knuts,” he told Mary. His voice had taken on a distinctly apologetic tone. He knew it was probably quite a bit more money than she’d planned on spending. “I’ll get these all wrapped up for you,” he added.

Pulling some nice clean parchment from the shelf behind the desk, Tilden set about wrapping each of the potion bottles up carefully, and then together into one neat parcel. The Featherlight charm came next, making the whole thing light enough to carry with ease. “There we are!” he said, setting it down carefully in front of Mary.

“It’s fine,” Mary reassured him. “I have them all balanced right now. If I tried to perform a transfer, I’d probably just drop the lot.” That was the last thing Mary wanted, to drop all the potions in the middle of the tidy store. Probably earn Mrs. Mulberry’s wrath while she was at it. Not only would she have to pay for the mess, but she wouldn’t have even got any use out of them. Instead, Mary just followed Tilden towards the front of the store. “I will take you up on your offer of wrapping them, though,” she nodded. He would do it better than she ever could.

Mary did not have the patience for wrapping things. Most of the time, she didn’t see the point. Just put gifts in a bag and throw some tissue paper on top and voila, all done. The bottles of course, she understood. But the wrapping here had a practical reason. Mary did not want any of the potions spilling or breaking on the way home. Still, she was glad to let Tilden do it. Even with the use of her wand, Mary was sure her attempts at wrapping would just be messy and look like a child of five had gone at it.

Carefully, Mary leaned down a little so as to set the bottles onto the counter. It took a few seconds to ensure that she didn’t smash any of them down too hard against the wood. She waited while Tilden rang up her purchases, gaze wandering around the store. Her fingers tapped absently against the counter. When he told her the total, Mary winced a little, but shrugged. “Whatcha gonna do?” she said, brushing it off. She could tell Tilden felt bad just quoting the price to her. “The price of peace of mind, eh?” she joked, trying to make him feel better.

Could you even put a price on peace of mind? If someone could truly grant that, bottle it up and sell it, they’d make a fortune. Mary herself searched for it in the bottom of various bottles. Drugs were occasional, but she didn’t want to develop a habit. Besides, Mary liked remaining in control and, in rare occasions, being the one to decide to give it up as well. She had to keep convincing herself that she was master of her own fate…even as the memory of Old Friend’s victim flickered across her memory. Mary firmly pushed it away, not willing to break down again. Not here, not now. She would not think about how she had also been dragged without her consent into Old Friend’s world. She had to at least pretend she was still in control.

“Tilden, you’re a gem,” Mary declared as he took the parcel. It weighed next to nothing at all. “This job must make be good for working on your Charms,” she commented. His work with potions was too obvious to mention. “Do you have a bag though?” she asked apologetically. “I just don’t want to drop it, even with all the wrapping and protective spells.” She figured a bag would be easier to carry than a parcel.

[imarymac-blog1]

researchable || Mary and Edgar || March 13, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

edgarbonesknows:

Edgar grinned at her praise. It was a nice way of telling him that she thought his work was boring, but he still appreciated that she was grateful for his work, rather than simply insulting it. The job wasn’t for everyone and he was glad that he could be helpful.

He listened to her speak about her work, happy to see that she enjoyed what she did so much. She spoke of writing with such passion, she clearly had found the job that suited her interests. Which honestly seemed to be everything, at least as far as he could tell as she chattered on about her versatility.

“Oh? That sounds fantastic! Where did you go traveling?” he asked, intrigued to learn that she had taken a break after Hogwarts to do some traveling. Edgar had known students who had done the same and he would have been interested to see more of the world, but he had managed to secure his job right out of high school and hadn’t wanted to risk losing it in order to travel. Then, once he had gained more vacation pay, Rommie had wound up pregnant and they had been busy with the kids ever since. He still dreamed of visiting other parts of the world sometimes, but he had a feeling it would have to wait until the kids were a little older and the war wasn’t hanging over their heads like a cloud.

If that will ever happen.

Two or three years since she’d started writing her own, Edgar had given up on the paper about a year and a half before. There was a possibility, then, that he might have read an article that was written by Mary. Not that he could remember any, but if he looked back through some records, he might recognize something. He was interested to know her writing style, but also still interested in staying away from the news these days, so he made a mental note to check it out later.

“It’s great that you were able to work your way up to writing consistently so quickly. What’s your favourite article that you’ve written so far? If it’s not too dark, I might be interested in reading it.”

“Around the continent,” Mary replied. She had wanted to see the sights of Europe, and experience the various wizarding cultures. “Then I went to New Zealand, Australia, America, and Canada,” she added. Though Mary had used Muggle transportation some of the time, she had to admit that wizarding transportation was much more convenient when wanting to visit many places. Mary didn’t think she would have been able to see everything she had without the aid of magic. It saved both time and money, a fact for which a poor just graduated student like her had been endlessly grateful.

