WHEN: june 16th, 1979
WHERE: outside the ministry of magic
WITH: ??????
the smile on her lips quivers and fades as she exits the ministry and slowly becomes someone else. her hands reach for her hair, carelessly loosening her ponytail, letting curls of black fall down her shoulders and down her back, making her look far less collected ( a bit more wild and free ). a cigarette quickly appears between her finger tips, and it lights up as she snaps her fingers, fire effortlessly igniting. the warm june air mixed with the familiar scent of smoke SHOULD calm her down, but it doesn’t. her heart is beating fast underneath her ribs ( she can feel it, practically threatening to break free ), and her fingers are itching with anger and frustration. the thumping in her ears ( her blood boiling, her heart exploding ) only grows louder as she grows painfully aware of someone else’s presence. eyes as cold as ice stare into the distance, refusing to look at them, and she blows a puff of smoke into the air. “ what? “ she spits. fucking what? what fucking now? bellatrix lestrange doesn’t have the patience, or the time. frankly, if they knew what she was dealing with, surely, they wouldn’t dare stand so close. though, that could also be true if they knew who they were dealing with. “ if you’re hoping for a smoke, now is not the time. “ she doesn’t bother to lace her words with that sickly sweetness that has been drilled into her since birth, instead, words are spat poison, like fire, like rage.
“this is important, bella.” on the grand scheme of things, maybe not, but to her, it was her biggest priority, a chance to show the older pureblood women that she was capable of representing them well. narcissa had never worked a day in her life, but for this, she did and tirelessly so. she scrutinized over every single detail, following the carefully outlined formula their mother had crafted when they were younger. she wants to prove herself, change the narrative and paint herself as someone more in control and less in the shadow of those that came before her. “i always wear black. shouldn’t the HOSTESS stand out ?” fingers twirl another ribbon, though her eyes follow her sister carefully, suspiciously. “i can handle mrs. fawley. i am the one in charge of the guest lists, you know.” but she knew, almost better than anyone, that bellatrix would do a far better job of getting the point across than she could, even if a threatened invitation was on the table. “what could you possibly be thinking about that is more important than this ?”
there’s a slight pause as her fingers wrap around her own wrist behind her back, her head tilting to the side, her gaze gaining a certain evaluative quality, as if she’s appraising her baby sister, calculating her estimated worth. feet cross in front of her, her teeth dig into her bottom lip, and a slow smile crawls onto her lips. she could think of about one hundred different things that she would consider more important in that moment, but she can indulge narcissa. if only for a moment. “ ---- of course, how foolish of me to think otherwise, “ she says, the nonchalant lie burning sour on her tongue. she can’t remember when she started lying to her sisters ..... her sister. always singular, these days. “ -- so wear red. you’ve always looked ravishing in red. “ she pauses. though the life of a socialite is a part that she has been trained to play since birth, it’s starting to feel less and less interesting, more and more pointless --- like a tired song, on its very last verse. teeth grit together, and the pleasant look on her face becomes a little more forced, less natural. “ really? i for one think that mrs fawley could stand to be taught a lesson. have i mentioned how much she irks me? you’d be doing me a favor. “ though, mrs fawley probably won’t see it that way. if she will see, at all, that is.
maybe it was her incessant need to want to be good, and want that for others too that made dorcas teem on the verge of annoying. she wanted people to hear her and while that hadn’t always been the case, she didn’t let anything stop her now. as her glance pulled up to look at the raven-haired beauty, she almost felt the need to coward down, the mere sight leaving her knees achy and weak. “no. most certainly not. really, nobody should be able to trust anybody anymore what with people being able to print whatever they want and say whatever they want on the radio.” standing very still against the other witch, dorcas planted herself, despite the fear running through her. “there’s always a grey middle ground, that’s not the point here. things aren’t always black and white, i’m glad they’re pushing those boundaries. but who’s to make that call when it seems like all the details are still so muddy?” dorcas was terrified, as she mentally told herself to shut up. this wasn’t her fight, not in the middle of this public area, muggles minding their own business all around them.
