HEAD UP HIGH // for the girl with bruises on her knees and blood under her fingernails. for the girl with a heavy heart and sunshine in her eyes. she’s the girl who’s loved and lost – the girl who fell time and time again, but never stopped getting back up. (LISTEN)
Foam lined the shores as the waves left it behind, drawn back into their slithering retreat by the tides. Yet with each fresh lap of the water, the pale green foam encroached ever so slightly closer to the two figures on the shore. Frank’s attention was split between the sea and Marlene, yet both, inexplicably, received a satisfactory focus.
Equanimous and slow, he lumbered down onto the sand beside her, feeling a pebble jab into the underside of his thigh and shifting about to escape it. Spreading out his legs before him, his limbs were a road which stretched out for miles, his feet a distant mountain range.
He turned to peer at Marlene, eyes darting between her face and the bottle. A certain candour blew across his face as he took in the empty bottle, but Frank passed no remark. He knew it would only validate her action, acknowledging the drink: no matter what he said, it would come across as a scold; even if he tried to quip, Marlene would whittle the words into arrows to drive back into herself in her own thoughts.
So he did not comment on the bottle, drained wholly of its amber liquid, without even the slivers which were so often difficult to reach. His eyes took notice of the object in her other hand, clearer now that he was closer: S– –NGO’S H—-TAL was all he could make of the pin’s face, obscured by her thumb, but it did not need take deduction to understand what the thing was — nor whose it was. Just a couple of discreet glances, petered out between long looks at the sea.
When he finally spoke, it was soft and fleeting as the foam. “Most often,” he ushered, “people who save others for a living are very good at saving themselves, I think.”
He allowed the thought to float in the air, drifting out for her to reach up and seize upon, should she wish. If not, Frank was content to watch the water some more.
He sat beside her and she ignored him. She stared at the sea. The sea didn’t ask questions, it didn’t make judgements or tell her what to do. No, the sea was reliable and the tides were to be expected. Marlene knew little of what lie in its depths and the sea knew little of her in return, so she stared at the water like an old friend she knew nothing about.
Frank wasn’t like the sea. He was thoughtful, and Marlene had always seen him as someone with ideas, questions and conversation to share. Words weren’t always what she needed, nor what she wanted.
Her brow furrowed at his comment, “What th’ hell is tha’ supposed to mean?”
Marlene was a simple mind. Frank’s mind seemed filled to the brim with poetry and philosophy and recipes for the plants from his garden. It’s not that Marlene couldn’t understand those things, but that she preferred not to.
Often those kinds of thoughts led to discussion, led to emotions, led to feelings and opening up. That wasn’t Marlene. That was Frank.
She knew what he meant -- or at least she thought he did. He was talking about Marcus. He didn’t know him. Well, he could have. Marlene didn’t really know Marcus outside of their home life.
None of the McKinnon children really shared their Hogwarts lives with each other. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to share their lives with each other and introduce their friends, it was more that they valued family so highly that they didn’t want to bring someone into something so special.
Marlene never met any of Marcus or Magnus’ girlfriends. She never knew their friends. The same was true for Marlene and what she shared with her brothers.
Frank very well could have known Marcus, but she didn’t know him like she did. No one did -- except for Magnus, but he was gone and the memory of how well she knew her missing brother was all she had left to hold onto of her family.
James nudged a fallen branch with his toe, rolling it over to expose the damp bottom. The mouldy scent of rot and fungi spread, hanging in the foggy air. “Gross,” he muttered to himself, flipping it back over to hide the decay. As had become the norm, James was restless. Besides an upcoming shift as monitor, he’d had few things to occupy his time today. Life in Port Montrose did not suit him, had never suited him. He needed something to do besides execute jobs–jobs he was usually ill equipped for, jobs he often hated–and sit around. The periods of inaction interspersed with brief, not enjoyed periods of action had led to a James that was frayed and touchy.
He spotted her from a distance, her pale hair a bright spot among the gloom. He paused, deciding whether he was in the mood to face anyone in the moment. He spent his time alone wishing that there was someone else he could talk to; the second he found someone, he started dreaming of isolation. There was no winning these days. Deciding that Marlene–who he had known since they were children, who was his sister, who was just as alone in this world as he was–barely counted as another person, he made his way down the ridge toward her. “If you grip that bottle much tighter you’re going to break it, you know,” he drawled.