“There’s still lots I want to see of course,” she added, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her now empty spoon rested in her hand more as an accessory than an eating utensil as she spoke. “Lots of places I haven’t been yet.” There were so many places she hadn’t been, and just as many places that she had been but wanted to see more of. That was the problem with travelling, you always wanted to do more. Mary was still keen on seeing Africa and the Middle East as well as South America.

She shook her head. “Maybe I should look into becoming a travel writer,” she mused, teasing. She wasn’t sure if she really would, though. There was so much happening right here at home. More than enough news to report on. Plus there was the Order of the Phoenix.  Mary wouldn’t just up and leave. They were in the middle of a war. There were people she cared about here and the Death Eaters were still at large. It would be frivolous at best and foolish and selfish at worst to just take off to try to make a living writing about exotic locations. At least here she could make something of herself.

“Have you done much travelling?” she asked, curious. She knew that Edgar had a wife and children, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t take vacations, right? Perhaps he didn’t want to travel for the same reason she didn’t, though. The war. Mary wasn’t sure what she would do if she had more people to worry about than herself. Her Mum was at least off in Scotland, living with Mary’s Gram. She was far enough away from the Death Eaters’ reach, and she was a witch besides. Not like Mary’s poor Muggle Da who was killed for doing nothing more than loving his magical girls. It was one reason why Mary could be so prickly one moment, and so friendly the next. She was so scared of making friends and having them get hurt or die. But her nature wanted social interaction and friendships. She couldn’t help herself.

Mary smiled proudly. She knew that her ascent had been nothing short of miraculous. But Mary had proven herself and, more importantly, had known how to leverage her successes. She didn’t blackmail her editor or anything, but she also made it known that she wouldn’t let herself be taken advantage of. “To be fair, it’s in name only,” she admitted. Her publications were far from consistent, her assignments even less so. It was another reason why Mary tried so hard to look for her own stories. She couldn’t wait to be given anything. “It’s not as if I have my own column or anything. They just…allow me to be a reporter, give me assignments and occasionally publish the ideas I came up with on my own.”

If this were not Edgar, Mary might not speak so freely about it. Most of the time she was trying to impress people, not downplay her achievements. But with Edgar, Mary didn’t want him too think her too cocky. She respected the man and the work he did.  “Oh hmmmm,” Mary said, sitting back a little as she tried to think. “Well when I was starting out early on, I was sent to cover this event, Merlin I can’t even remember what it was. Maybe a fair of some sort. But there was a paper boat building contest—using magic and enhancements of course—and races for the four days the fair was open for. I was given the assignment mostly to get me out of everyone’s hair,” she admitted. “But people liked my coverage and especially how I treated the boat races like a real competition, and wrote about odds, and bets and all that, that they demanded I continue for the whole time.” Mary laughed a little in remembrance at the number of positive owls that had crowded into the Prophet office.

[rain-tea-coffee]

[trishathebrown-deactivated20190]

Trisha ft. Her Hair 🎶👄

[charity-h-burbage]

Barflies | Charity & Mary | April 3 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

charity-h-burbage:

“I think it’s more about how you feel than anything.”

Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Charity knew most reasonable people probably wouldn’t look at her on the surface and label her pathetic or desperate. She thought those things about herself, so that’s what she projected, so that’s what people thought, which made her feel more like those things. It was a vicious cycle.

The alcohol had officially entered her bloodstream, she decided. In the back of her mind, she wondered if any of the potions she was taking would lose effect or react badly if she got wasted, but it was too late for that at this point. Best not to worry about it. Tonight was a night to not worry, tonight was a night to forget her problems, drink, attempt to find some of the fun person she’d been a year and a half ago.

“I’ll drink to that!” she said, clinking her glass against Mary’s and taking another swallow. Mary was so nice. Nice and pretty and young. Everything Charity wanted to be again.

“You’re so nice.” She’d decided it was important that Mary know that. She was reaching the bottom of this third glass, and ordered a fourth from Stanley, who was quickly becoming a very good friend of hers, she thought.

“I don’t usually drink this much, actually,” she informed Mary. “I haven’t been drunk in….a very long time. I can’t properly remember but it’s been a while, trust me. It’s my first time in this bar, too. Do you come here very often?” She laughed at herself then, at how much that sounded like a cheesy pick-up line, but didn’t correct it. It would probably be weirder to correct it than to just ignore it, right?

The third drink disappeared, and Stanley appeared with the fourth, earning him a large smile from Charity.

Mary smiled. She could tell that Charity was already on her way to being three sheets to the wind. Not that she minded. Especially when it seemed like Charity was going to be one of those generous, loving drunks. Mary loved drunk girls--well, some of them. Ones like Charity, all bubbly and friendly were the best. 