she knows a trap when she sees one. so she folds her arms over her chest, her face a stony exterior, barely moving a muscle. “free speech, right?” she replies, and once again, her gaze moves towards the store window, sizing up the people inside, trying to spot the muggle that will ( no, must ) fall under her spell. dorcas only has about a third of her attention ( frankly, she’s busy thinking about what she’s gonna do once she gets the hell out of there ), and her arms move to her pockets, digging into them casually. she does not look like someone who’s toying with the idea of leaving the scene in a state of massacre, but that... she most certainly is. the longer the clock ticks, the closer she is to snapping, to letting all that restraint fall in the matter of seconds. maybe less. “since when does free speech have a middle ground?” she says, amusement flashing across her face. it’s not a concept she particularly cares for, herself, but she knows that it’s a cause that some people take very seriously. for three minutes, she can pretend to be one of them. “i thought dumbledore made all the decisions these days. i’m surprised he’s not the minister yet.” you can only imagine how much self control it takes for her to not spit as she says his name, or vomit as she names him as a possible minister of magic. only two men are deserving of that title. albus dumbledore will never be one of them.
who: open
when: sunrise, june 11th, 1979
where: outside a muggle coffee shop
“a hero and a danger? does the prophet ever get anything right?” dorcas wasn’t sold on the idea that the daily prophet was getting any details right, and in fact, was so abundantly displeased that she groaned away. “how can somebody be a hero and a villain? they’re clearly just crafting their own story to save their own tails at this point.”
she just wants to get inside the shop. that’s all, really. get in and out --- it’s a routine call, just quickly wipe the memory of the muggles inside, make sure that they quickly forget. really, it’s way below her pay grade. but she had already been in the neighborhood, on another call, so she volunteered to take this one too. but of course someone just had to... block her way. of course. because everything just has to be more difficult than necessary. wild images of the other girl’s body falling to the ground, slamming against the tiles, flash before her eyes, but she grits her teeth, tries to ignore the urge to break something. “you really can’t trust anything, these days,” she says, her voice monotone. she waves a dismissive hand, her gaze slowly moving towards the door. “some people might think that it’s refreshing that the daily prophet doesn’t view everything in such a black and white manner.” but what does she know? she has always been convinced that she’s the hero of this story - and she’s most certainly dangerous.
closed : @sheweapon
location : malfoy manor
time : may 30th
“bella.” sharp words cut through thick silence like a knife, eyes narrowing in nothing but utter annoyance. a hand motions the halt of her scribbling quill, folding the piece of parchment ( the EXCLUSIVE invitations to her next big event ) with a twirl of a finger, features radiating irritation as she slips it into an envelope. “i just asked you what color i should wear to the gala next week like three times. are you even listening to me ?” eyes shift to her sister as her fingers slip an emerald ribbon ( her trademark ) around the casing before casting it into the already growing pile on her dining room table. normally, she would leave such a job to the house elves, but she was the only person she truly trusted to get it right. the envelopes held more than an invitation, after all. “do these look alright ? mrs. fawley had plenty to say about the last ones. said they were too ‘ simple. ’ whatever that means.”
she stares into the fire, the reflection dancing in her eyes, warming up an otherwise cold gaze. the chaos of flames always manages to calm her down, to quiet down the storm of thoughts in her head, make her feel a little more at peace. so she doesn’t hear her sister, her attention drifting, her mind far away from this realm ( stuck in a place of fire, serenity filling her chest as the flames lick her bones, lighting her up, comforting her ). it’s not until narcissa speaks her name, that bellatrix is pulled back to reality. palms leave their place on the mantel of the fireplace, falling to her sides. “what?” she snaps, turning around. the flames haven’t left her eyes. “clearly not.” there’s a shrug, a defeated look flashing past her face. she doesn’t care about any of this. “cissy ---- “ she begins, but cuts herself off. a lock of hair is pushed behind her ear, and she takes a few steps forward, heels clicking against the ground as she closes the distance between them. “ what’s wrong with black? “ feet cross in front of her, arms fold across her chest. “ and don’t mind mrs. fawley. i will... speak with her. ” surely, that will be a pleasant chat indeed.
rodolphus isn’t surprised when his wife invites herself into his office and he doesn’t have the energy to entertain it either. a sigh escapes him and he continues with his paperwork, refusing to acknowledge the accusations being thrown at him. he’d let her wear herself out before he attempts to talk some sense into her. finally raising his head to give her his attention, he sets aside his glasses and waits for her silence before he begins talking. “did i know what, bella?” he asks plainly, meeting her dark gaze. “did i know that someone was going to make a glorious fuck up of the mission last night or that the cover of it in this morning’s paper would be piss poor?” raising a brow inquisitively, he’s unable to prevent his patronising tone. “be more specific.”