Marlene knew how to lie. She could convince you she was fine as she spat blood through her teeth. She could distract you; it was easy when you were so used to being invisible, to being lesser. It wasn’t as simple with James. He knew her. He’d known her for their entire lives.
Marlene gripped the bottle tighter, not saying anything. No, he’d already seen her, already knew something, no doubt. Continuing on was the only option. Keeping quiet was the only option. She didn’t want to talk, so if he wanted a conversation he’d come to the wrong place. He could do the talking and maybe Marlene would listen.
Marlene gritted her teeth, half-mad at herself for how stubborn she was. She’d appreciated James’ support recently, but that didn’t mean she had to take it all the time. Sometimes Marlene just needed solitude.
And so she sat there -- quiet, waiting for him to say something.
red sun rises like an early warning [] alastor & marlene
Constant vigilance. He ought to have kept his guard up, ought to have expected the eventual curious party who might sniff our their little community. (Besides the Death Eaters, who were another problem altogether.) Perhaps they were a soul from the nearby village– not much of a threat. Perhaps they were something worse. Constant vigilance. When he’d heard the kids begin to murmur among themselves of their pale lady, their vanishing lady, their ghost in the night, he’d dismissed it as the collective works of one too many overactive imaginations left to stew in boredom day in and day out, much as he had the tales that there were selkies and mermaids and all manners of beasts ready to pull the unsuspecting underwater in the nearby ocean. Constant vigilance. This was all kinds of foolishness on his part; much as he repeatedly told himself he would start treating the lot of them more seriously, some stubborn portion of his mind demanded he take care of them, and somehow this had warped into not taking them all as seriously as he ought to have. Foolishness. He would not make the same mistake again.
It was sheer happenstance– and perhaps that wasn’t quite generous enough to explain it away, as in the mornings the lot of them were either coming off their evening shifts to sleep the better part of the day away or groggy enough from sleep to band together in small groups as if sheer numbers conveyed body heat that might help in coffee’s absence (as alas, alas, they were out again, and who knew when they might be able to get more?)– that lead him to overhear McKinnon regaling her nighttime adventure. That she was off chasing ghosts was of some small concern, though Moody couldn’t always begrudge them their small flights of fancy when they had so little to look forward to; that she was off chasing ghosts alone, in the dead of night, and had discovered their ghost seemed more tangible than they all assumed, left the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.
Constant vigilance. Someone was scoping out their camp that none of them had been good enough to catch. Magic, then– they had to be to evade their watchful eyes for so long. To make matters worse, McKinnon might have just blown their entire cover wide open, and regardless of whether she had or had not, she’d put herself unnecessarily in danger to satisfy her curiosity. Stupid. Dangerous. He thought she was smarter than that– assumed, and didn’t that make a ass of him then?
Past the ache in his back and in his bones, the end result of one too many nights spent sleeping in poor conditions when he could hold fast to the idea of sleep at all, a distinct, spreading warmth bloomed through his belly. Anger. Moody was more than passing acquaintances with his temper and recognized it fondly as it greeted him then, background noise to his narrowing of nearly-black eyes fixed on McKinnon retreating from her eager audience to excuse herself to her cottage. Tired from her nighttime flight, perhaps.
He had a hard time finding sympathy for her just then.
Bypassing the kids milling about in the almost-sunny weather, he lurched on after her, skipping masking his limp in favor of dogged speed. He was to the door she slipped through before it got the chance to close entirely– though this was perhaps due to the warped wood of the cabin no one had quite managed to fix– and he shoved it forward without even the pretense to gentleness. A quick scan of the room confirmed they were alone for the time being, which suited his purposes just fine. His voice was a growl when it escaped bared teeth: “What the fuck did you think you were doin’, runnin’ off alone in the middle of the night? Thought you were smarter'n that.”
Her skin was wet, glossy with a mix of sweat and mist. Her hair was damp, matted down at the temples where moisture had run down the sides of her forehead. Her knees and nail beds were still caked with dirt -- she’d fell a few times chasing the silver-eyed woman through the dark. Marlene was a mess, but she was a mess that did something. She fought her own battle, no matter how small. Marlene contributed, and her appearance was evidence of that.
