it's all fun and games (until you break my heart)

by autumnalbreakdowns

Summary:

Marlene snaps her gaze to the fireplace hoping it’s not who she thinks it is and finding–

“No,” Marlene says, knocking her head against the wall behind her a few times.

“Yes,” Mary counters, sounding gleeful.

“You don’t mean–”

“Dorcas Meadowes,” Mary finishes, taking a smug sip from her glass.

or,

Marlene just wants to beat her old rival one last time by being the best Maid of Honor in the history of weddings. It has nothing to do with the fact that she’s a little in love with the bride-to-be or her slightly unresolved feelings for her opponent. No matter what Mary says.

It gets–complicated.

Chapter 1: is it better to speak or to die?

Notes:

hello beautiful readers!

no, i am not dead. yes, this has been the weirdest year of my life.

as a reader, i typically skip this part so no hard feelings if that’s you. if you’re here for the tea, then hello lovely, how are you? this is set in 1980 but i decided that homophobia and the like shall not be making an appearance.

are historically accurate fics wonderful? absolutely. do i personally have the heart to write them? nope, not even a little bit.

as such, details are blurred and it’s not quite a modern au but it does have magic and vibes. So. should be neat. i rewrote the first chapter seven times (me revising my own work? you should be proud) and this feels like the best it shall be.

also, as always, if you think there should be any additional tags/warnings/ratings for this fic please let me know. i can be a little in my own bubble and not realize certain things might be triggering and am open to (kind & constructive) criticism.

without further ado,

enjoy <3

 

 

OCTOBER 1980

time left until the wedding: ?

Being friends with Lily Evans means being willing to wait.

 

A lot. 

 

Lily is the type of person who gets caught in a thousand side quests on the journey of a simple task. When they were in Hogwarts together, Marlene would sit and read on her bed until Lily stumbled out of the bathroom, mostly ready and beaming. When they graduated, it meant lingering in doorways and lounging against walls until Lily rushed through in a whirl of energy and purpose. 

 

And then they would go. 

 

Loving Lily meant being patient, a trait Marlene obtained through consistent opportunities. 

 

Sitting in a coffee shop alone and sipping lukewarm coffee, Marlene realizes she’s been waiting for Lily for a significant portion of her life. 

 

Outside the shop, a torrent of rain casts neon lights in smears of color—flashes of umbrellas and headlights and bright raincoats. 

 

And then, Lily. 

 

She bursts into the shop, the bell jingling over her head as she shakes water from her umbrella. 

 

Five years later, Marlene still struggles to reign in the butterflies that batter against her stomach at the sight of her. A bright smile and that effervescent glow, Lily Evans in the flesh. 

 

“Hey,” Lily breathes, dumping her things into the extra chair at the table and shucking off her coat. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

 

“It’s fine,” Marlene says, and almost means it. It’s fine, except for all of the ways in which it aches. “Did you wanna order, or?”

 

“Hm?” Lily hums, shaking her head a bit as she sits down “Oh, no. I’m good, sorry. My head’s all over the place.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Marlene asks, holding her mug between her hands and casting a quick charm to warm it up again. 

 

“Oh! Nothing, well, I mean–it’s not wrong per se,” Lily rambles, fiddling with a loose napkin and methodically ripping it into pieces. “But it’s kinda big and I haven’t been telling you about something and I would really appreciate it if you would be—okay with it.”

 

“Lily,” Marlene says, smiling a little and aiming for gentle. 

 

She must aim a little too well because Lily continues, “Not that it isn’t fair if you aren’t. It totally would be, but I just, I really want you to be on board with this. Like as one of my closest friends, I care about your opinion and I am just–so excited about this but I’m scared of what everyone’s going to think–”

 

“Lily,” Marlene tries again, biting back several other placations like darling or babe or sweetheart, which would be entirely inappropriate and too much. 

 

“Mostly what you’ll think,” Lily carries on, pieces of napkin growing rapidly in front of her frantic fingers. “It’s going to be a lot.”

 

“That’s fine,” Marlene assures her, trying to infuse as much earnestness as she can muster into the words. “Everything’s going to be fine. Just tell me what’s going on.”

 

Part of Marlene is expecting more of the usual. I broke up with them or I met someone else or I’m thinking of calling them again. The same cycle of love and loss that Lily has been caught in since her seventh year at Hogwarts. The same cycle Marlene’s been dragged through as she watched from the sidelines and said nothing. 

 

As she loved from afar. 

 

This seems like more of the same. The frenetic energy, the desperate pleas, the hope tinged with trepidation. New love, fresh loss, reopened wounds. 

 

It’s different though, because Lily takes a fortifying breath, looks at Marlene with something like incandescent tranquility in her eyes, and says, “I’m getting married.”

 

Just like that.

 

“Oh,” Marlene says, reeling a bit. “Oh, okay. Um, who?”

 

Because Lily has been through a revolving door of significant others. Because Lily has never been serious about anyone before, not even James. Because Lily always comes back to Marlene in the aftermath, slightly bruised and ready for another round of heartbreak. 

 

Because Lily never, ever, ever stays, Marlene had thought she never would.

 

She was wrong, it seems.

 

“Pandora,” Lily says, and there’s something soft and fond and lovely in the way she says her name. It breaks something in Marlene’s chest with a sure snap. “We ran into each other–months ago and I hadn’t seen her since Hogwarts. It was at that convention, you remember the one for experimental magic?”

 

“Yeah,” Marlene agrees because she does remember and it’s a faintly out-of-body experience to recall such an inconsequential detail that was the start of everything.

 

“Well, anyways,” Lily says, scraping her pile of napkin bits together in front of her as she speaks, forming a little pyramid. “I met another journalist there, Xenophilius, and hereintroduced me to her and, well, we couldn’t stop talking—I’m still not sure who the keynote speakers even were my coverage for the event was scrapped. Anyways, we got drinks after and we’ve been together ever since.”

 

“Wow,” Marlene says, blinking rapidly and grateful that Lily can’t hear the tell-tale pounding of her heart. Her hands are sweating. “That’s—great. Why didn’t you, I dunno, tell me? You’ve been dating for months?”

 

“Yeah,” Lily says, brows furrowed as she tears at her pile again. “It all seemed so—perfect, I guess. And I didn’t want to jinx it by telling people. Like I usually do.”

 

“Oh, Lily, you don’t—“ 

 

“I do,” Lily insists, eyes over bright. She takes a fortifying breath and grimaces, “I do. Usually, I do. And that’s—fine. It’s been fine but I’m sick of being just fine. Pandora, what we are together, it’s unlike anything I've felt before, and I’m ready. For once I wanna stay so fucking badly. I want her to stay.”

 

“Okay,” Marlene says, pushing back the acid gathering in the back of her mouth and smiling. “Okay, then stay. Do you know when you want the wedding to be? Who else knows?”

 

“May,” Lily grins, pushing her pile of napkin bits to the side as she beams at Marlene. “And just you. I haven’t told anyone else.”

 

And that’s something. If Marlene can have nothing else, she has this. Lily told her first. She’s her best friend. That means something.

 

“May,” Marlene repeats, smiling reflexively back at Lily. “What’s next on your agenda, then?”

 

Lily tells her about engagement parties and anxious friends and possible color schemes, and Marlene smiles and nods and shoves the burning feeling somewhere deep down where no one else has to see it. 

 

It’s fine. 

 

And when Lily leaves and Marlene is left alone in a coffee shop full of bustling people, Marlene sits and drinks cold coffee and stares at the pile of napkin pieces she left behind. 

 

She waits until no one is watching before casting a wandless charm to piece it back together. 

 

Marlene leaves the shop, with nothing but an empty cup and perfect napkin left in her wake.

~

It’s the night of the engagement party, and Marlene is running late.

 

On accident , of course. 

 

She has overshot fashionably late and landed somewhere closer to embarrassingly overdue. 

 

She’s stuck behind the country’s slowest driver, chugging down unfamiliar backroads as she navigates her way to Pandora’s parent’s house, which is great. Maybe she can blame her unfamiliarity with the area for her atrocious timing. 

 

The car in front of her finally turns off onto a sidestreet and Marlene pulls ahead, zipping down the dirt road until she sees a collection of bright balloons tied to a brick mailbox. 

 

Turning down the long driveway, Marlene prepares herself for a night of intense social niceties and parks haphazardly. 

 

Mary is waiting on the front porch for her, flicking ash from the end of her cigarette as she eyes Marlene with vivid disappointment. Marlene tries not to cringe away at the sight.

 

“You’re late,” Mary says, lifting a brow and frowning at her. 

 

“I got lost,” Marlene tries, biting the inside of her cheek and taking in the elaborate engravings around the front door. 

 

“Uhuh,” Mary sighs, crushing her cigarette under her heel and tipping her head toward the entrance. “You ready to go in or are you gonna try and stall some more.”

 

“I’m ready,” Marlene says, fighting back the heat spreading across her neck and huffing. “And I wasn’t stalling.”