there is NOTHING she despises more than being ignored ---- but he already knows that. rage itches in her fingers, daring her to do something unspeakable, something vile. but.... she has resisted the urge to kill her husband for the past decade now, so what’s a little while longer, right? especially now, when he’s so close to power. would be a shame to waste it. so she settles on alternative methods to get his attention. dark eyes scan his desk, searching for something to break, something that he will miss dearly. it only takes a few milliseconds for her to zero in on the ink bottle ( she’s fairly certain that it’s an antique, possibly passed down through the generations ), and before they know it, both are covered in ink. shards of metal and gold lie in shambles across his desk ( much like their marriage? ), and bellatrix herself is staring him straight in the eye, barely breathing, seething rage still apparent in her gaze. “do i have your attention? one would think that you would consider this as important as i do.” there’s a pause, and she takes a quick breath. she feels like she’s right back where she started --- young, reckless, competing for a powerful man’s attention. a seemingly recurring theme in her life. “what do you think, rod?” she says, glowering at him. her tone is slowly becoming equally as patronizing as his. “the botched mission of course. someone within our ranks doesn’t know their place.” and that’s what she calls a serious problem. one that requires a violent end. “did you know?”
Name: Bellatrix Hecate Lestrange ( née Black )
Nicknames: Bella
Age: Thirty Two
Birthday: December 23, 1947
Place of Residence: Lestrange manor
Pronouns: She/her
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual
Tattoos: Her most cherished tattoo is the dark mark on her left wrist. She also has a snake circling her ankle, ‘toujours pur’ etched into the back of her neck.
Scars: Though Bellatrix has gathered quite a few scars over her tenure as a death eater, she usually has them covered up, unless they carry some sort of special meaning to her ( aka if she got them doing something that she would like to remember, or if the person who inflicted the wound is someone she almost respects, even though they are an enemy ). All the scars she accumulated from her years on the Quidditch team have been covered and forgotten.
Piercings: Bellatrix has her ears pierced ( both the regular kind, the helix kind, and the forward helix kind ). She also sporadically wears a tongue piercing.
Vices: Pride and wrath. Alcohol and violence. Bloodlust and impatience. Ambition and arrogance.
House: Slytherin
NEWTS: Charms (O), Potions (O), Transfiguration (O), Herbology (E), Defense against the dark arts (O), Alchemy (E).
Languages Spoken: English, French and Latin
Parents: Druella and Cygnus Black.
Siblings: Narcissa Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks.
Family Background: Certain expectations came with being the eldest daughter to the House of Black. The infinite riches, beautiful galas, pretty clothes, friendships set in stone and expensive tutors all came at a certain... price. But it was a price that Bellatrix was born to pay - blood purity and the idea that she was part of a very small elite came natural to her. So it should have been no surprise that the first born daughter of the House of Black mantled her crown and her throne with ease ( only a few hiccups a long the way --- nothing that money and power can’t fix ), making a name for herself in the pureblood society. For better or for worse.
Wand: 12 ¾, walnut, dragon heartstring, fairly bendy.
– “ Versatile and adaptable, walnut is frequently paired with innovators and inventors as it is attracted to intelligence. Once subjugated, walnut will perform any task desired. Lacking a moral compass, it can prove lethal in the hands of those lacking conscience, as the owner and wand may feed unhealthily off one another. “
— “ Dragon heartstring wands are noted for producing powerful magic and flamboyant spells. But they are temperamental, being more prone to wild flares of magic that cause accidents. These wands are the easiest of the Supreme Cores to turn to the Dark Arts. “
Patronus: A large jaguar. Big black eyes. Seems just seconds away from devouring you. All muscle, power and violent death.
Boggart: She sees the broken body of the Voldemort she met, years ago. A beautiful man, dark eyes, jet black hair. Still human. His body is mangled, torn to pieces. Ultimately powerless and completely destroyed. It’s both Bellatrix’s fear to never have known power like this (hence why she sees a younger version of him), but to also see Lord Voldemort fall.
Amortentia: Pine trees, coffee beans, iron, red wine, lemons and thunder storms.
