Marietta Edgecombe

A twenty year old trainee healer working on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's and living in London. ♫

[laurelwreathedserpent]

not marble (nor gilded monuments) || daphne + marietta

[laurelwreathedserpent]

"Fair enough," she murmured, turning her hazel vision back towards the floating branch. It was a delicate operation, but every other time she’d done it, the witch had her housemates at her back. All enjoyed indulging in rule breaking and danger, but they weren’t stupid and knew to take certain precautions. Marietta was no friend however, and Daphne couldn’t simply trust her. The fraternal bond between Slytherins was something no other house could ever hope to match, let alone the house that tended to be the most competitive between its own members.

"It won’t accuse me of not picking a side," the elder Greengrass absentmindedly answered. "It won’t imply I’m horrid for doing what I was told to do during detentions. But you wouldn’t know about that, now, would you? No one will accuse you of anything when you have your crime literally written across your face. Though, I must say, it’s rather extreme." The pureblood witch had never been entirely sure what to make of the marked woman. In some ways, they were quite similar, and yet were far too different.

It was lie - Daphne knew exactly why no one accused Marietta Edgecombe, and it had nothing to do with her indiscretion in Umbridge’s reign. The DA had long forgiven her for that, no doubt; after all they’d given a punishment that exceeded the crime, so their thirst for blood was quenched. So much so, that it was rarely brought up that the ex-Ravenclaw had slipped away when the battle had began as well - Daphne remembered seeing her face that dreadful night in Hogsmeade, it was hard to miss. Of course, it was easier to let the Ravenclaw slide when the Slytherins made such an excellet scapegoat.

"It’s not luck if you know what you’re doing," the witch continued, delicately directing the branch until it made contact with the bark. And suddenly, the tree woke, branches moving not so fast as it did when actively trying to destroy something, but more as though it were attempting to swat a fly. An amused grin curved her pink lips. "See?"

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

"Intelligent people often don't pick sides," the woman answered (perhaps unnecessarily) with an equally casual demeanour, the comment not an attempt at flattery that some may have perceived it to be but instead was merely an observation of the facts. "Instead, choosing to assess the strengths and weaknesses of the opposing sides and make a judgement of how they themselves should proceed or where their own presence would factor in, if at all." It wasn't supposed to be a sly remark to create a situation where Marietta became the branch that Daphne levitated in the air while waiting for the willow to react and bat her away, it was - in reality - just her own opinion placed before the dark haired female like a display in a museum that wasn't necessarily to be responded to but merely observed.  

Sapphire hues shifted fleetingly in the former Slytherin's direction, the edge of her mouth twitching skyward momentarily before falling down once more like it had slipped and lost its footing on the rung of a ladder. "No I wouldn't," she told the other woman, "I never had detention." The shrug of her shoulders acknowledging the dry humour that laced each syllable that she spoke, knowing that she wasn't going to apologise to the elder Greengrass sister for what she had gone through in the awareness that it would neither be wanted nor received well. Similarly, Marietta herself knew that when people apologised for her own ailment or what she had gone through that she more often than not found it easier to brush the 'sorry' off than accept it or respond. 

An amused huff caused her nostrils to flare and recede in quick succession, watching the tree idly swat against the branch that had invaded it's space; not unlike a cat in the summer sun that batted lazily at its - already cornered - prey. "It seems like you've done that before," Marietta guessed, perhaps it was presumptions though there were worse things that she could presume of Daphne, she thought. "I tended to read sitting around the other side, near the trunk," the admission didn't need a reply, though the trainee healer let it simmer in the silence that settled between them al the same.

[weasley-rb]

Heed Thy Warning ✿ Marietta & Ron

[weasley-rb]

To Ron, there was a category of Ravenclaws that downplayed their smarts and another that lorded their excellent marks over everyone like a medal of honor. Marietta seemed to fall in the former, even if he hadn’t been too kind over the remark that prompted her answer. Brewing potions was a difficult science, needing precision in ingredients and method. There was a little bit of truth to what she was saying, that good potion-makers were hard to come by. “Should I ever require a Deflating Draught, I’ll make sure to request you to make it,” he retorted. Spell Damage was the very last place he wanted to be, save for the Forbidden Forest surrounded by man-eating spiders. 

Ron was surprised to hear that Marietta wanted to know more about the incident that happened years ago — then again, anything regarding canaries attacking someone merited some curiosity. “Nothing!” he said a bit too hastily, his arms falling back to his sides. Perhaps he mistook her tone for accusatory, the knee-jerk reaction to place blame on Hermione and absolve himself of responsibility was an ingrained habit. “All I did was enter the Common Room with my girlfriend at the time. Well, Hermione and I weren’t really, erm, speaking at the time, and she was there with Harry and I only acknowledged him. She said a few words and then sent them at me, for literally nothing.” The marks from the attacking birds left cuts and scratches up and down his arms and hands, which he held out to further emphasize his point. They had long since faded, but the faint trace of white scars against pale skin revealed the opposite reason of Marietta’s: his loyalty had indirectly facilitated the incident in the Brain Room (no thanks to a Death Eater’s spell). “They did manage to heal in about a week on their own, of course. Hurt quite a bit though.”

"True," he admitted, not denying the fact that it really was like that. Ron hadn’t really got to know Cho or her friends all that well whilst Harry was dating her, but that year was more complicated than the last. Quidditch, Prefect duties, his father attacked, and clandestine affairs underneath the nose of a tyrannical witch? It was a trying time. But her willingness — rather, reluctance — to sign the parchment hadn’t gone unnoticed. It created favor in a time where few believed Harry and even fewer wanted to join a club sure to garner them all expulsions in a snap of the fingers. “I didn’t really try to know Cho either, to be honest. We kind of got into it about Quidditch teams once.”

Her next barbed remark made his arms go back to being crossed, mostly for the fact that she was way too perceptive about finding his weaknesses. Ron was the last of six boys, all who had been Prefects, Head Boys, Quidditch stars, and successful entrepreneurs. He was doomed to live up to these expectations, but probably made a decent run at it. Being an Auror was the only thing that would make him a standout, but like Marietta mentioned snarkily, he was riding the coattails of his brother’s continued successes. It was for a good reason, of course. The bristling was all too obvious. Was that why her expression changed? She was right, no matter how much it rubbed him the wrong way. “You finished school, at least,” Ron said, making another admission. Somehow, it seemed inappropriate to snark back. He could tell that she was being truthful and not sneaky, probably due to his concerted effort to try not to be oblivious to body language. His shoulders visibly slacked as he replied, “Plus they don’t hire just anyone as a Healer, at least, I hope not.”