 

“Sure you weren’t,” Mary agrees, rolling her eyes as she pushes open the front doors. 

 

The sounds of the party wash over Marlene immediately in a rush of chattering guests, clinking glasses, and clacking shoes. Laughter permeates the air and the room is aglow with faint candlelight. 

 

Fine tapestries and glittering chandeliers punctuate the edges of the space and an ornate fireplace shrouded in carvings similar to those around the front door rests at the heart of the room, a vivid focal point. 

 

People mingle throughout the room, with warm skin wrapped in fine silks and elaborate robes. 

 

Decadent people surrounded by decadent things. 

 

“Wow,” Marlene says, shutting her mouth with a click when Mary nudges her. “I didn’t realize Pandora was…”

 

“Loaded?“ Mary offers, glancing around the room. 

 

“I was gonna say well off,” Marlene sniffs, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “But yeah. Way loaded.”

 

“Yeah, well, James told me that Regulus was insanely cagey about the whole thing,” Mary says, taking a sip from her glass and shrugging, “Something about an invention they made that the ministry immediately snatched up. The hush money must’ve been…lucrative to say the least.”

 

“Wait,” Marlene says, her brain skittering like a record scratch as she attempts to connect the dots. “Regulus just knew from their time at Hogwarts right? They’re not all still friends are they?”

 

“Are you asking or hoping?” Mary scoffs rolling her eyes. 

 

“A bit of both I guess,” Marlene groans, hiding her wince behind another sip of champagne.

 

“Well you’re shit out of luck both ways,” Mary shrugs, “They’re all as inseparable as ever.”

 

“Oh, fuck,” Marlene groans, realizing that this whole wedding business just got a whole hell of a lot more complicated. Of all the people she could’ve gotten engaged to, Lily just had to go with the closest friend to Marlene’s greatest rival.

 

“Oh, fuck, indeed,” Mary says, grinning into her glass and flicking her gaze pointedly to the fireplace. “They’re all here, too.”

 

“Oh, fuck ,” Marlene says again because truly it warrants repetition as she catches sight of the whole lot of them, still thick as thieves as they stand around the fireplace, laughing.

 

Her eyes catch on Dorcas Meadowes and it’s like she’s seventeen again and unable to tear her gaze away. Meadowes has strung silver beads throughout her braids–they catch the firelight and flicker as she tosses her head back in laughter. It’s just Marlene’s luck that Meadowes chooses that moment to glance up and catches Marlene’s eye.

 

For one terrible moment, Marlene can’t breathe with the full force of her attention. Her smile is bemused as she winks, actually winks, at Marlene and turns back to her friends.

 

She’s sending streaks of silver on everyone around her like starlight.

 

“Yep,” Mary says, looking far too amused for the situation. “This is going to be fun.”

 

“Um, absolutely not,” Marlene hisses, tearing her attention away from Meadowes’ stupid beautiful distracting face and scanning the crowd for Lily, “This is going to be a nightmare. I absolutely cannot do this. There’s simply not a damn thing in this world that could convince me to–”

 

“Hey, guys!” Lily says, pushing through the crowd to tug them both into a hug. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

 

And there she is, Lily Evans, smiling and holding Marlene’s shoulder and looking so earnest that Marlene could melt into the floor. And that’s why she’s here. And how can she leave when Lily looks at her like that?

 

“Hey,” Marlene says, biting back the acid rising in her throat and covering it with a cough, “Great party.”

 

“Merlin’s beard,” Lily groans, grimacing around the room, “We asked for something–simple, you know? Just a small get-together to celebrate before we get too busy with planning and such. But, well, I guess Pandora’s parents and I have a…different definition of small.”

 

“No shit,” Mary says, eyeing the glittering chandeliers, well-dressed waiters, and fucking hor d'oeuvres circulating the room. 

 

Marlene simply hums, glancing around the room while avoiding the fireplace. It’s a lot.

 

“You have no idea,” Lily groans, snatching a glass of champagne and taking a long drink before continuing. “And Petunia has been an absolute terror about the whole thing. Yesterday, she even told me–”

 

“Ms. Evans,” a harried-looking woman says, pushing her bangs out of her eyes as she rushes toward the group, “Thank Merlin, there’s been an...incident in the kitchen. Something about a guest causing a ruckus.” She lifts her eyebrows meaningfully toward Marlene and Mary.

 

“Okay,” Lily sighs, grimacing apologetically at them, “Duty calls, but we’ll catch up later.”

 

“Sure,” Marlene says, but Lily is already making her way through the crowd, disappearing between fine robes.

 

“You were saying?” Mary prompts, hiding her laughter behind her hand.

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Marlene groans, pinching the bridge of her nose, “She’s an–exception.”

 

“Uhuh,” Mary agrees, rolling her eyes. 

 

“She’s my best friend,” Marlene tries.

 

“Sure,” Mary shrugs.

 

“Of course, I’d do anything for her,” Marlene insists.

 

“Naturally,” Mary says.

 

“You’re the worst,” Marlene sighs.

 

“Love you too,” Mary says with a grin.

 

They stand in amicable silence for a moment, Marlene leaning against the wall next to Mary as they sip their champagne.

 

“It wouldn’t be bad if it was too much, though,” Mary says, hushed and private where they’ve sequestered themselves from the party. “I know she hasn’t picked bridesmaids and stuff yet, but if she asked, it wouldn’t be wrong for you to say no.”

 

“Pft,” Marlene says, swallowing the lump in her throat, “I’m fine. Great even. If she asked, I’d be so totally normal about it, the normal-ist.”

 

Mary lifts an incredulous brow.

 

“I heard it after I said it,” Marlene sighs, waving a hand, “Anyways, it’s fine. Everything is totally under control.”

 

“I wouldn’t speak too soon,” Mary shrugs, clearly biting back a smile. She thrives under stress far too well, honestly. “You don’t know who Pandora’s Maid of Honor is yet.”

 

“And why would that matter?” Marlene scoffs, tipping back the rest of her drink and swapping it for a fresh glass. 

 

“Because Pandora’s bridal party and Lily’s bridal party are gonna be in super close quarters the next few months,” Mary explains in a tone that says, obviously.

 

“And?” Marlene asks she can put up with some high society assholes all day long. Marlene already deals with pretentious people all day, she’s basically a professional at this point. 

 

“And,” Mary says, drawing out the word, “Her Maid of Honor is here. Right now. Talking to her. ”

 

Marlene snaps her gaze to the fireplace hoping it’s not who she thinks it is and finding–

 

“No,” Marlene says, knocking her head against the wall behind her a few times.

 

“Yes,” Mary counters, sounding gleeful.

 

“You don’t mean–”

 

“Dorcas Meadowes,” Mary finishes, taking a smug sip from her glass. 

 

“Oh, fuck,” Marlene says for the umpteenth time tonight.

 

“Yep,” Mary says cheerily, “It’ll be just like the good ol’ days.”

 

“What do you mean?” Marlene asks, trepidation dripping down her spine. 

 

“Um, hello?” Mary says, waving a hand in front of her face, “The whole competition thing you had with Meadowes all throughout Hogwarts.”

 

“There was no competition thing,” Marlene sputters, glancing back at the fireplace and relaxing slightly when she sees Meadowes still caught in conversation with Pandora. 

 

“Um, you totally did,” Mary scoffs, looking at Marlene bewildered. “Until that summer–well, yeah, you did. It’s fine,” Mary says, softening her tone when she glances at Marlene, “It’s just–something to be aware of. You two were extremely competitive and I doubt that’s changed since we all graduated.”

 

“A lot has changed since we graduated,” Marlene insists, vaguely aware she sounds petulant but unable to do anything to curb her tone.

 

“Not that much,” Mary mumbles into her glass, before tossing it back and grabbing Marlene’s elbow, tugging her toward the bar in the corner of the room. “Anyways, it doesn’t matter. This is an engagement party for Merlin’s sake. Someone has to get messily sloshed and no one else has stepped up, so it’s up to us.”

 

“Sure,” Marlene agrees, mostly relieved and craving something stronger than fancy champagne to wash down the stress of this evening. “Where the fuck is Alice?”

 

~

 

After several drinks, the events of the night seem to blur.

 

Time skips and slides together, Marlene shifting from place to place seemingly in a single slow blink of her eyes. 

 

Marlene, empty glass held in loose fingers swerves through the crowds of people looking for–someone. She’s looking for…Mary? Alice? Lily? Probably Lily.

 

Marlene, leaning against the counter in the kitchen and feeding neat rolls of ham to a golden retriever through the bars of its kennel, giggling conspiratorily when he noses at her empty hands. 

 

Marlene, taking shots with Alice against the ostentatious bartop, giggling uncontrollably and feigning composure when Emmeline finds them.

 

Marlene, staring at the stars. 

 

The balcony's stone is rough against her palms as she leans against it. The moment pulls and lengthens like taffy, sweet, and shockingly sturdy.

