Like stone --- that was how Maxime felt. Stone-faced, stone-hearted, her lips pressing together in a thin line. She’d show tenseness, nothing more, at these new developments, all her other emotions hidden. Those would be for her and her alone, not for the Wraiths that now seemed to be everywhere, not for their satisfaction. She tried to listen to the Wraiths talking about Baudouin Polignac, but all she felt was conflict as she did, and so she just focused on those around her. And then it went dark, and Maxime’s expected the worst, but it was just fireworks. Fireworks remembering students who had died, honoring Neville, and Maxime wanted to scream no, no, no --- because she couldn’t show her rage, her grief, her sorrow over them. Not in front of them. Her knuckles were white as she clenched her fist -- not that she could tell, in the dark, but she knew -- and when the darkness cleared, and chaos followed, flyers dropping around her. Regain posture, she told herself, you need to be professional. Eyes looked at a person near her, and she remembered her position -- member of staff, professor, someone to rely on -- and asked. “Are you okay?”