"Depends on your definition of good. My brother would applaud your creativity, I think," he said, with a shrug. This store had been built up with their creative foundation, wrought into existence with financial investments and business savvy. New products were from the brilliant mind of George, despite the slow-churning rate at which they were conceived from idea to tangible final product. Mischief was considered a bad thing, worth detentions and groundings, but the joke shop was thriving. Skiving Snackboxes were used for selfish gain, but Marietta proposed an altruistic purpose. How many people would have thought of that from a gag sweet? "It’s actually sort of… cool, I guess. I’ve never sold a Nougat that wasn’t being used to skive off Binns’ class."

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

"I would have thought you missed your window for where a deflating draught would help you," the intonation in her tone connoted that it was a question, rather than a simple comment. The arch of her brows was fluid, making the moment of silence that passed between them while the former Ravenclaw allowed him to consider what she had said before continuing, an air of mischief lingering about the movement that seemed to fit with her current surroundings. "After your quidditch success in your sixth year, I'm surprised your ego reduced itself enough that you can still walk through doors without having to push it through first." The barb barely sharp enough to cut oneself on, like she were trying to cut a block of frozen ice cream with a blunt knife rather than a sharp one, meant to fall on the more humorous side of the spectrum rather than the crueller one.

Sapphire hues shifted downward as the red head held out his arm for her inspection, narrowing as she watched the white scars that peppered his skin like rungs of a ladder while dancing under the luminescent bulbs in the shop. A noise (seeming as though it were not unlike a sound of contemplation) bubbled up from the back of her throat to push itself through slightly-parted lips before they fell closed again. "Huh," she spoke aloud, shoulders relaxing slightly as the word left her, "I guess we do have something in common then." It was said as though she were surprised, not having expected that revelation to dawn on her like the sun over the horizon, fingers subconsciously rising to brush over her own scars that had been bestowed upon her due to the magical prowess of Hermione Granger. 

"Well, I'm sure - if I was friends with him - had Harry Potter called me up and said he had planned to skip seventh year in favour of hunting horcruxes to ensure that Voldemort didn't take over the magical world and enslave the muggle world, I would have told him he was barking mad if he thought I wasn't going with him and placed that slightly higher on my priorities list that doing my N.E.W.T's." Marietta shrugged, omitting that she probably would have had an inner debate about whether or not she could bring her school books had she been afforded a spot as part of the Golden Trio - it wasn't too important, nor did it bode well for perpetuating the Ravenclaw stereotype. 

"I wouldn't call it creativity," she admitted, "I'd probably call it 'remembering that I may or may have not used them in seventh year to skive off a few of my classes in seventh year'." The trainee healer not including that it was predominately to avoid accusatory stares and snide comments of her classmates rather than out of sheer laziness, always doing the work regardless or found by Cho in a remote corner of the library with her nose in a book in true Ravenclaw fashion. The rise and fall of her shoulders was casual, as though to say 'what can you do?', glancing around the shop as the angle of her mouth turned lob sided in acknowledgement of a thought that so desperately wished to be said aloud, confining the expression to - 

"This shop, from what I've heard, is probably the best thing that happened to the Alley. It makes people laugh," giving an errant gesture to the products that lined the shelves or floated overhead, she continued, "People need that. Even now."

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Ties That Bind ☆ Hermione & Marietta

[hermione-jean---grangerarchive]

It was no secret that finding Marietta here had pushed Hermione to yet another emotional extreme. Just moments ago she’d been trying to keep herself from bursting into tears, and now, faced with the person she’d permanently scarred during her fifth year, she was practically writhing with anxiety. The apples of her cheeks were still pink, though for an entirely different reason; she shifted uncomfortably on the spot, gravel crunching beneath her feet. Marietta’s invitation to sit prompted a tentative smile, but instead of obliging she stayed where she was, crossing her arms over her chest and averting her eyes when the Ravenclaw started to speak.  

She knew exactly what Marietta was talking about, and she would have very much liked to disappear right then and there. She was being a coward, she knew, but she had foolishly believed that she would never have to explain herself for what she’d done; she’d thought about it, of course, but now that she was faced with the opportunity she found herself at a loss for words. 

Brown eyes flickered bravely upwards, squinting through the sunlight at the scarred face in front of her. Marietta had been protecting her family? A wave of compassion crashed over Hermione so suddenly that she thought she might drown. The words resonated with her in a profound sort of way, vibrating down into the core of her being and draining her face of all color, but at the former Ravenclaw’s prompting she somehow managed to respond. Her voice was soft and crackly, but there was a strength behind it that masked her discomfort. 

"It could have happened to anyone who betrayed us," she explained. "I suppose now I understand why you might have done it - told Umbridge about the D.A., I mean - but at the time…You were trying to protect your own, I…I understand that, but what happened to you was a punishment I chose because while keeping the D.A. a secret was risky, allowing Umbridge to find out about it was even riskier."

She paused, turning her gaze away. 

"It could very easily have ended badly. She was a dangerous woman, so I…well, I suppose I was protecting my own as well."

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

The nod that met the answer Hermione had given her was slow, deliberate, as though the former Ravenclaw needed a moment to digest the information that had been laid before her; not unlike a man would a fine meal placed before him while analysing the dish and then matching it with the appropriate cutlery he would use. "I was," Marietta affirmed to the stuttering witch, "I remember getting a letter from mum after the opening year feast telling me that no matter the cost I wasn't to get on the wrong side of Umbridge-" shaking her head, she glanced down, not explaining that that was why she had been hesitant to sign the parchment in the Hogshead nor why she had always regarded the Golden Trio with some measure of trepidation in her sixth year, instead allowing her sentence to trail off.

"You're too kind, Granger," Marietta told her with a dry, humourless, laugh, "She was a horrible old toad and we both know it." If she were honest, she didn't know what had happened to Dolores Umbridge though - were she frank - she didn't care. The strawberry blonde had always chosen to favour facts before personal opinion during her time in Hogwarts, and similarly during that time had chosen to take her parents word as deserving a place among those facts, though in hindsight was able to realise that the pick-clad woman had left student's feeling in a constant state of being down trodden after the boring nature of Binn's history class combined with feeling terrible about themselves and their capabilities.