Prefect/Head: Neither.
Quidditch: The sport is etched into her very bones, and she grew up on the Quidditch field ( always getting lectured about tearing up her clothes, getting mud on her brand new shoes --- but no one ever got too mad, she was still fraternizing with other pureblood kids, after all. Making connections. ) Once at Hogwarts, she joined the Quidditch team as a beater. As a player, Bellatrix was talented but merciless. Her playing style was cruel, and sent quite a few kids to the hospital wing. And as for teams that she supports, she has always cheered for the Falmouth Falcons ( a team that’s notorious for its fierce and violent style of play ). She likes their team motto: ‘let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads’.
Other Clubs: Bellatrix was in the Slug Club, but was mostly known for her tendency to move around clubs, showing up to odd meetings of clubs she never registered for. She usually got away with it, because she was well liked, and well connected.
when: january 4th, 1975. a little past noon.
where: a back door alley somewhere in muggle london.
who: lucius malfoy // @fortunteson
something metallic glimmers in the sunlight, but only for a second, before the blade is slid up her sleeve, hidden away from sight. a smile that is as much forced as it is chilly appears on her lips, and she rises from her crouching position on the ground. how dare he disturb her? arms fold across her chest, and liquid dark eyes grow hot with a quiet rage, bubbling like oil in pitch black irises. for how long will she be able to contain it, this time? teeth sink into her tongue in an attempt to stop the outpour of venom, and her shoulders become stiff, frozen in place. his very presence has this effect on her ---- he awakens something ugly in her, something that’s always there, but that she works hard to hide. around him, she can’t. “you look lost, malfoy.” there’s a pause, and her gaze wanders towards the pair of boots sticking out from behind the dumpster next to them. she wonders if he will notice, if he will see that her hands are washed with crimson, stained a deep burgundy red. at least her leather jacket remains spotless. always something. “if narcissa sent you to help me, i’m doing quite well on my own.” disgust becomes all the more apparent the longer she speaks, and at the word ‘ help ’, she spits, saliva mixing with blood on the ground. she has just killed a man --- yet she’s itching to kill another. and if it wasn’t for narcissa, lucius malfoy would be in deep trouble.
b e l l a, the oldest of the black sisters, her mentor and the sister of marlene’s best friend ––narcissa. the bonds woven between the two women stronger now than they had been before, when marlene had been f r e e to follow her heart rather than her mind ( like now ). with a hand gesture and a wink to the bartender she orders a drink for her friend, ❛ bella, you’re too beautiful to let a man, let alone your husband, get to you like this ❜ she chooses to believe the words spoken, avoiding to question in fear of an answer she will have to tell to e m m e l i n e later in one of her reports. the words on bellatrix growing fewer and fewer these days as friendship had blossomed, taken form, and awoken the thick darkness in mckinnon veins. ❛ what did rodolphus do ? ❜
she’s not nearly drunk enough for this conversation ---- her pride still tugs at her like thorns around her wrists, her heart, her lips. because marlene is right ---- bellatrix shouldn’t have to be that wife. the one that suspects that her husband very well might be cheating on her, that something isn’t quite right. she shouldn’t have to be the wife that kills the secretary either, should she now? in preventative measures only, of course. she has never been able to prove a thing. drives her fucking crazy. but instead of saying that, she lifts her drink to her lips and gives off a shrug, an eyebrow arching ever so slightly. “my looks have nothing to do with it,” she replies, and her tongue runs over her lips. darkness ignites in her eyes, a chilliness seeping into her mannerisms, making her frame a little more rigid. “ he had the nerve to accuse me of cheating on him. isn’t that rich? “ it’s another lie --- but it’s one that spares her pride... when will she stop being a prisoner of her own arrogance?
the morning of the 29th of may, in one of the ministry’s many elevators.
