easing the waiting.

her anger is cold and in a way as perfect as everything else is about her, and still she wonders why it doesn’t burn the castle down. mar's 1x1. selective.

[marijns1x1]

of drunken confessions. marlene and hestia.

It had all gone rather quick: Hestia had bumped into Marlene, they had exchanged a few words before Hestia found out the Slytherin was carrying a bottle of firewhiskey. She did not normally drink on schoolnights, but she was feeling restless and perhaps even spontaneous. And so, after gently proposing to share the bottle, they had found their way up some stairs, ending up on the Astronomy tower. Hestia was thankful for the fact that Astronomy classes weren’t starting for another week, but mostly found herself happy to share a moment of quietness with Marlene.

And now, alcohol was flowing through her veins, her head clouded by a liquid she didn’t even like that much. Her eyes were fixed on the stars, silence lingering on as they were both lost in thought, swirling through the mess of their own heads. Rather upset about leaving home, Hestia had ended up in the negative part of her head, her insecurities increased due to the alcohol in stead of decreased, which was normally the case.

“Hey, Marlene,” she said after a while, her voice small and words twisted slightly by the whiskey, turning her head slightly. “Are you ever scared you won’t be good enough?” 

@wendybirds1x1

[marijns1x1]

broken // marlene and dorcas // 1981

Dorcas was positively drunk. Her head was spinning, legs felt exhausted and like they couldn’t carry her properly anymore: perhaps that was why she was half-lying on her sofa, two empty bottles of white wine next to her and her head leaning back. This didn’t feel like her: Dorcas was rational, and while reckless, not one to get drunk because she was upset. Still, this time it had seemed inevitable.

Three kids had been killed, alongside their parents, and the worst thing was, was that she had known them. Tragedies such as those happened so often those days, but the fact that those children had played with her hair, demanded her to tell stories about the journeys she had made with her parents and wanted to get just another piggyback ride was enough to crush her. They had been innocent, after all, pure innocence and laughs even though the world around them was falling apart. They made her want to have children, made her want to carry a baby like Felicia Bones had just half a year ago. It was unfair. 

When she had heard she had become rage itself, because Edgar was a man of honour and knowing what beer was best for what mood and a man of comforting slaps on backs and hugs when it was needed. He was loved widely and deeply and it had hurt too god damn much to hear that he had been brutally murdered. It was in that moment that she wondered why they went on, as what they were doing only seemed to result in children dying, friends of them being wiped out until there was no one left to fight. She had shattered a vase, hadn’t bothered with cleaning up the mess she made and had just run off to her parent’s house because she couldn’t handle facing the Order.

And now that the funeral was over (closed case, but she had seen the bodies: it was awful), she was still not feeling any closure, her entire body existing out of a sickening need to avenge this horrible act of violence. Now, the question why they went on seemed stupid: THIS was why they went on, because they couldn’t accept things like this to happen. They had to fight back, there was no other option.

Her mascara had stained her face, leaving dark marks like scars. Even with alcohol clouding her head, she was not feeling better; worse, actually, as if she could fall apart any second in a mess of tears. She needed Marlene, she realised, as she balled her fists, nails leaving marks in her palms. Perhaps she should not have left early: had remained there to pay her respects to Amelia, give her some proper comfort rather than apparating home as soon as the bodies were covered by dirt, but she couldn’t do it any more. Maybe that was selfish, but she would worry about that some other time.

[aliferovs]

[OWL] || Emma Vanity + Dorcas Meadowes || Christmas Holidays

Emma’s house was s u f f o c a t i n g . The air seemed stale borderline poisonous, and Emma couldn’t handle it any it longer. Normally her parents left her alone during holidays to do her own thing, so long as she showed up for the obligatory pure blood parties and didn’t do anything to shame their family name. The Vanity name wasn’t one of the sought after sacred 28 and it didn’t need a ruined reputation to make their rise to the top harder than it already was. These holidays, however, all Emma had heard from her parents was lecture after l e c t u r e about her duty after Hogwarts, finding a betrothed and settling down like the little lady she was bred to be. It was constant, “how is anyone going to want to marry you in that outfit?”  or “don’t do that Emma, it’s u n l a d y l i k e.”  It was driving her insane, and Emma had no close friends she could escape to.

She was being pushed towards any unchained {for that’s what a betrothal was, after all. Chains, wrapped like a noose around their necks that was pulled too tight to escape from} male in the hopes that a match would be made. None had been, and her parents mother  was getting frustrated. Before Emma even really knew what she was doing, she’d gotten out a pen and paper and started penning a letter to the only person she could think of.