In short, she was terrible.

"Although I can understand your motivation," another nod was given, glancing over her shoulder at the brunette who had chosen to remain standing. It assuaged her unanswered questions somehow, to know that it could have happened to anyone even though part of her had already known that but had chosen to ignore that. "I suppose I should thank you though, for giving me the opportunity to realise that a balaclava didn't suit me." A sly joke was waved into her tone, perceptive to have noted the wringing of hands that connoted how anxious that the ex-Gryffindor felt and similarly aware that she had certainly chosen her day to stage the confrontation so felt that, even just for a moment, that she should perhaps make up for the sudden questions she had sent the woman's way.

[weasley-rb]

Heed Thy Warning ✿ Marietta & Ron

[weasley-rb]

"Welcome." Obligation was met, having answered her question to her satisfaction. Anything else was extraneous since George wasn’t paying him to stand around and socialize, but really, he was already done with his shift chores. Besides, how many times was he going to cross paths with the Ravenclaw? Curiosity was morbid sometimes, so seeing where former acquaintances and classmates ended up since leaving school was a valid reason. As it were, many of those were not on great or even good terms with him for one reason or another. Still, it was interesting to learn that she headed down the path of becoming a Healer. What else did he really know about her besides being Cho Chang’s best friend and a sodding traitor?

"Must be those smarts that won them over in the end, yeah?" he replied, a corner of his mouth lifting upward. As expected, her demeanor changed with his subtle rehash of the event during his fifth year. His thinly-veiled faux pas provoked Marietta into acknowledging their prior acquaintance, the both of them no longer denying their short-lived history. But how would she react? Marietta likely knew of his personal feelings toward the subject, and he about her personal feelings toward Hermione, but never had they ever engaged in such a confrontation. Her fleeting mention of the fourth floor of the wizarding hospital brought back even more memories of that year, concerning the attack on his father and the aimless wandering of he, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny onto the Spell Damage level specifically — which was for people like Lockhart, who probably deserved it since the charming charlatan took his defective wand and tried to erase he and Harry’s memories, thereby leaving his sister to die. But for those like Neville’s parents… nobody deserved to be tortured like that. The subsequent joke she made was dark and highlighted the irony that completely saturated it. Ron hadn’t wished that fate upon her, feeling a bit bad about the whole ordeal, but his hands were clean of it. “If it makes you feel any better, she sent canaries at my face once. Wasn’t a pretty sight,” he said, the twinge of guilt making him sympathetic toward her plight for a brief moment.

He folded his arms over his smock as she continued on. “Ow… Weasley? You act like we haven’t been introduced before, Marietta,” he retorted, now feeling the stings from the barbs befitting of a Ravenclaw. Working at the joke shop was one of a plethora of topics to mention to make Ron bristle, so she could definitely tell that the latest barb had struck a nerve. Not content, no, but there was a certain amount of pride in being able to rattle off product information on a whim. Certainly not as prestigious as a Healer, but vital in other ways. “Runs in the blood, what I can say?” he added, moderating his tone. It wasn’t the truth, of course. Whilst he preferred looking up to the twins rather than Percy growing up, they were the only ones to take an active interest in practical jokes and jinxes. “Or some might call it loyalty.”

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Behind closed lips, her tongue ran across her teeth in an attempt to suppress the amused smirk that Ron's words had triggered while a fleeting shake of her head (from left to right) connoted her reluctance to accept that, perhaps, Weasley was capable of playing the game that most who belonged to the house of Rowena Ravenclaw knew all to well; having found themselves coining the ability to step up to the challenge with an increased ease across their seven years at Hogwarts. "I doubt it was," she replied with a dismissive gesture, though an underlying jest lingered in the movement, "I think they were just thankful that I was the first candidate that could brew a basic deflating draught without having it blow up in their faces, they thought they should hire me just in case the applicants in after me were duds." She shrugged, a non-verbal substitution for saying 'what can you do?' while a huff of amusement escaped her.

"Canaries?" Marietta asked, unable to keep the scepticism from her voice while she tried to imagine what possible reason that Hermione could have for sending a flock of yellow birds at the red head's face. She couldn't. "What on earth did you do to warrant her sending canaries at your face?" It could have been the fact that she was a female, therefore the unwritten rule decreed that she should side with the other woman as opposed to the male or (the more likely option) that she couldn't imagine the golden girl - Hermione Granger herself - reacting in such a way unless she was given good cause. A brow lifted expectantly, wondering how he had forgiven her though not having to ponder for an extended period before the bitter part of her reminded her that his scars had clearly not been permanent. 

"We were never really introduced though were we? Not properly, at least." She countered, the angle of her mouth turning lob sided for a mere minute as she tried to recall being formally introduced to the youngest male of the Weasley clan. "I was Cho's friend to you and you were Potter's friend to me and we left it at that, didn't we?" An eye narrowed slightly following the inclination of her head to one side, as if it had contemplated winking jokingly before conscious (intelligent) thought dictated contrary wise. "I wouldn't be too sure about that," Marietta told him airily, shrugging nonchalantly, "I would wager that some could think of it as slightly sneaky that you chose to bask in your brothers' success rather than make your own way."

The strawberry blonde's arms tensed at her sides, fingers clutching the snack boxes determinedly between them with increased fervour before loosening their grasp. A self-deprecating smile turned the edge of her mouth upward, briefly indulging in lessening the severity of her words by allowing him a small insight into how exactly she had gotten her own job - remembering that the grudge she still harboured (no matter how hard she tried to shake it off) was not with him. "I can't talk though," Marietta told him, shoulders rising and falling fleetingly, "Cho pulled a few strings to get me an interview, it just so happened I was competent enough to be accepted into the job." She didn't believe herself taking advantage of her friend's success, despite having benefited from it, but knew that what Ron had said was right but just refused to accept it without having retaliated with a jibe of her own. It was loyalty above all else.

"I suppose I can't be that good if I came here for this, can I?" The question genuine (or as genuine as she would allow it to be), as she moved the product in hand so that it would catch his attention, the inquiry partially rhetorical even though it was underpinned with a tone that verged on curious, wondering what he would say.