the survival of one BENJY FENWICK reads like a poorly executed DARE, a call to action. ‘ come on now, you can do better than that, can’t you? ‘ whoever let him go, flee the scene ---- it’s not someone she’d care to know. she has been on the verge of cracking since the news broke --- so close to ruining the picture perfect facade they’ve been working on for so long ( though, doesn’t it always hang in the balance, when it comes to her? stability has never been her thing ). so she’s seething, where she stands. the elevator moves excruciatingly slow, seemingly mocking her - egging her on. long fingers tighten around her coffee to go cup, dangerously close to breaking it. just being inside the ministry seems like a bit of a cruel joke ---- she’s so close to him, isn’t she? it’d be so easy to just... clean up the mess. finish it. as the elevator crawls closer and closer to her floor ( and becomes nearly empty of people ), she rolls her shoulders, tries to shake off the feeling of inadequacy that is clawing at her bones. her best ‘it’s go time’ smile appears on her lips ( and it’s a disturbing transformation -- how quickly she goes from blackened eyes to a friendly smile ), and she turns around, her body language changing from guarded to something a bit more warm, inviting. it’s not in her nature. “ it really is terrible, isn’t it? “ she says, and she hates the way her voice sounds --- as if it’s wearing a sweater, a layer of softness and warmth surrounding her words. fucking disgusting. but she’s in public, and this is a game that she has agreed to play.... for now, at least. “ this fenwick affair really makes you think, doesn’t it? how many more like him are there, out there? i can only hope they catch them quickly. “ at that, she wants to roll her eyes. spit on the very ground they walk on. but she bites her tongue, catches herself before she does something she will... regret. though, she has come to learn that everything can be fixed... adjusted. just one little word to do the trick --- to make people forget.
“ a job ? at this hour , must be something very ––– engaging. “ it was better , perhaps , if she didn’t. but, for her there was no greater thrill than being somewhere she shouldn’t , speaking to someone she needn’t dare to . “ i don’t mean to be intrusive. “ it’s a bold faced lie, and she does little to feign otherwise. in fact, light chuckle escapes her lungs as arms fold against her chest. she’d been playing with fire this close to BELLATRIX , the notorious woman herself. but with firewhiskey warm in her core, how could she resist? if she remained the bug buzzing throughout the woman’s ear drums for even more than a minute, she’d consider that a victory in itself. “ it’s just after everything that’s happened as of late , d’ya really think wandering the streets at this time of night is safe for someone like you ? “ lashes flutter , sarcasm dripping from her words.
unfortunately, her interest has been sparked ---- and the dullness in her eyes slowly becomes replaced by a hunger, a WANT for the feeling of crushed bones and spilled blood beneath her finger tips. and oh, the screams ---- always the screams. her favorite part. at that thought, she slips into a more genuine smile ( its edges sharp, tainted by cruelty ). “ always someone getting into trouble... especially at night, “ she responds dryly, and an eyebrow quirks. like you, right now. "i simply clean up the mess.” a strand of hair is pushed behind her ear as she speaks, and she takes a step forward. she has to tilt her chin slightly downwards to be able to look the other girl straight in the eye. “i can take care of myself. question is ---- can you? would be a shame if something were to happen.”
the door to his office slams shut behind her as she storms in, her eyes a little wild, the darkness in them seemingly complete. she doesn’t have the peace of mind to sit down --- so she stands, her stare as angry as it is hollow, lacking any sign of humanity, soul or life. “ did you know what they were gonna do? “ she whispers, but it comes out more like a cat like hiss, angry and afraid and threatening all at once. something in her shifts, and she takes another step forward, a hand raising, a finger pointing at him. “ did you. fucking. know? “ words are repeated again, but slower this time, carrying more weight. she hates that after ten fucking years, she still can’t immediately tell what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. what goes on in that brain of his. so she watches him like a hawk closing in on a corpse, pitch black eyes spitting fire. not that it makes her any wiser.
d a i n t y fingers move the cocktail stirrer in the almost empty martini glass. smile already given to the bartender in the quest for one more, and another after that. the news splayed out on the chair next to her. headline screaming for her attention but she ignores it with another sip of alcohol and doe eyes scanning the bar she had found herself in many times lately. with a sigh and another smile she lets the bartender know that she wants her next drink n o w and quickly the empty glass is replaced by a new. B E N J Y F E N W I C K she remembered the name from hogwarts but couldn’t quiet place him. only knowing that he had been an order member now behind bars waiting for conviction. at least he got captured, if it had been her she had been d e a d within seconds. & as arm brush against hers she turns around, closes the article that has been open ( that has been read ) quickly and smiles, d i s a r m i n g l y. ❛ if you wanted my attention you could’ve just asked. ❜
“ if i wanted your attention, i would already have it, “ she replies, voice a little airy, like a cold breeze. she’s in one of her moods ( the kind that usually has a body count ), but she seems to relax once her attention is drawn away from the muggle born she had been assessing ( sizing up ). even her gaze softens, burning a little less hot the longer she looks at marlene ( but still far from harmless, far from being anything less than lethal ). she thinks that marlene might be able to tell that something is off, so she quickly sits down on the barstool next to her, her eyes glossing over the closed newspaper, trying to guess what marlene had been reading. “ sorry. my husband is being a complete idiot again. it’s putting me... on edge. “ not totally untrue --- but a lie nonetheless.