Dear Dorcas, she wrote in her cursive script before scribbling it out. It sounded too much like those formal letters her mother had her pen. To Dorcas, nope. That was even worse. Emma crossed that out too and sighed. Why was letter writing to friends so difficult? After several more tries she gave up and wrote;

Doe,

How are you? I hope you’re Christmas has been good. Mine was alright, just had to put up with all the stuffy relatives and all that. 

I can’t wait for school to go back. My mother is driving me to the brink of insanity with all her talk of betrothals and duties and being a good pureblood wife. I don’t want that. I can’t wait to go back to Hogwarts just so  can escape her and pretend, at least for another few months, that my fate after Hogwarts isn’t all decided for me.

Get anything good? I just got some new clothes and things like that. Nothing particularly interesting. Strangely enough, I’m excited to go back to school soon. I hate the classes but I love the castle. Also Quidditch. I miss it. Anyway, sorry this is a short letter but I wanted to see how you were doing. I wanted to talk to someone who didn’t make me want to bash my head against a wall. 

Now Emma was stuck. How was she supposed to sign off? Love, Emma seemed .. wrong. Too forward. She didn’t love Dorcas she couldn’t. From, Emma just seemed too formal? Like a letter to a stranger. Dorcas wasn’t a stranger. Honestly, this was more frustrating than starting the letter. Screw it, she muttered and just wrote yours before signing her name with a flourish.

Yours, Emma.

It was probably the most awkward letter Emma had ever written, but she sent it before she could lose her her nerve. Her hands were covered in ink as she tied it to the leg of her owl and sent it off, hoping Dorcas didn’t think she was the biggest idiot alive or something even worse.

[marijns1x1]

It was good to be home. To sleep in a room she didn’t share with others, to choose what breakfast she wanted to eat and when she wanted to, to be among her her family. She had missed the way her oldest brother laughed, how her other one squeezed her shoulder, how her mother was truly interested in her days and how her dad winked at her over the dinner table whenever anyone teased her. 

The comfortability was one she missed, as well as the privacy: truly, she loved Hogwarts more than anything, along with her friends, but she had missed the solidarity she could find in her room, the lack of rules. There were no Hogsmeade weekends: if she wanted to go to Diagon Alley or a Muggle shopping area, she could: as long as she informed her parents. It was easy to say that she was enjoying her days at home, really, even though her brain often wondered what her friends were up to, whether Gideon’s cousins had grown much, if Marlene had gotten the broom she wanted and how Emma was holding up.

The last one tortured her most, her mind constantly wandering to the golden-haired Slytherin as she lay in bed, listening to music ( it were the lyrics from ‘Maria’by Blondie that got to her most: she moves like she don't care / smooth as silk, cool as air / ooh it makes you wanna cry ). Crushes weren’t rare for the young brunette, but one this intense was, and she felt like she was going crazy now that she couldn’t look at those curls during Charms class. 

Prayers were answered in that moment though, seeing that as she was reading a novel her mother had given her for Christmas an owl flew in through her open window. HER owl. After hastily taking it from the owl, giving her some treats and muttering thankyouthankyouthankyou she opened the letter, sitting on the edge of her bed with a grin splitting her face in two. 

Perhaps she had expected more and that was why she felt a little disappointed after reading the letter three times -- it was short, lacking any d e p t h. Maybe her views of letters between lovers (?) was too romantic, due to the books she devoured in free hours, or maybe Emma was not thinking of her as much as she was of her. Either way, she was glad, glad that she had a chance of being in contact, no matter how empty the letter seemed: she did see the scribbled words, but decoding them was something she was unable to do.

Dearest Emma, My Christmas was, like every Christmas, a most wonderful time. My father is a true artist when it comes to food, and I got plenty of presents to enjoy: books and records mostly, my brother even gave me this thing muggles call a walkman: you can listen music with it! Aside from all that, I’m good. There hasn’t been much snow, though, which is a pity -- I do really miss Scotland and the white mountains. How are you? I hope you’re doing well and your family isn’t getting on your nerves too much. I don’t want a grumpy Emma when I see you again, after all. I’m excited to come back as well. I may love home, but Hogwarts has so many things that I miss around my house. My friends, the Pitch and excitement for when there’s another match: I can’t wait to commentate the next game.   And you. I miss you.

That sentence had been written with hesitation, but Dorcas knew that it was the truth. She missed Emma and the excitement that came with being around her. While everything between them was complicated, she missed it dearly and found it even harder to figure out what to feel now that she wasn’t there.

Love, Dorcas.

And hastily, maybe too quickly, the letter was sent back. Dorcas couldn’t allow herself to overthink this: she’d just stress herself by doing that. And so, rather than overanalysing the letter after Emma’s owl had flown away, she ran down the stairs, hoping to distract herself until another reply came.