She would find the silver-eyed woman.
Marlene didn’t brag. She was proud of her small accomplishment -- that she was the one to finally follow the silver-eyed woman out of camp, to see where she came from -- but she only told everyone what she’d seen because she thought it was important.
She’s in the village. She’s real. We’re not imagining things.
And the listened, hung on her words even if they offered little information. Marlene wasn’t used to feeling useful.
She shared what she knew and headed back to her cottage to wash off the evidence of last night’s adventure. Marlene was exhausted. But just as she was through the door, Moody pushed his way in behind her.
He wanted to know more, surely. Marlene would help as best she could. She’d recall every detail. She was going to be useful. But, Moody’s words weren’t what she expected and, though she tried to ignore it, Marlene’s heart sunk.
Marlene was loud. Always the first to speak up, her fists raised in the air, her voice broke through the sound of a crowd. She was fearless -- until she saw someone was disappointed in her.
“I--,” she began, still rocked by his words, “Moody. I had to find where she came from. No one else even cared! She’s not a ghost. The silver-eyed woman is real. She always was! No one was doing anything! You weren’t doing anything!”
Marlene didn’t mean to be harsh, but she felt cornered, like a wounded animal. All Marlene wanted was to do something good. She didn’t need Moody yelling at her. He was supposed to be on her side, be her friend.
A BOTTLE clinging between thin fingers, her black nail polish chipping on the e d g e s. greta pressed her lips together tightly as she walked down to the shore once again. the bottle was for the graveyard the order created for the lost or dead. inside was a letter written out to her best friend doris, who was m i s s i n g ( as greta likes to say ) or possibly d e a d. the letter was written messily, a quill with half a bottle of ink and tear stains. greta despised crying, she despised showing her e m o t i o n s and allowing others to worry about her. the truth was written in the letter, the same one shoved into an old bottle of firewhiskey. she hoped to place it in the graveyard, [ c l o s e s t ] to the water to allow her thoughts spilled on paper in black ink to be washed away. f o r g o t t e n .
GRETA DIDN’T want to believe her friend was d e a d when she didn’t show up at the three broomsticks. she rejected the thought of her friend’s lifeless body [ d e c a y i n g ] somewhere in the streets of britain. the letter was false hope, greta knew this, but it was the rushing feeling of guilt that pulled at her heartstrings. it was her late night dock sittings that called for greta overthinking every possible scenario since she joined the mud club to where she is now. would doris have been s a f e if she didn’t waste her time on sending greta a letter?? was greta’s bright pink hair ( terribly covered by a hood ) that attracted vivienne to the group?? is greta the reason why doris is missing??
GRETA COULD feel the tears wishing to drop like rose petals onto her pink cheeks, but she had already allowed that to happen early this morning, and she was too s t u b b o r n to allow it to happen again. for once, greta paused in her tracks, a deer caught in headlights as her eyes widened by the sight of a silhouette on the shore. her fingers [ tightened ] onto the bottle until her tips turned reddish pink. curiosity washed over and soon she found her feet moving before her mind had time to even think of a proper plan-of-action. once she was close enough, the figure began to be more clear, blond hair cascading over slim shoulders. greta remembered the hair from anywhere, marlene mckinnon, the g o l d e n sun frequently standing next to the r a d i a n t fire that was lily evans. this time lily was no where in sight and the blond was left alone on the shore, a bottle gripped in her palms as well. greta thought of turning around, perhaps she could come another time; maybe tonight when the moonlight h a z e d through the settling fog that never lifted, but she found herself walking closer to the girl. “marlene??–” voice [ almost ] cracking, “it’s greta, are you.. busy??” her deep almond eyes glanced down at the bottle in her own hands before returning back to the blonde.
Busy. Marlene nearly laughed at the suggestion. Were any of them truly busy here? Was there really anything to be done? Marlene tried. She wanted to do something, to be helpful. She chased after the girl with silver eyes and failed. She spoke up in meetings but was rarely heard. She was the girl with her fists in the air, her voice louder than anyone else’s -- but it was if the world was deaf and blind to only her.