 

She’s alone, somehow, and the whereabouts of her friends or the rest of the world seem a distant issue with the expanse of the sky seemingly within her reach. The trees sing as their leaves rustle in the breeze and the stars stretch and shrink together as she stares.

 

The door squeaks open, peacefulness snapped into nothing.

 

The boisterous noise from the party spills into the open night air, but Marlene remains planted against the balcony. It might be the only thing holding her up, she’s not entirely sure and such worries slip between her fingers like fog in a bucket.

 

Or something equally poetic.

 

“Pick a lane,” Marlene calls to the interloper, which doesn’t entirely make sense, but Marlene is committed to it. 

 

“What?” Her intruder asks, but the door swishes shut so Marlene considers it a win.

 

“I said,” Marlene starts, vaguely aware her words are starting to slip together, “To pick a lane. In or out. You were letting the noise in.”

 

“Letting the noise out, you mean,” the intruder corrects, still standing by the door. There’s something vaguely familiar about the cadence of her voice. 

 

The hair on Marlene’s arms stands on end.

 

“Potato, tomato,” Marlene shrugs, blinking at the stars and slumping further into the balcony, concrete scraping against her elbows. 

 

“That’s not–”

 

“Did you come here to stand by the door?” Marlene interrupts, unwilling to be chastised by an intruder.

 

“Um, no,” she says, shoes scraping against the tiles as she comes to stand next to Marlene. “I came to–get away for a bit.”

 

Marlene hums, dropping her cheek against her palm and tipping her head to the side to see her companion better.

 

“Oh,” Marlene says, blinking harshly at the sight of Meadowes’ dark eyes and downturned lips, braids glittering and putting the stars to shame with her splendor. “It’s you.”

 

“It’s me,” Meadowes agrees, shoulders tense as she settles against the balcony next to Marlene. “What’re you doing out here alone? I thought you were trying to drink Kinglsey under a table.”

 

“Been there, done that,” Marlene says, smiling as she recalls the cheering that had followed when Kingsley tapped out and Marlene finished the final three shots left on the table. “Got too…loud in there. For me.”

 

Meadowes hums, the gentle sound clear in the relative quiet of the open air. 

 

“And I wanted to see the stars,” Marlene continues, somehow spurred on by Meadowes’ presence and soft eyes. Did she always have such soft eyes? “I like stargazing.”

 

“Really?” Meadowes says, a smile tugging at her lips, “What’s your favorite constellation?”

 

“Hm,” Marlene sighs, blinking against the brightness of the sky where the stars have started to streak together. She turns to stare at Meadowes instead because the glow that frames her face is easier to track than the infinite sky. No other reason. “I dunno, I guess I just like the stories with them. I’m absolute shit at actually finding anything other than the little dipper, but I like to look for them anyways.”

 

“Sure,” Meadowes agrees, sounding amused. 

 

“It’s just, sweet is all,” Marlene says, feeling the strange need to defend herself and rubbing her hands together, strangely cold. “That people looked at the sky and connected it to their lives and stories. Myths and legends. It’s–wholesome.”

 

“Wholesome,” Meadowes echoes slowly like she’s tasting the word. “You’ve strange hobbies, McKinnon.”

 

“Maybe,” Marlene agrees, attempting to blow warm air onto her fingers and failing spectacularly.

 

“What’re you–” Meadowes starts, reaching out and hissing when she touches Marlene’s hand. “You’re freezing,” she admonishes, rubbing warmth into her skin. “You’re not even wearing a jacket.”

 

And she’s not, Marlene realizes, skin prickling where the night breeze has settled against it. A shiver works its way down her spine, tripping along her skin and seizing her bones. 

 

Meadowes tugs off her jacket muttering something about stubborn Gryffindors and total lack of self-preservation before she settles the fabric across Marlene’s shoulders, rubbing over the fabric as Marlene’s teeth chatter. 

 

“Thanks,” Marlene manages, tucking her cold nose into the warmth of the fleece collar and sinking into the jacket more. 

 

“No problem,” Meadowes says, sounding strangled as she guides Marlene back toward the balcony doors. 

 

And it is a problem, Marlene thinks, or at least it will be. 

 

Tiredness tugs at her bones and the slippery effects of alcohol take hold of her again as darkness shrouds her mind.

 

~

 

Somewhere within that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, Marlene finds herself tucked into an unfamiliar bed with the fleece jacket still wrapped around her shoulders. 

 

Distantly, Marlene finds it strange that Meadowes chose to give it to her, warm and clean and gentle, rather than simply casting a warming charm. 

 

Or leaving her outside to freeze.

 

There was something dangerously benevolent in the press of Meadowes’ palms against Marlene’s shoulders and hands. Something soft and terrifyingly good.

 

Despite everything, Dorcas Meadowes still feels overwhelmingly kind. 

 

Even though Marlene is all too aware that the opposite is true. Her heart never learns as quickly as her mind. It is the great tragedy of her life that she only ever listens to the ache in her chest rather than the pounding within her skull.

 

~

 

Pepper Up, Marlene has decided, is quite possibly the best potion ever to have been conceptualized, brewed, and produced for the masses.

 

Loitering around the Lovegoods’s kitchen with three equally hungover witches, Marlene thinks she wouldn’t be alone in the sentiment.

 

“How long does it take to run to the apothecary?” Alice groans, thunking her head against the table and covering her head with her hands. 

 

“She’s only been gone five minutes,” Mary points out from where she’s pouring coffee into her mug with great enthusiasm. 

 

“Exactly,” Alice says, throwing her hands up and groaning immediately in regret. 

 

“I mean, she is apparating,” Emmeline shrugs, rubbing her temples and speaking with her eyes squeezed shut. 

 

“Thank you,” Alice sniffs, hiding in her arms again. 

 

“Pop in, pop out,” Emmeline continues with a sigh, “She could be back any second.”

 

“You’re all pathetic,” Mary observes, sipping from her coffee with a smile.

 

“And how the fuck are you not hungover?” Marlene groans, mimicking Alice in thunking her head against the tabletop. “I’m almost positive you were matching us shot for shot.”

 

“I can hold my liquor,” Mary sniffs with a shrug. “In any case, Pepper Up can only heal your current maladies. It does nothing for the lifelong regret you’ll carry for the mistakes you made absolutely sloshed.”

 

“Um, excuse you,” Alice scoffs, “I make great drunk decisions.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Marlene says at the same time that Emmeline asserts, “No you don’t.”

 

“I think you’re a wonderful drunk,” Mary soothes, tone full of amicable kindness, which is a tell-tale sign that Mary is either lying or bullying her. Marlene never knows until it’s too late. “And besides, none of it will matter once–”

 

“I’m back!” Lily announces, the air popping unpleasantly with her apparition. “Who wants some potions?”

 

“Merciful gods,” Alice groans, throwing a hand up and blindly making grabby motions for Lily. 

 

Lily distributes the potions with no small amount of smugness at her own regret-free morning. Marlene bites back any snarky remarks and simply basks in the relief of the potion. 

 

“Thanks, you’re a saint,” Marlene says, relaxing into her seat fully now that the banging in her skull has settled to a dull throb and her dinner is no longer planning an unprecedented comeback. 

 

The room devolves into chaotic discussion as Mary and Lily spin around the kitchen to prepare breakfast, while Alice heckles them from her slouch at the table. Emmeline watches the proceeding with a subdued smile. 

 

After breakfast, Marlene considers the merits of attempting to apparate back to her apartment versus the floo when Lily catches her eye across the table. She tips her head toward the back door before excusing herself, and Marlene trails after her a moment later. 

 

It’s warmer in the mid-morning sun than it felt the night before, with open skies dotted with wisps of clouds. 

 

Picturesque. 

 

“Well,” Marlene prompts, crossing her arms and leaning against the brickwork of the back porch. “What’s up?”

 

“Okay,” Lily starts, fingers twitching with nerves as she paces the length of the porch. “So, I wanted to start by saying you’re one of the most important people in my life. You’ve always been there for me and I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it.”

 

“Strong opening,” Marlene murmurs, partially for the slight smile it draws from Lily and partly to defuse the ache spreading through her chest. 

 

“And I wouldn’t want anyone else standing with me through this process,” Lily continues, clasping Marlene’s hands and taking a deep breath. “Marlene, would you do me the honor of being my Maid of Honor?”

 

“What?” Marlene asks, blinking at Lily before her brain kicks back on. “I mean—really? You want me to be your Maid of Honor?”

 

“Yeah,” Lily says, serious in a way she is so rarely. “I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

 

“Oh,” Marlene says, letting that wash over her. 

 

That she was Lily’s first choice for this. That Lily wants her for this. That Lily wouldn’t want anyone else.

 

“Yeah,” Marlene says, batting away any doubts and infusing her tone with as much sincerity as she can muster when she says, “I would love to be your Maid of Honor.”

 

“Really?” Lily asks, giddy as she shakes their joined hands. “You’ll do it?”

 

“I’ll do it,” Marlene agrees, smiling as Lily pulls her in for a bone-crushing hug. 