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Ties That Bind ☆ Hermione & Marietta

[hermione-jean---grangerarchive]

The sun was an off-white ball in the misty blue sky, its warmth penetrating the bit of fog left over from that morning. The weather had been pleasant enough for the ceremony, not too cold and not too hot, but Hermione’s burning cheeks said otherwise as she climbed the hill to the stone circle. The growing heat and humidity had nothing to do with the flush creeping into her sallow face, however; all through the ceremony, through the reading of the names of the fallen, she’d managed to hold her head high, and she was quite pleased with the fact that she hadn’t allowed a single tear to fall.

The effort of doing such a thing, though, seemed to have taken its toll. 

The massive lump in her throat made breathing a laborious task, and upon reaching the top of the hill she slowed her pace in order to try her hand at combating it. She swallowed hard, placing her palm on the cool face of one of the rocks and sucking in a deep breath through her nose. Holding it for a beat, she let heavy eyelids close, but just as she was about to release her breath and step towards the bench, Marietta Edgecombe’s exclamation of surprise made her start on the spot.

Brown eyes snapped open, her gaze fixed on the former Ravenclaw sitting before her. She had gone to great lengths to look her best today, Hermione could tell, but there was a certain coldness to her tone that kept Hermione from giving any compliments for fear of them coming across half-hearted.

"Oh! Um, I’m sorry, I just…had to have a moment to myself, I suppose. This seemed like a good place to go."  

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Once settled back into the position that she had just vacated, Marietta kept her body turned at an angle, an elbow resting on the back of the bench to allow her to keep Granger in her peripheral vision. A soft sigh was blown from her, lungs contracting momentarily to expel the air that curled from her lips while affording herself with a moment to consider her situation. If she were honest, she had not known that many others found solace in the same place she had (most she had talked to about it having seen it as a walk way and little more, never thinking to sit and enjoy the peace and quiet that seemed to encompass the circle like a cloak would a wizard) and, more importantly, she had never thought that the golden girl herself would be a part of the minority that did.

"You're welcome to sit down," Marietta told her with a gesture to the vacant seat beside her, a hint of welcome hidden within the invitation, not wanting to appear rude despite of her cool exterior. The afternoon breeze plunged it's fingers into the, sun-bleached, auburn curls either side of her temples, fashioning the hair into a pale imitation of the diadem that had once belonged to the founder of Ravenclaw house. Bile clung to the inside of her throat, not unlike a stubborn child that refused to let go of their parent's hand on the first day of school, which she attempted to swallow while unwanted thoughts repeated on a loop; a scratched vinyl that was doomed to remain on a constant cycle, the broken record so many accused people and parrots alike of being. 

"You know I used to come here when we were in school," the confession seeming innocent, accompanied by a minimal lift of her shoulders, though soon turned into something insidious, "My visits became more frequent toward the end of my sixth and throughout my seventh year." She doubted she would need to elaborate the reasons of the increasing regularity of her excursions to the place on the Hogwarts' grounds, the scars that dotted the bridge of her nose - and her cheeks either side - had become all but infamous over the last number of years. 'The girl that Granger cursed' had not been a title that she wore with pride, though a part of her doubted that Hermione wished to be remembered for that as it could have happened to anyone who betrayed Dumbledore's Army. 

It was only after the silence seemed to prolonged that the woman spoke again, not wanting to beat around the bush so to speak. "I never remembered what I did wrong," the words came unexpectedly, emerging on the tail end of an exhale once the trainee healer had expelled the nerves from her being, "Not completely." The admission drew the edges of her mouth downward, knowing that if anyone had asked why she chose now to voice her obliviousness that she would not be able to give them a proper answer; in part, perhaps, owing to the fog that continued to linger over her memories of the time as though she were stuck in purgatory - unable to move forward without clarity and constantly reminded of the past - or perhaps it was the day that was in it, a day when old wounds we reopened anyway.

"All I can remember is that I did what, I believed, needed to be done in order to protect my family at the time - I was scared. We were all scared."

"I don't care about my scars now," Marietta feeling the need to reassure the other woman that this wasn't a plea to rid her of her ailment, it wasn't. "I just want to know what I did that warranted it, considering I did what anyone else would do in that situation; tried to look after my family." Teeth ground down against one another momentarily before she forced her jaw to loosen, not wanting the next words to emerge from her mouth (she'd call it Ravenclaw stubbornness pride) but somehow knowing they could make it easier for Granger to answer her prompt. "I can't trust my own mind, I only have vague memories and what Cho tells me to go on, though I'd rather hear your side. I was never given the chance to ask." 

[laurelwreathedserpent]

not marble (nor gilded monuments) || daphne + marietta

The Minister’s words had washed over Daphne without consequence; she felt nothing upon hearing his speech. It was perhaps remiss of her to not pay attention, considering how much etiquette the elder Greengrass had been taught - and yet, there was nothing to gain from listening to the wizarding government leader. There was nothing new, only repetitions of emotions Daphne couldn’t feel. It wasn’t as if she had fought in the battle. As it was, the hazel eyed witch preferred not to think about that last damnable year at Hogwarts, the one which left a bitter taint to all the other, better years. Shaking her head to herself, the woman was merely reminded of more reasons to hate war (and yet none touched upon morality).

The Slytherin alumnus had initially drifted by the late headmaster’s tomb, and not knowing where else to put it, left the memorial wreath of a different headmaster’s at the base of the white marble stone. It was the thought that counted really, and even more beneficial, everyone else would assume the brunette sought to pay respects to the barmy, biased old man she could not care less for. And once the show had become too much, Daphne had found herself drawn to the Whomping Willow. Going inside the castle would require her to continue the facade of caring for people she had no interest in; here, a safe distance from the abnormally still tree, Daphne could ignore the memorial (and its implications), and instead focus on something far less dismal. 

With a graceful motion of her hands, and a non-verbalized wingardium leviosa, Daphne floated a fallen branch near the magical tree, trying to see if she could touch the bark without waking the “sleeping dragon.” It had been a game of sorts back in her school days - made even more fun by the thrill of potentially being caught. Before she could have her stick make contact with the rough surface of the willow, however, the telltale rustle of footsteps in grass sounded in her ears. The witch automatically turned her neck, though her hand remained steady, to fix her gaze on the approaching figure. 