Marlene gripped the bottle in her hand tighter, seeing that Greta had one as well. Don’t ask me who I’m mourning, thought Marlene. Don’t tell me you understand.
“Just drinking,” she said, lifting the bottle. A lie, but a convincing one.
“Everybody seems to love to stare at the ocean. Not much to do ‘round here. Seemed worth a shot,” she lied again.
Marlene didn’t want company. More accurately, she didn’t want to talk. Having someone to sit beside you wasn’t a terrible thought, but Marlene didn’t think she’d find someone other than Moody who shared her appreciation for silent company.
He’d been writing. Nothing much of importance, nothing sweepingly poetic: just thoughts, words. Frank was quite adept at stringing words together in his own particular way, both aloud and on a page. Shattered fragments, concepts, objects, flowing together in a stream-of-consciousness like a mental outpouring onto the page. But his words frightened him. They articulated that which he did not dare to himself, cast out as an electrified net of hysteria which stung the calm waters of his countenance. They bled into parchment that which he could barely whisper into the breeze. I am scared, they barked. I am scared of everything and I am scared of myself.
He shivered. Scrunching up the pages, Frank withdrew his wand. He would set them alight, always: a quiet murmur, a brief spark, and the scent of salt-tinged smoke fuelled by the shoreline’s breeze. Mere moments, and then he would be free. It was a cleansing ritual, of sorts.
The sun had not yet come close enough to the sky’s peak for it to hang there; the light was soft, and the sea’s horizon smudged into the sky. It was magnificent. He could not resist it, the subdued beauty of the shore: cautiously crossing his way through the bluffs, Frank wound his way to the beach.
He stood contemplative for a moment, regarding the gentle inward pull of the waves, envisioning himself beckoning them. He had a tendency to be so thus absorbed by nature: indeed, several minutes had passed before Frank turned, burying his hands in his pockets, to cast a glance up and down the shore.
That was when he saw her, Marlene, barely a stone’s skip away. Huddled into herself, clutching an empty bottle and something indistinguishable, alone, staring at the sea. His heart twinged, the incessant floods of empathy rolling over him. Inadvertently kicking up the pebbles as he loped across, all inelegant limbs, Frank came to a pause a few steps clear of her.
“The tide’s coming in,” he said gently, turning his head to squint out at the horizon. “About half an hour, I reckon, it’ll wash us away.” He had a knack for that, for almost echoing people’s thoughts aloud: he could read them, was the thing. He’d read Marlene, as she sat there, and he’d read himself, and he knew that their foolish inner wishes were the same. He looked back down at her and smiled. “Mind if I sit with you before the seaweed drags us under?”
Interrupting the cyclical sound of the tides, Frank’s voice sent a chill down Marlene’s spine. She froze, kept her eyes on the horizon and nodded.
Marlene pulled the bottle to her lips, as if she was downing the last drop of firewhiskey inside. Her thumb grazed over the weathered paper label, grateful for its role in her bluff.
She knew how to fake it, how to hide her emotions on a moment’s notice. Marlene was raised with warriors, and even Marcus, who had the most compassion of them all, knew how to bury his emotions -- weaknesses.
They were fighters, and tears were only accepted when they were mixed with blood and sweat. Emotions were allowed, but they were a private matter. If her father was feeling down he’d go for a walk around the property. If her mother had a bad day you’d see her out in the garden or tending to the animals at dusk. They were strong together, their best together -- weakness was meant to be dealt with alone.
“Knock yourself out, Longbottom,” she said, a slight of sarcasm on her tongue. “The firewhiskey is gone though.”
Marlene’s thumb grazed back and forth across her brother’s St. Mungo’s pin as she stared out at the ocean. Her other hand gripped an empty bottle tightly, intentionally, like she was holding onto her brother’s hand instead of the bottle.
She missed them, Magnus and Marcus both. It was hard being alone, being the only McKinnon. It was harder keeping her emotions at bay. This was a war, not a place for tears or funerals or grieving. Marlene could forget a lot -- the blood spilled in the Attack on Britain, the long list of missing loved ones, the desperate situation they were in. Still, Marlene couldn’t forget her brothers.
When she needed to be strong she thought of them. Magnus reminded her how to be a warrior, strong willed and brave. Marcus reminded her how to keep her mind, a level head through all of this, which Marlene had been struggling to do since Vivienne arrived.