 

Marlene will do a lot for Lily, she’s realizing. Even if that meant being the Maid of Honor in a wedding she was hoping would never happen, across from her greatest rival, surrounded by people that know too much or too little about her situation to make her comfortable. 

 

It’s going to be a piece of cake. 

 

~

Notes:

hi!

i have picked up and put down this whole fic more times than i can count. i couldn't write more than ten words of the second chapter for months and then drafted the whole thing in a single afternoon. inspiration is fickle like that i guess. i have a rough outline for chapter three and hope to get on a weekly posting schedule, so fingers crossed life agrees with me.

also, to anyone that interacted with and loved my zombie fic, i deleted it in a fit of frustration when i hit the worst case of writers block i've had in years and i regret it deeply. i miss it (and my lovely readers) dearly and i hope to one day repost and finish it.

but regarding this fic!

i am so excited to write a mary & marlene friendship that isn't depressing and filled with angst! they are so dear to me and i love mary so much so i'm excited to give her a happy ending in this fic.

also, the whole unrequited marlene/lily thing. i am a firm believer in different types of love and relate deeply to the difficulty of figuring out what the difference between romantic and platonic love is. in my original outlines for this, i loved the idea of marlene going on this journey of realizing the difference and coming to terms with her own feelings. i hope to keep the spirit of this now that i'm committing to finishing it.

mostly, i wanted to see more romcom type fics so that's what i wrote.

the next chapter is entirely dorcas' pov so buckle up guys our girl is in denial and i love her dearly.

anyways,
stay positive, drink water, and try not to die <3

xoxo,
autumn

Chapter 2: love letters to nowhere

Notes:

special shoutout to aristeia42 for so kindly teaching me how to properly fix my endnotes many moons ago, you're a real one <3

 

NOVEMBER 1980

Time left until the wedding: Six Months

“You are so fucked,” Barty cackles from his perch on the table. 

 

It’s a dangerous place to sit, with so many loose pieces of parchment and a soft tablecloth that runs down the center. With the draft from the window and the bustle of caterers running back and forth across the room, it’s no wonder that he topples off the surface and onto the unforgiving hardwood with a harsh thump.

 

Despite the look Regulus cuts her, there simply isn’t enough evidence to prove Dorcas hexed him.

 

It’s not as if half of Britain hasn’t wanted to throttle the smugness out of Barty at least once. Dorcas is just patient enough to find good opportunities and cunning enough never to get caught.

 

“I most certainly am not,” Dorcas sniffs, aiming for blase with relative success once Barty rights himself. They migrate to huddle on the floor around the coffee table and out of the way of the caterers.

 

“Oh?” Evan says, flipping a page in his copy of Witches Weekly and lacking even the decency to feign indifference properly. His gaze flicks over Dorcas with a cold assessment that likely serves him well in his job at the ministry. “Where’s your jacket?”

 

Barty dissolves into laughter once more, Evan bites back a poorly concealed smile and hides behind his magazine, Regulus glances at Dorcas with renewed interest, and Dorcas makes a valiant effort not to throttle anyone. 

 

“Fuck off,” Dorcas groans, planting her forehead against the cool forgiving glass of the coffee table and not thinking about Marlene fucking McKinnon.

 

She thumps her head once and doesn’t think about how McKinnon had flushed pink from her ears to her collarbones when she draped her jacket around her shoulders.

 

She glares at Evan and doesn’t think about how McKinnon had stared at her for half the night.

 

She hurls a throw pillow at Barty’s cackling face and doesn’t think about the way McKinnon had glowed when surrounded by her friends, the cadence of her voice cracked by laughter and alcohol.

 

Dorcas ignores the heat spreading across the back of her neck and doesn’t think of Marlene McKinnon at all, thank you very much.

 

“Maybe you’ll actually have a shot with her this time,” Regulus sighs, scoffing into his glass of water and choking on his drink a little when Dorcas whips around to gape at him. “What?”

 

“What do you mean this time?” Dorcas asks, scowling at him.

 

Regulus snaps his mouth shut, taking an avid interest in the ceiling. In fact, everyone at the table is suddenly fascinated with the chandelier hanging over their heads.

 

“I never actually tried to date McKinnon,” Dorcas snaps, throwing her hands up as they all ignore her. “I’m not trying to date her now.”

 

“Wait, really?” Evan says, blinking at Dorcas owlishly. “What about the summer before eighth year? The whole Quidditch Camp thing.”

 

Dorcas thinks of McKinnon flying on her broom above her, glowing golden as she laughs.

 

She determinately does not think about the accident or the argument or the way it all fell apart.

 

“We never–that summer was a mistake,” Dorcas says, even though the words taste bitter on her tongue and send her stomach rolling. “And besides,” she continues, desperate to dispel the burning in her chest, “I could have gotten her to go out with me whenever I wanted to.”

 

Regulus hums, eyes bright with mischief in an expression that is so James Potter that Dorcas could throw up. She settles for rolling her eyes and mourning the Regulus she knew before he fell in love. That Regulus never would have schemed so openly against Dorcas. 

 

That Regulus had the decency to wait to grin smugly about it until after he successfully tricked her.

 

“And I’m sure you still could,” Regulus says placatingly, his smile is all sharp edges and poorly concealed glee. 

 

Barty perks up at the sentence, gears clearly turning behind his eyes as he glances between Regulus and Dorcas. 

 

“Pft, as if,” Evan says, flipping the page in his magazine with a sniff. The act would be more compelling if he was holding the magazine right side up. As it is, Evan is blatantly scheming as he stares blankly at the page in front of his face. 

 

Dorcas bristles even though she knows, she knows, that she is being played. 

 

Dorcas has been a damn good Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies for three years. She is self-aware enough to know that the fame has made her a little conceited. She hasn’t had to try to pick up a girl from the bar, get the number of the cute barista at her favorite coffee shop, or start a string of dalliances with members from the opposing team when she’s playing internationally.

 

Regardless, her pride twinges as Evan lifts an imperious brow at her.

 

“Yes, I could,” Dorcas snaps, too quickly to be anything but desperate.

 

Barty nods sympathetically, “Sure you could,” he placates, tone laced with sarcasm.

 

“I could,” Dorcas argues, crossing her arms and uncrossing them when she realizes it makes her look like a petulant child. “If I wanted.”

 

“Uhuh, and you happen to not want to,” Evan agrees, rolling his eyes. “We all know McKinnon wouldn’t go on a date with you if you were the last two people on earth.”

 

“Oh please,” Regulus says, too casually to be anything but trouble, “A date is nothing–our lovely Dorcas here is renowned as the heartbreaker of the harpies. I bet she could never get McKinnon to fall in love with her.”

 

I bet rings in Dorcas’ ears. 

 

It’s the start of every terrible wonderful thing that has happened to them as a group since their early days at Hogwarts. To date, no one has ever turned down a bet–they have been as benign as eating too many chocolate frogs and as malicious as streaking across the grounds in broad daylight. 

 

The results, too, have varied from horrific–Barty broke his arm on a taunt–to wholesome–Regulus agreed to flirt with James on a dare. 

 

“I could too,” Dorcas hears herself say.

 

She thinks of that terrible name, heartbreaker of the harpies, splashed across headlines and scribbled in angry letters. She thinks of hurting McKinnon like that and hesitates.

 

She remembers the chill of McKinnon’s hands in hers on the balcony, the way red spilled across her cheeks and cast her freckles in stark relief. She recalls the coldness in McKinnon’s voice all those years ago when she turned her back on Dorcas.

 

She remembers the way McKinnon had looked at Dorcas last night like she had hung all the stars she was so obsessed with in the sky herself. She recalls the way that McKinnon ignored her for the entirety of their eighth year.

 

She remembers being seventeen and halfway in love with McKinnon, sneaking to the lake to meet her. She remembers being seventeen and heartbroken for the first time, crying in the shower and hiding from the world. 

 

There’s a juxtaposition to the way Dorcas thinks about McKinnon. She is, at once, the kind girl who taught her how to catch a quaffle with her feet but also the terrible witch who became her first lesson in loss and still the stunning woman who runs her fingers along Dorcas’ shoulders like she is something precious to touch.

 

Maybe, just maybe, this will be one of those wonderful bets and not the kind that haunts her.

 

“The terms!” Barty exclaims, ripping a page from Evan’s magazine with gusto and conjuring a Sharpie into his hand. “Dorcas Meadowes must make Marlene McKinnon fall in love with her,” he says as he writes, tongue sticking out of his mouth.

 

“That seems kind of vague,” Evan points out, hooking his chin over Barty’s shoulder to read the words carefully.

 

“By the night of the wedding,” Regulus adds, helpfully, as he grins that terrible James Potter grin at her.

 

“By the night of the wedding,” Barty agrees and adds it to the page.

 

Barty folds the paper in half and stuffs it into his pocket as Pandora swans into the room. Her lavender robes ripple around her as she flops onto the ground with all the grace of a displaced mandrake. She slips into the open space between Regulus and Evan and smiles nervously at her assorted friends.