"Marietta Edgecombe," she stated calmly, once the porcelain skinned woman had neared enough for the faint, infamous scars to be visible to Daphne’s keen eye. “What brings you to the Whomping Willow?”

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Marietta had come to associate a certain degree of security with the presence of Cho Chang, the consistency of her friendship having been the beacon of light amid the darkness - synonymous with isolation - that had threatened to consume her for a time after her sixth year. For the subsequent four years, the dark haired (former) Ravenclaw had been her one control in a world full of variables, never having had her attitude change once her eyes flickered downward to the lingering scars left from the jinx that signified her betrayal of Dumbledore's Army - though she did not see it as such, not entirely. It was today, of all days, that she had felt as though she did not fit there without her friend, like she were a patient with a broken leg that had only been given one crutch; unstable.

However, it was equally plausible that the variety of feelings was, in part, triggered by the ambiance that hung around Hogwarts like a sorcerer robed in an invisibility cloak. It was a day of mixed emotions, of that much Marietta was certain. They had all suffered accruing to the events of the war, no matter which side they fought for, though those present at the memorial were very much a mixed bunch in terms of how they responded to the event; those who had been branded heroes having approached it with apprehension, finding tender wounds reopened though still maintained a brave face for their comrades, while others believed that what was in the past should be left there (and weren't quite as ready to relive it), waiting for a suitable moment to take their leave.

Marietta though herself somewhere between the two.

There were few that would consider her among the ranks of Harry Potter and his motley crew (the reminder of which lingered on her visage in the form of her scars), though she similarly had not fought against the chosen one and his allies, nor had she left the school once the fighting had broke out during the battle. A sigh blew passed her lips as she kicked aside a stone that blocked her path, the Minister's words having fallen on ears that were only partially attentive, sapphire having been distracted by the tomb of their late headmaster. The sound of her own name drew her attention upward, inclining her head to one side as she processed who stood before her. "Daphne Greengrass," she retaliated with a nod of acknowledgement in the former Slytherin's direction.

The trainee healer gave a non-committal shrug. "It can't talk back to me?" she told the other woman, even though it emerged as a question, a half smile uplifting her features while amusement danced in her eyes, highlighting the jest in her words. She didn't know much of the elder Greengrass sister (little more than the fact they had both attended Hogwarts together, were she honest), though the female had never given her any reason to dislike her. "What brings you to the Willow?" Marietta borrowed her words so as to sound less suspicious - not that she need be suspicious in the first place, if anything were to kick off, the former Ravenclaw firmly believed it would be one of the supposed golden trio that was involved - "Pushing your luck?" The bemused question accompanied with raised brow and a errant gesture to the branch that still hovered in the air.

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Ties That Bind ☆ Hermione & Marietta

A sigh was breathed through minimally parted lips, curling like the vapour of a smoker would from her mouth, trailing behind her for but a moment before disappearing without so much as a pop. Nervous digits adjusting the scarf she donned, finding a stray thread within the pattern, she curled it deftly around her index finger and tugged, hoping to assuage the sea of emotions that seemed to churn within her stomach. It wasn't that she didn't want to be there, she told herself, she did. It was the memories that flashed in front of her mind, as vividly as though it were a live film, and the conflicting thoughts that valiantly tried to tear her in two that owed to Marietta's hesitance and reluctance to be there; though this was where she had found solace after the events of her sixth year. 

The bench on which she sat was located between the gamekeeper's hut and the owlery in the stone circle, a fleeting thought was given to how the setting was reminiscent of her own personal purgatory; to her left the house of one who was sworn to remain at Hogwarts to tend to the grounds, to her right was the round brick building that houses the owls of both the students and the school. In front of her, the activity that could be seen unfolding at the fringes of the Forbidden Forest - the hoot of a tentative owl that had lost its way or the stray footprint of one of the creatures that lurked within the flora. It had been here that the blonde had come when she had found herself locked out of the common room (with no one having been willing to help her with the password and her having been too stubborn to ask after she'd been hexed as a result of outing the DA) or even before then, when she had simply needed a break from the trials and tribulations of school life.

A long finger had reached out to stroke the feathers of a bird that had landed on the arm of the bench, the trainee Healer finding herself annoyed that Blaise Zabini's words about the wizarding world's golden girl ran through the forefront of her mind, even here where she had previously come to escape her own thoughts. The crunch of gravel behind her causing her to turn around sharply while simultaneously standing, the tawny owl that had previously been content with Marietta's affections now hooted and returned to the safety of its perch in the owlery. "Merlin, Granger!" The woman exclaimed, a hand having pressed itself across her heart on instinct, as though it felt the need to ensure that the organ (that thrummed against her rib cage like a caged bird) could not escape. "You scared the hell out of me." Ignoring the inner voice that murmured 'talk of the devil and he is bound to appear', she settled back into the position she had vacated and took a deep breath, having not expected to stumble across anyone (or for them to stumblr across her) while taking a moment for herself.

[weasley-rb]

Heed Thy Warning ✿ Marietta & Ron

[weasley-rb]

The popularity of the Skiving Snackboxes was in part due to their simplicity; all one had to do was take the orange coded sweet to induce the symptoms, and once cleared to leave class, the purple sweet would alleviate said symptoms. It really was a clever idea — sure, a question of ethics was behind the testing stage and Hermione had been disappointed in him taking sides against her — and made the shop loads of money. Therefore, it appealed to those in the eleven to eighteen year-old demographic. Not that it had much use other than its intended purpose, for shirking responsibility was a trait of most underage witches and wizards. Sales generally dipped once the term ended in June, with a sharp incline seen in the latter weeks of August. No other products could boast such numbers or a reliable trend. As far as what made them tick, well, Ron wasn’t privy to that information. He was just the bloke that made the sales floor flow without any kinks for the day.

The strawberry blonde glanced over her shoulder at his curt but polite offer of assistance, their fleeting gazes feigning the lack of prior acquaintance. A million memories flooded the forefront of his mind at recognizing the Ravenclaw one year his senior. Cho Chang’s friend, Marietta Edgecombe, was invited into Dumbledore’s Army his fifth year, her name scrawled amongst the rest upon the enchanted parchment swearing to never reveal their clandestine endeavors to Umbridge. Ron was, admittedly, terrified of some of the magic Hermione was capable of producing. This included the hex that befell Marietta, the magic powerful enough to render Madame Pomfrey helpless. Also, admittedly, Ron felt little remorse for the boils due to her betrayal. Well, she didn’t deserve to have the constant reminder upon her face. Memories were sharp enough. In the years since she graduated, the boils had definitely lightened; in the years since she graduated, he still harbored some resentment for her. Ron was working the floor, however, so it was no time to be rude and confrontational. He looked back at his already completed task, lazily moving around the containers as he conjured up the proper answer.