She suppressed a giggle at Charity’s admission. She could have guessed. She didn’t know how many drinks Charity already had, of course, but she was certainly throwing them back in quick enough succession to get anyone drunk. Although Mary was matching her drink for drink and she wasn’t drunk yet. But she had practice. 

It was a point of pride with Mary to be able to drink a significant amount. It started when the boy’s club that was the newspaper business was reinforced by them going out and drinking together after work. When Mary proved she could keep up, she became something of an anomaly, and entertainment. Her pride had bristled at that, but she allowed it because it got her in the door. Now, Mary was one of the boys, at least when it came to drinking...and at least until they decided they were drunk enough to try to hit on her. 

“Nothing wrong with tha’,” she said. She almost wished she had nothing to drink about, no reason to try to drown her thoughts. For some reason, Mary felt as if women like Charity should have their lives more together, and so have less reason to drink. 

“I’ve been here a few times,” Mary nodded, giving Stanley a friendly smile as he placed another drink in front of her. “I make the rounds at a few places though. What made you choose this place?” 

[imarymac-blog1]

uncertainties || Mary and Tilden || March 1, 1980

[imarymac-blog1]

plantsandpotions:

Tilden handed the potions to Mary, then led the way a little further down the aisle to where the Sleeping draughts and other similar potions were lined out neatly on the shelves. “I can always point you towards useful potions,” he chuckled. “Most Sleeping draughts last a pretty long time, but the more powerful ones can increase in potency if you leave them too long. Something like Dreamless Sleep, that sort of thing. It’s why we only sell that in small vials, ‘cuz the dose you take should be pretty small and you don’t want to have it for too long a time. It can also become a bit addictive if you’re not careful.”

He stopped in front of the Sleeping draughts, pointing out first the tiny bottles of sparkling Dreamless Sleep, then the bigger bottles of more standard Sleeping draught. It was a calming blue colour and seemed to swirl within the glass.

“I’d only recommend Dreamless Sleep if you’re having a lot of trouble with nightmares, otherwise the regular Sleeping draught should do you fine,” he told Mary. “Even then, you need to be careful how much of it you take at a time. There are all sorts of stories about witches and wizards who take too much and sleep for weeks at a time. It’s not pretty, trust me.”

Moving to the next shelf over, he pointed at a bright green potion in a blown glass bottle that was twisted into a pretty swirled shape. “There’s the Energy potion. Keeps well. I’d say a bottle that size should last you about ten months? Maybe a year if you take it sparingly. It’s another one you don’t wanna take too much of at a time,” he warned. “You remember learning Cheering charms in school? How there was always a few people that’d cast the charm too strongly? It’s a bit like that.”

He tapped the bottle lightly, smiling down at it with the vague sort of fondness he felt for all the potions he’d brewed, then glanced back at Mary. She’d really only come here with the intention of buying Pepper-Up potions and he didn’t want to drain her Gringotts vault by convincing her to buy more than she meant to. “Are there any other potions you wanted to know about?” he asked nonetheless.

Mary held the Pepperup Potions in the crook of her arm, following Tilden through the aisles. She could understand how the cures the little bottles promised could be addictive, seductive. Drink Me, wasn’t that what the vial said to Alice? Mary understood the attraction.

She looked at Dreamless Sleep, twinkling at her like stars. Mary shook her head determinedly. Not because she didn’t want it but because she did. And Mary knew herself. She knew that she would fall into oblivion all too readily. She would get used to it. Rely on it. She drank too much alcohol as it was some nights for a similar result. Mary did not want to put the temptation onto her bedside table where she could block out the world with a sip from a bottle. Mary had to be in control and she knew how easily she could get addicted, and how fast she might lose her hard won control. 

“A normal Sleeping draught is fine,” she said. Mary cleared her suddenly dry throat. Just something to help her fall asleep. Something to ease her way into dreamland. That was better than taking a sip and falling unconscious wasn’t it? A Sleeping draught would just help shut off her brain, translate the tiredness she sometimes felt into her bones into sleepiness throughout her body. She reached for one of the bottles.

The Energy potion definitely looked like it would live up to its promise. Mary surely needed that. And it was better to use something to stay awake than to fall asleep, wasn’t it? Almost everyone was addicted to coffee these days. What was one more thing for those days when coffee just wasn’t enough? She smiled at him, plucking one of the green filled bottles up too. “I’ll be careful,” she promised. And she would. Mary didn’t like to be dependant on anything or anyone. She wouldn’t let her fondness for the easy fixes overtake her common sense.

“I don’t think I have any more hands, Tilden,” she said with a laugh, looking down at her full arms. “But if I do need anything else, I’ll know where to find you, ay?” Mary was sure she could ask for Healing potions, unguents, or poultices, but she didn’t need them right now. She was probably spending enough money on the bottles in her arms already.