 

“Well,” she prompts, clasping her hands in front of her and watching them with wide, hopeful eyes. “What did you guys think?”

 

Dorcas thinks of dignified director Kingsley Shacklebolt, who she mostly knows through his stoic cameos in the Daily Prophet , sprawled on a shag rug, sloshed and utterly un dignified. She resolutely keeps her mouth shut. 

 

“They’re very…Gryffindor,” Evan says diplomatically, finally closing his magazine and flushing when he realizes it’s been upside down this whole time. Dorcas bites back a grin and rolls her eyes.

 

“Incredibly…extraverted,” Barty agrees, nodding solemnly.

 

Pandora snatches an ornate throw pillow from the couch behind her and throws it with such precision it bounces off of Barty’s head and smacks Evan square in the face.

 

“I’m serious,” Pandora whines, and reaches for another pillow warningly when Regulus opens his mouth to make the obvious joke. He closes his mouth slowly with a scowl. “I want everyone to get along.”

 

It’s a fair concern, they haven’t all been in close quarters with one another since Hogwarts. While they see James and Sirius often enough courtesy of Regulus, the rest of them had remained as nothing more than friendly anecdotes shared at functions. Now the connection between them all is real and tangible in a way it hasn’t been in years.

 

“They’re nice,” Dorcas finds herself saying, remembering the curve of McKinnon’s lips when she grinned–open and kind and so unlike herself. Her face burns when Barty waggles his eyebrows suggestively at her behind Pandora’s back. 

 

“Okay,” Pandora says, slumping against the couch and rubbing her eyes tiredly. “Okay, good.”

 

And it will be.

 

All Dorcas has to do is woo the most difficult woman alive without her best friend knowing and subsequently ruining the most important day of Pandora’s life.

 

Easy.

 

~

 

If Dorcas never touches another piece of parchment again, it’ll be too soon. 

 

She has papercuts where she never thought she could even get papercuts, and they are no closer to finding something that feels right to Pandora than they were when they started three hours ago.

 

She’s about to suggest taking a break, getting lunch, and reconsidering their angle when the bell over the door jangles, and Pandora perks up.

 

“Thank Merlin,” Pandora sighs, and brushes past Dorcas to pull none other than Lily Evans into a tight hug. 

 

Dorcas had been peeved when Pandora first told her about the engagement–who keeps their girlfriend a secret for months?–but after she saw them together for the first time, she couldn’t bring herself to hate them. There’s a brightness to Pandora’s countenance that seems to increase tenfold when Lily is in the room. 

 

As much as Dorcas may have hated to admit it, they were cute together. They brought out the best in one another. Isn’t that what love is all about anyway?

 

Dorcas glances to the door when the bell goes off once more and is caught for just a moment by the sight of McKinnon. Her eyes are lined with black, but her lips are chapped from the cold. Her fingerless gloves reveal red fingertips as she rubs warmth back into her hands, and her hair falls in infuriating and artful curls from the haphazard bun she pulled it into.

 

Marlene McKinnon: a study in contradictions.

 

McKinnon glances at Lily and Pandora and an indiscernible expression flickers across her features before she catches Dorcas’ eye and glowers, vulnerability there and gone in a flash.

 

For a moment, Dorcas is caught off guard by the urge to know everything about McKinnon. To be able to discern the obstinate changes in her countenance. To unspool the mystery that encompasses every choice McKinnon makes until she understands. 

 

So she can make her fall in love with her easier of course—no other reason.

 

“Everything is starting to look the same,” Pandora groans as she pulls Lily deeper into the store, their fingers laced together. Lily trails after her with such a disgustingly lovesick expression Dorcas can’t help but bite back a smile as they disappear between the rows of paper and out of sight.

 

That leaves Dorcas with McKinnon. Alone. Which is–perfect. Exactly what she needs if she’s ever going to win this stupid bet. 

 

“Hey there,” Dorcas greets, tossing McKinnon her most charming smile. 

 

McKinnon scoffs, rolling her eyes as she crosses the room to glance over the invitations sprawled on the shelf behind Dorcas. 

 

Dorcas bristles and fights back the heat spreading across her face. It’s anger at the dismissal and has nothing to do with the way McKinnon reaches past her shoulder to flip through a stack of papers. Her heart trips traitorously in her chest. 

 

“I didn’t know you were going to be here today,” McKinnon begins, not bothering to step back to a more respectable distance. Dorcas certainly isn’t going to give her the satisfaction of backing down from whatever convoluted challenge this is. 

 

“Well,” Dorcas says, swallowing against the strange dryness of her throat. McKinnon lifts an imperious brow, a smug grin tugging at her lips as she stares down at Dorcas–which shouldn’t be possible. Dorcas is usually a good four inches taller than her and–

 

A glance down reveals platform boots laced up McKinnon’s feet. Bastard.

 

“I am,” Dorcas finishes, only slightly nonsensical. She’s supposed to be seducing her, not fumbling simple sentences over a little height and proximity. “I’m Pandora’s Maid of Honor.”

 

“I know,” McKinnon says, rolling her eyes and stepping back to lean against the shelf beside her. Dorcas takes a deep breath and does not feel any kind of way about anything. “Look, I’m doing this for Lily. You–we can be civil, can’t we? For them.”

 

Oh. 

 

McKinnon still hates her, even after all these years.

 

“Yeah,” Dorcas manages, staring at the stack of paper beside her to avoid those sharp eyes and the bitterness that still lingers there when she looks at Dorcas. Gone is the soft, kind woman who had melted into her jacket a week and a half ago. Returned is the angry, acerbic woman who broke her heart a lifetime ago. 

 

Any sliver of guilt over the bet or its potential impact on the wedding shrivels and dies at that moment. 

 

Everything Dorcas knows about loving and leaving she learned at the altar of McKinnon’s tumultuous affection. Every convoluted fling she’s stumbled through was forged from the blueprint of McKinnon’s carelessness. 

 

Maybe the bet started as a friendly jibe, but this is different.

 

McKinnon is the same flippant asshole she was when they were seventeen and stupid. It’s Dorcas’ civic duty to teach her a lesson and give her a taste of her own medicine. 

 

Six months to fall in love is nothing–Dorcas stumbled into it with McKinnon in a fraction of that time. 

 

So McKinnon wants to be civil? 

 

“I can be perfectly civil, sweetheart,” Dorcas says, smiling sweetly and feeling a victorious thrill at the flush that spreads from McKinnon’s ears to her collarbones in response.

 

Oh yeah, Dorcas can totally do this.

 

~

 

The end of November finds Dorcas sprawled at one of the ancient tables at the Lovegood Estate sealing envelope after envelope of wedding invitations. 

 

They have a nice system going. 

 

Pandora and Lily sign each invitation. Mary and Evan scribble the address onto the parchment. Dorcas and McKinnon seal each envelope with wax and drop them into the basket to be delivered. 

 

Or it would be a nice system if McKinnon would stop moving so quickly.

 

She doesn't know for sure whether she’s trying to finish as quickly as possible so she doesn’t have to be civil with Dorcas for longer than she absolutely must or whether she’s trying to goad Dorcas into racing her. 

 

What she does know is that she isn’t going to lose to Marlene fucking McKinnon.

 

She gets into a rhythm, flipping the envelope, tying the ribbon, pouring the wax, placing the seal, and adding it to the pile in efficient movements.

 

Across from her, McKinnon has taken to sealing two envelopes at a time, switching the stamps out so each seal dries by the time she ties the next ribbon with such confidence Dorcas can only gape for a few precious moments.

 

The flash of McKinnon’s rings catches Dorcas as she works–those long fingers and the chipped black paint on her nails utterly distracting. 

 

McKinnon glances up, catches Dorcas staring, and stutters in her movements, knocking over one of the stamps and tearing the envelope. 

 

McKinnon scowls at her, “You did that on purpose,” she hisses, a flush brightening her cheeks as she seethes. 

 

“Did what?” Dorcas asks sweetly, leaning against the table and blinking at McKinnon through her lashes.

 

McKinnon, if possible, flushes an even starker shade of pink.

 

She pushes herself from the table muttering about conniving Slytherins, and returns the envelope to Lily to be rewritten. 

 

By the time McKinnon returns to her seat, Dorcas has effectively adopted and enhanced McKinnon’s strategy for sealing letters. Her stack of completed envelopes practically dwarfs McKinnon’s progress. 

 

She doesn’t quite manage to bite back her smug grin as McKinnon gawks at her. 

 

“Oh, it’s on,” McKinnon says, eyes flashing as she cracks her knuckles and starts sealing envelopes in earnest. 

 

They fall into a steady rhythm, piles of invitations spilling out of their respective baskets and onto the hardwood floors in scatters. Despite the chaos, it’s clear they are evenly matched as they rush and squabble over who gets the next ready invitation in hushed arguments.

 

Dorcas is so focused she doesn’t notice that Pandora and Lily have stopped signing invitations or that Mary and Evan have completed all the proper addresses until she and McKinnon reach for the last invitation at the same time. 