"The purple Nougat will stop the bleeding in that case… the orange one is useless," he answered efficiently. It was amusing to hear of her purpose, it straying far from the intended one. A joke shop product for a Healer, imagine! There was no punchline, at least not just yet. So her purpose was noble, and her presence perhaps illustrating courage for waltzing into his brother’s establishment. But it didn’t erase the past; Hermione made sure of it. Ron turned around to face her, knowing that he could no longer deny that he had known her all those years ago. "So, yeah, it should. Guaranteed not to be — fail you.” What a close call with flouting business etiquette and customer service! Time for pleasantries. “You’re a Healer now, Marietta? A good profession for you, innit?”

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

A nod was given in acknowledgement of what he;d told her, glancing down at the product in hand as though her spectacles could grant her the ability to see though the packaging (even though she was certain that there was probably a spell that could). Purple, good. Orange, bad. An affirming nose emerged from the back of her throat, swiftly followed by a 'thank you' that only escaped her with mild hints of reluctance. If it had been another Healer that they had sent to purchase the Skiving Snackbox, there was little doubt that their cheeks would be dusted pink with embarrassment, their eyes cast downward - far more interested in the cracks in the floor than their conversation partner - and the toe of their shoe scuffing against the other to display how they had grown uncomfortable; though not Marietta. 

Groomed brows lifted, followed by a defiant tilt of her chin that fleetingly exposed the suspicion that flashed through sapphire hues, having been triggered by the abrupt change in the structure of his sentence. Exhaling a soft sigh did little to remove the terse nature that lingered in her movements that followed; the too-forceful push given to the frame of her glassed to push them further up her nose, the tighter grasp on the snackbox in hand that threatened to crumple the paper cover or the control exuded over the tense line of her mouth to ensure it remained somewhat neutral. "I can agree," Marietta gave a succinct nod before continuing, carefully controlled amounts of sarcasm lacing each word she spoke. "Especially considering I work on the fourth floor, for spell damage, and they, initially, weren't sure whether they should check me in or hire me." A slight smirk rose one edge of her mouth, the jest that underpinned the sentence could have been considered what some would have identified as a coping mechanism; and perhaps that is what it had become for the fair haired female.

"What about you, Weasley?" The gentle smile that allowed the edges of her mouth to rise upward emanated an aura similar to what one would afford friends of many years (nothing less than the epitome of polite cordiality), undoubtedly contradicting the use of his last name. "I take it you're content working in a joke shop? You certainly know what you're doing," An imperceivable emphasis on the word 'joke' while she, similarly, gave a minimal gesture toward the box in her hands to detract from it; the only nod she would give to the fact that he actually had been helpful to her not moments ago.

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Eleanor Tomlinson || Aritzia: The Holiday Issue

[weasley-rb]

Heed Thy Warning 🌀 Marietta & Ron

Number 93 Diagon Alley was not the shop for the faint of heart.

Besides the flurry of activity inside the shop, the actual products themselves ranged from harmless to downright mean. Everything was tried and tested before it was marketed — after the patent forms went through the bureaucracy, too — despite the questions of ethics behind it. Ron absolved himself of that responsibility by strictly sticking to retail and working the floor, whilst pointing to the warning label for the customer. Boxing telescope may leave a semi-permanent bruise. Spell-Checking Quill may become fallible. Some of these product warnings came with firsthand experience; others were invaluable to the upselling technique to push more unpopular products. However, there was no denying that Fred and George’s vision had brought a tremendous amount of happiness and laughs to those that had indulged in their joke products.

The till sounded with a loud clang as he shut the drawer, signaling another satisfied purchase. From the moment he entered the shop in the morning, Ron had the feeling that the day was going to go by as slow as molasses. Working retail had given him the foresight to predict this. When customers trickled in and out, it made his life easier when it was time to sweep or stock and nobody was in the vicinity to inhibit his progress. Other times, when his daily chores were completed twice over, a very bored Ron Weasley fiddled with his smock and willed himself not to take a nap to relieve his ennui.

When the shift was molasses slow, Ron had to devise ways to entertain himself and look busy in the process. Facing and refilling shelves was today’s endeavor, in the “sweets” aisle. He happened upon one of the few customers in the store, a girl with strawberry blonde hair, browsing the selection that included the ever popular Skiving Snackboxes. For a valiant one minute attempt, the redhead faced the stock of Nautious Jumping Snakes that hardly moved the past week. The Snackboxes sold like hotcakes, making them the top-ranked product in the sweets category. Since the attempt to look busy was a bust for the time being, Ron looked over his right shoulder in order to address the girl. “Need any help finding something?” he asked her. The expected answer was a no, but the courtesy was extended regardless. Good customer service made a favorable impression, of course, as he was told numerous times.

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

The staccato rhythm sensible shoes tapped against the cobble stone street of Diagon Alley was lost among the hustle and bustle of the street; terse chiding from a mother whose child had wandered far enough to become the catalyst that sparked a moment of panic, hooting of the owls at Eeylop's Owl Emporium as they preened their feathers for the observing eyes and the tittering of teen girls that had gathered around the sale sign outside Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions in hope of garnering a quality robe at half the price. It, however, did little to distract the woman who walked among them from the collusion of dark clouds overhead (grey cotton like tufts stitched together by an omnipotent presence) that proved to make the shadow of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes even more daunting.

The establishment itself did not evoke fear in her, it was the opinions that those who ran it held of her that were responsible for her hesitancy. Sapphire hues moved up the building like one would a person while she stood outside, not quite certain what prompted the thrumming of her heart against her ribcage - like a caged bird desperate to be free - though exhaled her nerves in a sigh, blown through slightly parted lips, before stepping forward and pushing the door from her path with splayed fingers. Inside, the plethora of goods would easily be enough to allow those that entered a brief respite from even the darkest of their thoughts; the laughter of those that perused the isles at their leisure was almost contagious, hanging in the air like the pleasant aroma of a perfume would a female or cologne a male.