She and Lily were on opposite sides. James agreed with her, but at what cost? Marlene had been getting drunk with Moody more often lately -- not to numb, but to forget.
She clutched the bottle in her hand tight, holding onto her brother and what little grip she had left. The message she’d written to Marcus was still in her pocket. She needed time, something none of them had, and so Marlene looked out at the sea, wishing it’d wash her away from this place and the war that left her so alone.
CIGARETTES // Marlene is a chain smoker. She hides half of Port Montrose's cigarette stash in her mattress and only shares with the girls in her cottage (aside from Emma Vanity). She's joked before that eventually they'll be the town's currency and she'll be richer than them all.
ACCENT // Growing up in Scotland, Marlene has a thick accent. So much so that sometimes she can be hard to understand -- especially when she's drunk. It's probably a good thing that people can't always understand her, because Marlene is far from the most polite, lady-like person in Port Montrose.
FAMILY HEIRLOOMS // After her family was killed, Marlene crawled up from under the floorboards and saw nothing but blood. That’s not hat she wanted to remember. Marlene took trinkets, prized possessions, reminders of the better days. She took Magnus' broom (although she's lent it to James more often than she's ridden it because Marlene isn't the best flier), Marcus' St. Mungos pin (which she never takes off), and her parents' wedding rings. She keeps them hidden in a tiny wooden box underneath her mattress.
PLAYING PRETEND // Sometimes Marlene sneaks off into town by herself. She doesn't do much or cause any fuss, but walking around the little town makes life seem normal -- if only for a little while. She tells herself that she's out buying groceries for dinner or going into town to buy new clothes, that she's running errands. The moments where Marlene feels like she's back in her old life are incredibly valuable to her.
HELPING HAND // Marlene will help anyone with anything. Literally anything. Whether she's actually any help is still up for debate. More often than not she just makes things more difficult.
MUSIC // Stevie Nicks is love. Stevie Nicks is life.
C O N N E C T I O N S
WHISKEY & TEQUILA // LILY EVANS : She tastes like summer and feels like forgetting. She is like the ocean, waves washing her clean, but pulling her deeper in the process. Lily is everything Marlene wants, but she’s dangerous. She’s an escape. She makes Marlene irresponsible. She builds her up in a world where it’s a risk to think you’re better than you are. Around Lily, everything else seems unimportant. In a perfect world, Lily is everything Marlene needs, but this is a world at war.
DRUNK IDEAS // ALASTOR MOODY: They agree on two things -- alcohol and silence, at least until they’ve had too much of the former. They drink because they’re tired of talking. Then they drink too much and can’t stop.
WHAT USED TO BE // JAMES POTTER: They grew up together. He knew her brothers. He knew her parents. They shared the beginnings of their magic with each other, watching each other in wonder as they learned just what they were capable of. Now the war has worn away that wonder and the glimmer they once had in their eyes has died down, but they hold onto each other, hoping one day it might return.
I SEE YOU // OPEN : They disagree. Sometimes on one thing, sometimes on many. They see how little Marlene has to offer, how little talent she has. They’re cruel. Maybe they expect more from her. Marlene doesn’t like that; she doesn’t like expectations. Marlene would rather be lost.
DYNAMITE & GRENADE // OPEN : They’re friends -- more like comrades. They’re the first to pull the trigger and the last to ask questions. They jump off cliffs into the freezing water. Their emotions drive them, maybe a little too much. They’re friends, but nothing ever goes past the surface and they like it that way.
NUMB MY MEMORY // OPEN: They know one/both of her brothers, Magnus and Marcus. They want to feel it all, to let it all in with Marlene. To reminisce. She wants to shut it out, to feel numb so she can remember but not feel pain. This person reminds her of what she’s lost.
MEDICINE // OPEN : Lily is what Marlene wants -- to forget, to feel the sun on her skin. This person is what Marlene needs. They build her up, but not without showing her what makes her weak. They love her, but they’re honest about how Marlene could be better. They want her to survive, and so they tell her the truth.
“They’ve got a seastorm on their shoulders and people say they’ve got to remain strong, bold, but they’re already lifting the world & carrying the skies.”
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