 

McKinnon’s fingers are warm where they’ve landed on top of hers. Her face is set in that steely determination that earned her a reputation as the best keeper in their year. She was set to be the next great Quidditch star of their generation until–

 

It’s intimidating is all. 

 

McKinnon burns like this–staring at her is like staring at the sun. It leaves an impression on the back of her eyes for days.

 

She falters for a moment, but that is all it takes for McKinnon to take the upper hand. She snatches the last invitation from under Dorcas’ lax fingers and seals it with a smug flourish. 

 

“I win,” McKinnon says with a triumphant grin. 

 

Dorcas wants to be indignant or bitter or a little bit angry at the arguably arbitrary loss. All she feels is slightly flushed and utterly speechless.

 

“Whatever, McKinnon,” she manages, rolling her eyes in what she hopes is a convincing manner.

 

Evan’s unimpressed smirk tells her she’s not that successful.

 

It’s whatever.

 

~

 

Dorcas loves flying.

 

It fills her with weightless freedom, adrenaline pushing her to her limits, leaving her breathless and hoping for more. 

 

She loves being a part of a team, something greater than herself, and the camaraderie that comes with it. She loves the game's strategy, sorting plays in her mind and finding the best method to completely dismantle another team. She loves the spontaneity of it, the shocking brutality of the bludgers soaring through open skies that leave tapestries of purple, green, and red across her skin.

 

Dorcas loves Quidditch and the Holyhead Harpies and all the bullshit that goes with it. 

 

She does not, however, appreciate the ribbing she receives every time her love life becomes public speculation.

 

“The Holyhead Harpies most salacious Chaser, Dorcas Meadowes,” Evangeline begins, reading from The Prophet with an untamed glee surpassed only by Barty’s most manic moments, “is perhaps better known from her accolades as the heartbreaker of the harpies, a name all too fitting for the torrent of bloodied hearts left in her wake after the team’s tenure in Scotland for the summer season.”

 

“I didn’t even sleep with anyone,” Dorcas groans, burying her face in her hands and falling to the side to hide behind Jordan’s helpfully broad shoulders.

 

In truth, she’d shared one furtive kiss with one incredibly fit Keeper for the Falmouth Falcons. It was just her luck that the nosy, no-good, blight on journalistic integrity Rita fucking Skeeter had gotten a picture. 

 

How one kiss translates to a litany of lovers, Dorcas has no idea, but the resulting bullying from her teammates is relentless regardless of veracity. Except for Jordan, bless him, who turns cherry red from his forehead to his chin anytime anything more than a chaste kiss is mentioned in his presence.

 

True to form, he flushes now and looks almost as embarrassed as Dorcas at the mention of frivolous dalliances. 

 

“Must we talk about this every time Meadowes ends up in the papers?” Jordan pleads, voice cracking in desperation. 

 

“Yes,” everyone, even Helena the traitor, chimes at once. Dorcas slumps further against the bench behind Jordan and resigns herself to a fate worse than death.

 

Evangeline opens her mouth, eyes twinkling as she skims the next few lines of the article. She’s clearly gearing up for a truly inspired reading of it when Zabini bursts into the room in a flurry of robes. 

 

People have called Zabini brash, rude, and downright cruel, all of which is at least a little bit true.

 

“And we aren’t on the pitch prepping for practice because…?” Zabini asks, arching an elegant brow and scowling at the lazily sprawled lot of them. 

 

Dorcas stills behind Jordan in a vain attempt to hide from Zabini’s lethal glare.

 

“Dorcas made the headlines again,” Evangeline says brightly, unfazed by Zabini’s irritation. 

 

“Skeeter was particularly scathing,” Fabian adds, absently checking his cuticles as he leans against his broom and effectively redirecting Zabini’s anger to a different and more deserving target.

 

When Zabini first rose to fame as an acclaimed Keeper, Skeeter published a particularly scathing article detailing each of Zabini’s divorces in avid, unflattering detail. Complete with quotes from husbands two, three, and five, Skeeter’s article drove public opinion of the Holyhead Harpies' most promising Keeper from glowing praise to mass condemnation. 

 

Since then, Zabini has proven herself ten times over, led their team to win the World Cup twice, and divorced three additional men. 

 

Rita Skeeter, by sheer and complete coincidence, has also found her unnaturally platinum blonde hair turns a putrid shade of green every time she deigns to write about the Holyhead Harpies acclaimed Captain. 

 

These days it seems Skeeter’s fear of Zabini does not extend to the rest of the team and, more importantly, Dorcas herself. The string of downright disgusting claims she’s made about Dorcas’ sex life should be considered libel at the very least, but it’s not like she has a PR team to complain to about it. 

 

Despite what Skeeter may write, she’s not quite that famous. Yet.

 

Zabini curses a streak against Skeeter, so colorful and demeaning that Dorcas has the childish instinct to cover her ears against the onslaught. As it is, Dorcas simply emerges from her hiding place and tries her best to keep her mouth from gaping as Zabini becomes more creative as she gathers steam.

 

Zabini is still muttering her discontent as the team makes their way to the pitch, stretches, and starts running drills. 

 

By the time Dorcas finishes her drills, showers, and changes back into civvies, she’s mostly forgotten about the article and is floating with the adrenaline and elation that follows her from her broom every time she flies.

 

She’s barely pulled a fresh shirt over her head when Helena materializes beside her with a sympathetic smile. 

 

“I know how it bothers you,” she says by way of greeting, ever to the point.

 

Helena Greengrass has never been one for beating around the bush and it seems that today is no exception. She is frank and to the point and is Dorcas’ favorite teammate by far.

 

“It’s fine,” Dorcas sighs, and knows, even as she says it, that it sounds terribly thin.

 

Helena’s mouth twists in disapproval.

 

“It sucks,” Dorcas corrects, pulling her braids off of her shoulders and gathering them in a bun at the base of her neck. The act of it is familiar and soothing and helps her avoid Helena’s understanding eyes for a moment or two. “Having people speculate on my nonexistent love life constantly is exhausting.”

 

“Nonexistent?” Helena asks in that innocent lilt of hers, head tilted and eyes earnest. 

 

Dorcas thinks of McKinnon–the fierce determination in the set of her jaw that never fails to steal her breath away even now. Even after all these years. 

 

It’s also exhausting. 

 

“No,” Dorcas says, too quickly. 

 

“No?” Helena echoes dubiously. 

 

Dorcas narrows her eyes at Helena. 

 

“Maybe,” Dorcas admits, neck heating up damningly. 

 

“That’s good!” Helena insists, taking Dorcas’ hands into her own with a bright smile. 

 

“It’s not–like that,” Dorcas admits with a wince.

 

Helena frowns, eyebrows pulling together as she searches Dorcas’ face. 

 

“It’s more like a…bet,” Dorcas sighs, taking an interest in the row of lockers beside her so she doesn’t have to watch the disappointment take over Helena’s features. 

 

Helena hums and squeezes Dorcas’ hands in encouragement. 

 

“Have I ever mentioned Marlene McKinnon?” Dorcas asks by way of explanation.

 

Helena snorts, “Only all the time.”

 

Which can’t possibly be right. Dorcas feels heat crawl up her neck and scowls. 

 

Sure, she’s mentioned McKinnon when relevant. 

 

So McKinnon taught her some of the more showy moves Dorcas pulls off in practice sometimes, and only a complete ass wouldn’t credit the person they borrowed them from. 

 

And yeah, she may have on occasion let slip how annoying it was to hear about McKinnon thirdhand from Regulus’ anecdotes about his time spent with James. 

 

But also, McKinnon is a strange periphery in her life thanks to the intermingling of their friend groups after graduation, and Helena is a safe space to vent about such things since she’s unbiased and unconnected to the whole thing.

 

“Oh, we’re complaining about McKinnon again, are we?” Evangeline asks, towling her hair dry as she rounds the corner to pull a fresh set of clothes from her locker.

 

Evangeline is notorious for eavesdropping and exaggerating, so that doesn’t mean anything.

 

“Oh, I just hate how beautiful and talented and untouchable she is,” Fabian intones in a terrible, no good, not at all convincing pantomime of Dorcas’ accent, swooping into the room and dropping onto an empty bench with no small amount of drama.

 

“I’m sorry, when did I ask for your opinion?” Dorcas snaps, glaring ineffectively at them to no avail. They’re immune after all these years of exposure. Puddlemere United is down a Chaser after last season, it’s not too late at all to start fresh with a team that isn’t such a dick.

 

Helena smiles apologetically at her, bless.

 

“You finally admit you like her?” Evangeline asks, far too polite to be anything but fishing for information.

 

“Absolutely not, because I don’t ,” Dorcas insists, ignoring the unconvinced stares of everyone in the room. “I don’t,” she repeats harshly.

 

“Sure, sure,” Fabian agrees with a wave of his hand. “But you are talking about her. Because you don’t like her. Naturally.”

 

“It’s about a bet,” Helena adds helpfully, nodding at Dorcas to elaborate. Traitor.