The trainee had found herself among the sweets section, having found herself here in the first place owing to an inpatient they had had this morning; the child had developed sporadic nosebleeds after being hit by a hex from his brother (the latter had sworn he'd simply 'made up' the spell that had caused the ailment), nothing that the healers tried had seemed to help - so here she was. It was a trivial problem, especially when one took into account the severity of other damages caused by spells they bore witness too, though Marietta was determined to fix it. Glasses sat on the bridge of her nose while she tried to scan the back of the Skiving Snackbox for notes about the ingredients when a voice interrupted her thoughts. She mirrored the gesture made by Ron, glancing over her shoulder and trying to hide the immediate shock that so desperately attempted to commandeer her features upon digesting the knowledge she'd bumped into (though not literally) the Weasley she presumed bared the most animosity toward her.

"No, thank you, but I'd appreciate if you could answer a question," maintaining cordiality, brows lifted in query before she turned back to the shelf she had been studying. "I work in St. Mungo's and have been trying to help a child who has started suffering random nose bleeds, if I gave him one end of a nosebleed nougat would you say that would help?" The inquiry genuine, turning to face him while attempting to suppress the amused huff that desperately wanted to expel itself from her lungs accruing to the idea that such a seemingly simple problem could leave the healer's so stumped, though also able to recognise that if they knew what spell had been used it would have been far easier to take care of. 

[d--l--malfoy]

Draco laughed as Marietta forced her own story out.  He didn’t mind the comment about his fringe.  At the time it got plenty of attention from everyone, no one dared comment about it to his face.  He smirked, it was amusing to see someone scramble to stay in his good graces.  Draco knew it wasn’t about him.  She wasn’t trying to impress him for his name.  It was about the conversation.   "I still read over his notes when I get stuck on a potion.  Managed to get willed a few of his things plus whatever he left at the manor."  Draco couldn’t help but chuckle at the mental image of an 11 year old hiding behind a cauldron.  "I have to admit, I had plenty of hiding spots growing up but none of them were behind a cauldron."  

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Marietta allowed herself a nod at the blond's admission - caught somewhere between sympathy for his loss and mild envy in the awareness that there were few who had the innate talent with potions that her late potions master had seemed to possess - which provided a segue for the amused huff that rose from the back of her throat. 

"I was quite a short child," she retorted, silent laughter still dancing behind her eyes while she adjusted the books in her arms; giving a fleeting thanks that they were not like the tomes that she had been sent to get last time. "I should get back," she told him, "even though most of the patients I'm assigned can't readily leave, it might be generous of me to do my job and make sure they can. I would extend an invite though I don't think it's proper behaviour for the trainee to invite a friend and I do believe that the most you'd leave with is wizard flu and a signed picture of Gilderoy Lockhart." 

A smile was shot in his direction, "Thanks for the book, even though the library is down the street; for future reference the next time you want to flick through a book without buying it," the joke evident in the tone that underpinned her statement. "I'll see you around, I'm sure," a slight inclination of her head accompanied her parting words, turning to walk toward the counter to pay for the books.

[hermione-jean---grangerarchive]

While the guilt inside her refused to dissipate, Hermione had to admit that the conversation had just gotten a lot less awkward. The smile on her face broadened into a full-fledged grin at Marietta’s mention of Lockhart’s personalized autographs, and she couldn’t hold back a small laugh. 

"Well, with all the work he put into learning joined-up writing, I understand why he’d be upset. You know, now that you mention it, I don’t think I have a personalized autograph from him…Perhaps next time we meet you could bring me one? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled people are asking for them now."

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Next time? The question left unsaid, silently asked with a quirk of a groomed brow though the action not expectant of an answer. Instead, a nod of confirmation was given - sharp and succinct - as a wry smile tugged the edge of her mouth upward, thinking how Lockhart would react upon hearing Hermione Granger herself had asked for an autograph from him.

"He'll be delighted," Marietta told the other witch as the smile she donned evolved into something slightly more genuine, "Though speaking of, I better get back, last time I took a long lunch I came back to find him sitting in the reception area asking people in the waiting room if they knew who he was." The comment wasn't filled with exasperation, as one needing patience if they wanted to enter into the healer profession, though almost verged on fondness. Almost.

The strawberry blonde inclined her head with a minimalist, "I'll see you 'round, Granger," before turning on her heel and walking back the way she'd came moments ago.

[sovereignslytherin-blog]

"Would it?" Blaise inquired, lifting his brows as though he hadn’t the faintest idea of what she could be referring to. "Although, I suppose it wasn’t at all disrespectful of her to all but ruin your complexion in one fell and might I say- cowardly- swoop.” The sarcasm was thick enough that she might not miss it, but then again, the dear was a Ravenclaw and Blaise suspected that latent meanings in speech never escaped their kind. “She hadn’t even the respect to look you in the eye when she did it- I still can’t believe that a Gryffindor was the one who did this, to be honest.”

His speech was slow and well-considered, his voice deep and cool- reminiscent of the earth and the way it flowed so slowly atop an ever-moving crust. Complacent, at times, but with the tendency to become quite violent if provoked. He could see the consideration hidden beneath her features and decided that that was enough for now. He would plant the seed and allow it to fester in whatever way it wished, but otherwise he would keep his hands clean in this particular matter. It’s not like it interested him, he just thrived in chaos. The more of it, the better. 

"Think about it," he cooed, studying his nails and then standing abruptly, carefully straightening the lines of his suit. "I’ll see you at the Memorial, I suppose." And with that, he turned on his heel and disappeared with a quiet pop, leaving the Ravenclaw to mull over his suggestion.

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Behind closed lips, tongue ran across her teeth as Marietta contemplated whether or not any truth lurked behind the careful sarcasm inherent in his words. He isn't wrong, a voice whispered from the recesses of her mind that evoked a light sigh while the trainee healer gave him a once over.

However, before she could offer a reply or counter-argument, he excused himself with little more than a few succinct movements, disappearing before her eyes (not something uncommon, in the magical world). A sigh blew from her, finding herself irritated he'd left her alone with her thoughts; standing as she took her own leave through the door.

