@ofandromedas | the leaky bucket
It’s hard to pin which side of the binary she belongs to — neither glass half-full nor half-empty ever seem to be the case. Her perspectives flow freely, as if all idealism she pours into the metaphorical glass comes spilling out with depressing immediacy. Leaky, Marlene once explained, head rested against the shoulder of a girl she once loved. I think my worldview’s all leaky. Fingers running through the other’s sleek black hair, Alecto replied, Wouldn’t that make for a cute bar name?
The bar in question had one less employee manning the counter. She gave Sirius a week off, leaving James and Remus attend to their friend’s newfound grievances. When the boys’ familiar laughter does not ring across the Leaky Bucket’s walls for once, the reality Marlene has willed herself to ignore finally sinks in, settling as an unwanted stirring in her chest — a child is missing.
Glass half full: Experience tells her that upper class brats are inclined to dramatic teenage rebellions. Marlene herself and the missing boy’s brother are evidence of this. Sometimes, getting lost is a deliberate and unstated plea to be found. Glass half empty: Cynicism flushes her hypotheses out, leaving only worst of thoughts to survive the drainage. Maybe the Order’s right. Maybe the urban legends tossed around after meetings were more fact than fiction, and the organization’s opposition dabbled in things darker than one could comfortably believe. It’s a hasty conclusion to jump to, especially when there’s scarcely enough evidence to back their claims, but pessimism tends to glare brighter in the dark. Under the dim glow of the half-moon, Marlene lays her back against her bar’s brick-laden wall, shoulders slumping down before she plucks a cigarette from the box in her pocket, flicking her lighter open to set the tail end ablaze. Marlene presses the light to her lips. She closes her eyes as she inhales, sighing off the persistent, looming feeling that something awful was about to happen.
It seems she’s not alone in her worries, because a woman she recognizes as one of the search volunteers and a member of the House of Black — Sirius’ cousin — seems to be approaching her bar. Similarly to how Marlene refuses to learn which Kardashian sister was Khloe and which Kardashian sister was the Kardashian sister whose name began with K and was neither Khloe nor Kim, Marlene fails to remember what the Black heiress’ name is, but the Sacred 28 families should be predictable enough that at least one of her first ten guesses would be correct, as Marlene operated under the assumption that England’s elite families were lawfully required to christen their children with names pretentious enough to brand them as protagonists of forgotten Shakespeare tragedies. Aquaria? No, that’s a drag queen. The woman in her path is far less flashy, sporting white scrubs and sensible pair of shoes as she made her way to the bar’s entrance. Unsure of what not-Aquaria needs, Marlene lowers her cigarette and greets the woman with a slight tilt of the head and an amiable curl of the lip that almost resembles a smile. “What’s up, Doc?” Andromeda, she remembers. Her name is Andromeda. “Can I help you?”