 

“It’s a friendly bet,” Dorcas sighs, rolling her eyes. “To gethertofallinlovewithme,” she finishes in a rush.

 

“I’m sorry, you’re falling where?” Evangeline asks, nose scrunching in distaste.

 

“Tickets to where?” Fabian asks, head tipping to the side.

 

“No, no, she’s taking her to a Faltomy concert,” Helena corrects certainly, patting Dorcas’ knee encouragingly.

 

“Merlin’s beard,” Dorcas groans, rubbing her temples. “No, I have six months to…get her to fall in love with me?”

 

The statement lilts up at the end, giving the impression of a hesitant question when in fact, that is the hard truth of the matter.

 

“Oh,” Helena says, blinking in surprise. “Well then.”

 

“Definitely don’t like her then,” Fabian confirms, rolling his eyes theatrically. “Obviously.”

 

“Well, it’s not like I’m going to fall in love with her,” Dorcas defends, fighting back the heat rising to her cheeks.

 

“Of course not,” Evangeline says sarcastically.

 

“It’s for revenge,” Dorcas tries.

 

“Naturally,” Fabian agrees diplomatically.

 

“It doesn’t mean anything at all,” Dorcas finishes, slumping back against the lockers behind her.

 

“I’m sure it will all work out fine,” Helena soothes, though her smile is brittle around the edges.

 

“It will,” Dorcas confirms, and almost believes it.

 

~

 

Xenophilius Ifans is perhaps the strangest man that Dorcas has ever met. 

 

Unfortunately for Dorcas, who doesn’t know how to act around him, he is also Pandora's oldest friend. 

 

“You have the strangest collection of Finklepops I’ve ever seen,” Xenophilius observes, apropos nothing as he examines Dorcas through the thick yellow lenses of his glittering glasses. Fingers fiddling with the edges of the frames as he sways gently.

 

“Is that…a bad thing?” Dorcas asks apprehensively, shifting from foot to foot and wishing Pandora would hurry up and free her from this social interaction. 

 

“No,” he says after an uncomfortably long pause, lifting his glasses so they rest on top of his head. “Not always. For some, they’re signs of good luck and change.”

 

“And for others?” Dorcas asks, morbidly fascinated with the creatures that have supposedly been flocking to her. 

 

Dorcas didn’t notice how soft and saccharine his expression had been until it turned sharp with focus. The distant sheen to his gaze and wispy fluttering of his hands stilled into nothing as he finally looked at Dorcas instead of through her. 

 

“For others,” he echoed, teeth glinting under a sharp smile. “They indicate tumultuous catastrophe and heartbreak.”

 

Dorcas blinks, her body running hot then cold so suddenly she can’t quite fight the shiver that races through her spine. 

 

Last year, Evangeline Nott took a Quaffle to the face, plummeted to the bottom of the pitch with no interference, and broke her arm in three places in an attempt to soften her fall. 

 

The bone had protruded from her skin in a jagged rip that severed her muscles from wrist to elbow. Dorcas had watched, unable to breathe, as a Mediwitch split the skin open and snapped the bone back into place with a flick of her wand. 

 

For a moment, the vulnerable cracked white of her radius had glinted in the late autumn sun, flayed open and exposed. 

 

For a moment, Dorcas feels a sameness to that pulsing wound. 

 

Xenophilius’ eyes are dark with understanding. He stares at Dorcas as if he has seen within the murky mires of her subconscious to the very core of her soul. 

 

For a moment, Dorcas is certain that Xenophilius knows everything about her. 

 

Her forearm pulses in a strange, delayed throb of empathy. 

 

And then, as suddenly as the change in his countenance had arrived, it disappeared under a sunny smile. His gaze shifts slightly over Dorcas’ shoulder as he shrugs his own. 

 

“But Finklepops are such fickle creatures,” he sighs, flicking his hands as if waving away a swarm of gnats and not the most terrifying and vulnerable exchange Dorcas has ever been part of. “You’ll probably be fine.”

 

“Sure,” Dorcas agrees, though she can’t quite shake the feeling of trepidation crawling between her ribs. 

 

Pandora bursts down the stairs, twisting her hair into a bun with one hand and pulling her shoes on with the other.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbles around the claw clip between her teeth. She straightens once she reaches Dorcas and Xenophilius, clips her hair into place, and straightens her coat with a grin. “I couldn’t find my wallet to save my life.” 

 

Pandora blows a stray piece of hair out of her face and threads an arm through Dorcas and Xenophilius’ elbows, tugging them along to the street and humming under her breath.

 

Xenophilius glances at Dorcas over Pandora’s head between them and throws her a helplessly endeared smile as they are pulled along in Pandora’s orbit. 

 

Maybe Xenophilius is a little odd. Maybe his strange oscillation between perceptive and absent sets Dorcas off-kilter. Maybe she still has no idea how to interact normally with him.

 

But maybe normal is overrated anyway. 

 

Dorcas smiles back at Xenophilius, only a little awkward, and tries to set aside the constriction in her ribcage. 

 

She’s mostly successful.

 

The Finklepops probably don’t mean anything at all. Dorcas is the same person now she was thirty minutes ago, when she was blithely unaware of Finklepops, impending heartbreak, and change. The Finklepops won’t decide her destiny, she will. 

 

And besides, the only heartbreak in her future will be McKinnon’s. 

 

As they make their way down the sidewalk and into the bustling city, Dorcas can almost believe it. 

 

~

Notes:

hi!

if you're curious about the Quidditch stuff, please know i know nothing about sports so i'm writing solely off vibes and a prayer. i put like an insane amount of time into deciding who each of the players would be, only for me to pretty much exclusively use their first names and waste all that research.

also!
the bet! this won't have major and predictable consequences! the bet is where we get the losely inspired by how to lose a guy in ten days tag for this fic. if you haven't seen it you should i'm such a sucker for it.

also!!
the summer before their eighth year...in my original drafts each chapter also had a flashback for that summer (titled the summer from hell in my docs) but it just felt out of place when i tried to work it into this sooo maybe in a sequel we'll see. i think it's more fun to have to figure it out piece by piece anyway.

also!!!
the denial is so insane. it's so interesting to me how both dorcas and marlene are in serious denial about their respective feelings, but it manifests so differently for each of them. like i feel like dorcas is more aware of what she feels and is intentionally putting it aside while marlene won't even examine what she's feeling (yet). anyway i'm excited to dig into more and see what happens. next chapter should be up saturday bar catastrophe :)

anyways,
feed a starving artist with comments and kudos, i love to hear what y'all think and i treasure them all even if i'm not the best at responding <3

stay warm, touch grass, and keep it real <3

xoxo,
autumn

Chapter 3: smile, you're on camera

 

DECEMBER 1980

Time left until the wedding: 5 months

Magical homes breathe. 

 

Imbued with the love and magic of the magical families that have lingered in their halls, magical homes develop quirks and personalities shaped by their residents. They are neither good nor evil–no matter what fear mongering ghost columnists at the Daily Prophet say. 

 

Because of this, many wizarding families believe their home is cursed when it malfunctions. Magic is innately temperamental at times, and the places that are fueled by magical energy can be similarly unpredictable. 

 

It is easier and more common to believe that a malevolent force is making their home rebel. They think that it is broken or angry or vengeful. They presume that the home hates them.

 

This could not be farther from the truth. 

 

The magical homes that Marlene is called to fix are almost always sick. 

 

Slamming doors, misaligned floorboards, and broken windows are all signals that a home is in distress. That it isn’t breathing the way it should. That magic is no longer flowing through its faculties.

 

Even though Marlene corrects customers every time and even has her business listed as a magical home repairman and not a magical home curse breaker, the difference is of little consequence to most people and Marlene is resigned to apathetically correcting people when necessary.

 

Sometimes, she just takes the loss and calls it a day.

 

“And the oven is possessed!” Mrs. Abernathy exclaims with gusto, gesturing at the offending appliance with the end of her staff and glaring at it accusingly. “Seven pies have fallen to its damned inferno but not one more–do you hear me?” She asks, casting a withering scowl toward the ceiling as she yells, “Not one more!”

 

“Okay,” Marlene says placatingly, keeping out of Mrs. Abernathy’s swinging range as she jabs her staff toward the ceiling threateningly. “I’ll be sure to pay extra attention to the oven.”

 

“And the toaster,” Mrs. Abernathy adds, more subdued as she sneaks accusatory glances around the kitchen. “All it does is burn my Eggos.”

 

“Absolutely,” Marlene agrees, nodding solemnly as Mrs. Abernathy vacates the kitchen with one last glower and a wave of her staff. 

 

Marlene lets out a large breath and tries to feel the house breathing around her.

 

Magical homes breathe.

 

Or, they are supposed to breathe.

 

Marlene listens, making a loose lap around the kitchen, and spreads her magic out to get a feel for the space. Now that Mrs. Abernathy is gone, everything is eerily quiet. No breath, no residual magic, just silence.

 

Marlene lets out a gust of breath.