[hermione-jean---grangerarchive]

Hermione offered a shrug. “That’s fine, really, as long as he’s had some experience with werewolves and is able to offer us some insight I don’t think we could care less if there are any currently under his care.”

Spell damage? It was as though a fire had flared beneath the skin of her cheeks, so sudden was the heat that rose up in them. She’d never really gotten to know Marietta, but she was aware that she was very bright and therefore should not have been surprised that becoming a Healer wasn’t too far off the mark for her. Her face burned all the same, though, and she fought back the urge to glance once again at the lingering boil scars on Miss Edgecombe’s visage. Almost without her consent, Hermione’s mouth opened, her brain working quicker than she could follow and saving her from any further embarrassment. 

"Oh, yes, the fourth floor," she said, her tone as easy and natural as ever. "I haven’t been to St. Mungo’s more than a handful of times, but I did visit the fourth floor when I was sixteen." A grin split her face in two at Marietta’s mention of Gilderoy Lockhart, a knowing nod causing her curls to bounce. 

"As wonderful a gift as those would be, I don’t think they’re a rare commodity."

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

It would be a lie to say that Marietta didn't derive a sadistic sense of satisfaction from the embarrassed blush that crept across the brunette's cheeks once she had divulged that her work centered around the fourth floor. She folded her arms across her chest, managing (somehow) to maintain a neutral expression as a brow lofted higher on her forehead expectantly before Granger closed her mouth, words having ostensibly died on her lips.

""Yep," she confirmed, popping the 'p' to afford herself with a moment to appreciate how quickly Hermione had managed to regain her composure, giving the woman a gentle smile in noting her recognition of Gilderoy Lockhart (although, there were few in the magical world who didn't know of the once author).

"I'd say you're right, though he does get quite upset if you don't take them when they're offered - especially if he goes to the trouble of personalizing them for you." Despite the word 'trouble' being laced with hints of sarcasm, there was a genuineness that lingered behind the trainee healer's words - unable to help developing a fondness for some of the permanent patients of the Thickly Ward.

[sovereignslytherin-blog]

It was a skill that the Slytherin possessed to make one feel both uncomfortable and at ease at the same time, he saw it in the way she moved to conceal her scars- just slightly, and in the corners of her mouth as she fought a smile. As he observed her, he felt like a hunter, although he had no intention of hurting the darling Ravenclaw, but rather hoped he might persuade her toward a path that she might gain fulfillment from, and he might be amused by. Nothing, absolutely nothing was more entertaining than a good old fashioned revenge plot. Blaise smiled, a slow, curling thing like smoke as she parried his joke, and he realized that a strange, unexpected kinship had sparked between them.

"I suppose you know all about being smart, don’t you?" Blaise inquired loftily, the query almost entirely rhetorical and he signaled this by lifting his brows minutely. "Much less to lose, now." He pointed out. "And, no snooping professors to find out it was you. You’re much cleverer than Potter and his team of.. law enforcers," the serpent all but sang, waving a hand through the air to dismiss the thought of the Boy Who Lived and his cronies who now all but governed the magical world. "Although, if I were to plan a strike against the Golden Girl’s reputation, what better a time than at the Memorial Ceremony? A large crowd means very little risk of being found out…"

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Having recognized the rhetorical air that hung around the question like a woman's perfume, she chose not to afford it with an answer; aware that there were some that had been in Ravenclaw - and even some now - who garnered knowledge from the ability to retain information they'd read (in books, or otherwise) rather than being innately clever.

"Would that not be disrespectful?" The woman queried, the 'at a memorial?' implied. The thought that engaging in a strike, as such, against the famous brunette at such a somber occasion being more than mildly offensive to those who had died for her cause, though she did consider what Zabini said; acknowledging that there was some consideration behind it. 

There was a part of her, however, that was content to let bygones be bygones - greater than the part that lurked in the darkest corners of her mind, whispering with a desire for vengeance - with her memory, as vague as it was, not allowing her to access a clear vision of what had happened in her sixth year (even though she saw the remnants of it each morning when she looked in the mirror); meaning the ethical side of her told her that any form of attack would not be justified.

[audelreys]

Tatler (UK) - August 2009

[sovereignslytherin-blog]

“I do suppose every operation has to have a brain. Not all of us can have everything,” he drawled with a hint of humor- for of course he was inferring that he himself did indeed have everything- brains, intelligence, and money. “That only leaves me to wonder… What was Weasley’s role in all of this?” A pause, as though he were reciting a monologue. Once he waited the appropriate amount of time, the Slytherin spoke again. “Comic relief, perhaps?” A smirk. He was funny, and he knew it. His gaze was drawn back to hers at her subtle gesture at his indifference. Darling, don’t you know who I am? he so wanted to say. Instead, his smirk only widened, intrigued at this one’s insolence and so he allowed his gaze to linger on the gentle line of her jaw, tracing it upward to the curve of her ear and her cheekbones. She really was quite pretty. It was a shame she’d been ruined by that Mudblood.

Her next statement was rather humorous, and it surprised a small laugh out of Blaise. “I wasn’t going to say so, if that makes you feel any better,” he drawled, lifting his chin once more and allowing his lids to fall heavily over half of his eyes. Something occurred to him and he was curious.. this would interest him, for sure. The heir leant forward. “Have you ever entertained the idea of revenge, darling?” 

[spelldamagedsneak-blog]

Marietta felt the inklings of a smile tug at the edge of her mouth, rising a hand and allowing her fingers to brush gently under her nose in an effort to conceal the amused huff that was prompted by his comment about Weasley. "I doubt he could offer much else," she said. She noted his smirk growing and fought the urge to frown, not caring much for the aristocrats of the wizarding society unless they could offer her intelligent conversation, occasionally glimpsing pictures in the Prophet and choosing to commit the names to memory for future reference before placing it to the side. 

"I appreciate you being so considerate toward my feelings," the comment balanced precariously between sarcasm and being genuine. Sapphire eyes widened fractionally at the question he posed, pausing as she considered whether to tell the truth or evade the question. "I have -" she paused, taking a breath before she continued, " - entertained it, though it wouldn't be very smart, would it? I'd be dwindling down the already short list of people who still like me if I had dared seek revenge on the Golden Girl of Hogwarts." Even though part of Marietta had conceded that it was partially her fault what had happened to her, there was still a part of her that was more than content to blame others; Granger being top of that list.