Gone was the bustling noise of bodices weaving past one another within the slender alleyway that was Diagon Alley, what replaced it was as close to silence as Mary could hope. Sliding beneath the shadows, she’d gone unnoticed entering –– and now exitng ––– Knockturn Alley and making her way towards the partially dim storelined streets. Perhaps, in actuality, it hadn’t been her smartest approach. Yet, there was an inkling of curiosity that ate away at her, as if an itch upon flesh that she seemingly could not scratch. Just hours earlier there had been whispers of fright, witches and wizards turning at every corner scared for what they might find lingering in the shadows. However, Mary was certain that if they were to come across her, there’d be nothing but a snide glance and an albeit welcoming remark as to the why. Why was she seen parading about Knockturn Alley when just about everyone was under scrutiny for their actions, what was she hiding? Footfalls are light as ever, the girls arms wrapping around slender bodice if only to keep her warm as a slight summers breeze makes its way towards her. The streets had gone silent, and for once she’d found a small solace in it. Perhaps it’s why she wasn’t paying attention. Although, it was the denial of the fact that the liquor lingering upon her lips from hours prior was to blame for her mindlessness. Taking a swift turn into the open cobblestone, bones crashing against –––– “ Do ya mind?” Gaze now trailing up her companies figure before heaving a small sigh, arched brow follows as thinned lips spread into a slanted smirk. “Going somewhere are we?”
their bodies slam together, but bellatrix doesn’t try to stop the collision. she doesn’t have much interest in avoiding pain --- and besides, she’s rather interested in seeing if the small statured girl does. so she lets sharp shoulders crash against her breast, barely reacting as her own elbow lands in mary’s ribcage. fine. that was on purpose. “ i do, actually, “ she replies, and her mouth twists into something of a smile. it’s a half way smile, something defiled about the whole movement, and it never reaches her eyes. instead, they’re pits of black oil, bubbling with something that is either rage or excitement. possibly a threat. you never know, with her. as she takes a step back, she catches a whiff of alcohol, the sharp smell stinging in her nostrils. she’s too tired to play the role that her parents carved her into, the mold that they pushed her to become. so no diplomatic one liners fall from her lips as she gets ready to leave. “ i have a job to get to. i really don’t have time for little lost girls today. my husband is the one that gets involved with charity, anyhow. so if you want to talk, find someone else.” preferably soon, too. before she decides to stay, make things far more interesting.
closed : @sheweapon
location : obliviator headquarters
time : May 29th / 20:08
c h a n g i n g the page of the report in front of her, a sigh escapes past ruby tinted lips. the wish for something to happen evident in restless movement of fingers t a p p i n g against the notebook and eyes moving towards the place where her superior sat, next to her. the most dreary part of being a junior obliviator was evidently the paperwork and even if marlene enjoyed her mentor, b e l l a t r i x –– the unlikely friend, late evenings at the obliviator headquarters did become boring. leaning back in her seat she closes the file in front of her and speaks up. ❛ personally, i thought working with you, darling, would be a little more interesting ❜
the dozen of quills that are scribbling in front of her promptly drop against the desk as her concentration breaks. metal rimmed glasses slide down her nose as she tilts her face downwards, examining marlene carefully over the edges of silver frames. a strand of midnight hair is pushed behind her ear and she forward in her chair, her elbows placing themselves on the desk, and long fingers wave in the air, forcing the quills to take up their writing again. “ are we not living up to your expectations? “ she asks, and her voice is wrapped in a melodic playfulness, a little sing-songy, as if there is something that she finds particularly entertaining. “ well, not every day is quite as interesting and efficient as it could be.“ given... the right leadership. at that, there’s a quick wink, and her lips tug into a faded smile.