 

A breeze whistles through the cracked window over the kitchen sink. 

 

Marlene tilts her head, reaches for the closest cabinet, and slams it closed. 

 

In some distant part of the house, a door bangs shut.

 

“Huh,” Marlene says, blinking at the house in a new light.

 

Like any living thing, magical homes need to consume energy. They are direct reflections of their residents. They survive and thrive on the ambient energy and intent of those who live in them. 

 

Marlene casts a wandless Lumos, lifting her fingers so it floats slightly ahead of her. 

 

The candles, fluorescent lights, and fireplace all burn brighter. 

 

Magical homes breathe. This house is suffocating. 

 

Marlene finds Mrs. Abernathy in the parlor. 

 

She’s sitting in an old rocking chair by a fire that’s more coals and smoke than flame. A book rests open on her lap and as she rocks back and forth, the carpet beneath her feet ripples toward and away from her in slow bursts. 

 

“We’ll need to do an alignment,” Marlene explains as she enters the room. She casts a gentle spell into the fireplace so the flames rise merrily from the logs. There’s not much she can do to abate the suffering of the house until they complete the ritual, but she can hardly stand to sit and do nothing as it gasps for air.  

 

“A what?” Mrs. Abernathy asks, scraping her feet against the floor to stop her motion. The walls creak in response. 

 

“An alignment ritual,” Marlene repeats, digging through her bag to pass Mrs. Abernathy a thick tome from its depths. Marlene flicks her hand and the book opens to the appropriate page. “Your home is operating on a deficit of magic–it’s not absorbing your innate essence anymore, it’s just sort of…echoing back at you. That’s why things aren’t working properly. It’s burning your food because it doesn’t have the magical energy to know when to stop heating anymore.”

 

“I thought you were a curse breaker,” Mrs. Abernathy says, scrutinizing Marlene from over the top of her glasses with no small amount of disappointment. “The house isn’t…cursed?”

 

“It’s dying,” Marlene corrects, “I’m more of a healer.”

 

“Oh,” Mrs. Abernathy sighs, flipping the page and scanning the lines dubiously. “Did I–Does this mean I’m killing it?”

 

She looks up at Marlene, eyes glassy and a little desperate. She’s swiping her hand over the arm of the chair as if she were gentling an abused animal–full of reverence and grief.

 

“Not exactly,” Marlene says, taking a seat in the couch beside Mrs. Abernathy. The cushion gives beneath her before stiffening harshly. It’s like sitting on a brick pallet. “Some specialists argue constantly about what causes this kind of sickness in a home but no one can quite agree on who’s to blame,” Marlene grazes a gentle hand across the worn fabric of the couch and the cushion beneath her softens. “I’m more concerned about making them well again. Blame doesn’t do the home or you any good.”

 

Mrs. Abernathy sighs wetly, staring at the fireplace.

 

“I yelled at it,” she says, gaze distant. “And it was just–I didn’t know , it knows I didn’t understand doesn’t it?”

 

“I’ve never seen a home keep trying to provide when depleted to this extent,” Marlene says, she can’t speak for the house, exactly, as far as cognition. But she can speak to this. “Even if it was burning your pies, its dedication to trying for you is, well, to me it’s breathtaking. That kind of devotion.”

 

Mrs. Abernathy is quiet for a moment, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Noticing all the cracks in the floors. Acknowledging the peeling of the wallpaper in the corners.

 

It’s painful–to see someone you love broken. To watch as he falls apart. To sit back as sickness steals the breath from his lungs. 

 

It’s utterly helpless, the slow death.

 

Of the house. No one–nothing else. This is about the house. 

 

If she repeats it enough, it just might become true.

 

“Where do we start?” Mrs. Abernathy asks, scrubbing her hands over her face and setting her shoulders. 

 

Marlene smiles. 

 

This is what she loves about magical homes. It doesn’t matter how broken, depleted, or diseased a house is, Marlene can fix it. It’s a tangible relief–something she can do with her own hands, her own magic, her own determination. 

 

She might not be able to fight sickness in people, but she can do this. She can fix this. She can bring this home back from the brink. 

 

She can.

 

“The beginning,” Marlene says.

 

She leads Mrs. Abernathy to the foundations on the outside of the home, and they dig.

 

By the time Marlene leaves, long after the sun has disappeared behind the city, Marlene is covered in dirt, sage, and ink. She grins at the stars as they wink back at her.

 

The Abernathy home breathes easy behind her.

 

~

 

“You’re overreacting,” Mary says simply, jotting notes in the corner of her schedule and not even bothering to glance up at Marlene.

 

“I am not,” Marlene argues, crossing her arms petulantly. She commits to the action and pouts at Mary with only a little desperation. “This is a huge deal.”

 

Mary glances up at Marlene, expression stoic as Marlene turns her lost-puppy expression up to an eleven. 

 

Mary is unmoved. Her efforts are wasted here.

 

“It’s just a date,” Mary says, rolling her eyes as she ducks under the counter to reshelve books around the shop.

 

“With a mystery woman!” Marlene exclaims, trailing after Mary and looking appropriately guilty for yelling in a bookstore when Mary glares at her. “A mystery woman,” Marlene repeats at a more reasonable volume. “Why won’t you tell me who it is?”

 

“We’ve only gone out a few times,” Mary says, placing a stack of books into Marlene’s arms, which Marlene carries dutifully as she follows Mary, and pulling them off one at a time to return them to their proper place. “It’s perfectly normal to wait a bit before making everything official.”

 

“Hm,” Marlene says dubiously, squinting at Mary. “No, that’s not it. Are you…embarrassed?”

 

Mary slaps Marlene’s shoulder with one of the books, rude, but she does it much softer than Marlene knows she could, gracious, so she calls it even and pouts pathetically. Mary stares back and lifts a brow.

 

“Okay maybe not,” Marlene acquiesces, handing Mary the last book as they reach the back of the store. “But it is something. Giving an ex another go?”

 

“Please,” Mary scoffs, shaking her head. “If I break up with someone, I burn that bridge. Thoroughly. You know that.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Marlene agrees, tipping her hand back and forth in a so-so gesture. “So someone you are worried about the repercussions for if you do break up.”

 

Mary’s hands trip, only for a moment, as she adjusts the inventory for the shop. 

 

“Aha!” Marlene crows, too excited to be cowed by Mary’s subsequent glare. “So a friend–slightly removed…Emmeline? Parvati? That cute barista at your favorite coffee shop–Gemma?”

 

“Stop guessing,” Mary snaps, shoving her papers into a folder and dusting more vigorously than the pristine shelves call for. 

 

“But it’s such fun,” Marlene says, grinning even as Mary throws an old dustrag at her face with disgusting accuracy. Worth it. 

 

“What’s it people say about stones and glass houses?” Mary asks, glaring at Marlene with her hands on her hips. 

 

“I haven’t got any glass houses, thanks,” Marlene says, tossing the rag back at Mary with a grin. “I learned from those lovely little pigs all about the benefits of brick.”

 

“Oh really?” Mary says, tipping her head to the side and squinting at Marlene. “So, you’re perfectly open about the Meadowes Situation?”

 

“There is no Meadowes Situation,” Marlene says with significant air quotes. 

 

“Hm.”

 

“There’s not,” Marlene insists, face burning as she takes an avid interest in the shelves of books behind Mary’s shoulder.

 

“Or about Lily—“

 

“Don’t,” Marlene snaps.  

 

“Look,” Mary sighs, pulling Marlene through a curtain of wooden beads and into the relative privacy of the back room. “I’m only going to say this once, because I love you and you’re my best friend, okay?”

 

Marlene nods, trepidation tripping up her spine. 

 

“You have such a good heart, Marlene,” Mary starts, gripping Marlene’s shoulders and shaking them slightly for emphasis. “And I hate to see you waste it on someone who doesn’t feel the same way.”

 

Something about Lily Evans is untouchable, ephemeral like the aurora bureaus or lightning in a storm. Bright and fleeting, always moving somewhere else. Somewhere beyond Marlene. 

 

It’s that distance, that unbearable goodness that Lily radiates, that has left Marlene pining and wandering after Lily for years. She can’t quite let go of the idea of her, of them together. 

 

She doesn’t know how to give up on people. 

 

“I’m not wasting it,” Marlene snaps, eyes burning traitorously. 

 

“She loves you too,” Mary says, gentler than she has ever been with Marlene. “But not the way you want her to.”

 

Marlene wants to admit something insane like,

 

I don’t know how to give up on the thought of us.

 

Or,

 

I hate her a little for not loving me back.

 

She wants to lash out at Mary, to deny it and spit vitriol–to accuse her of something devastating like,

 

You used to be in love with her too.

 

Or, more relevantly,

 

How did you stop?

 

But the words all jumble and tangle and twist inside her until all she manages is,

 

“Everyone’s a little bit in love with her.”

 

Mary sighs and shakes her head, smiling despite herself.

 

“Marlene,” she says, only a little desperate.

 

“I know,” Marlene assures her, gripping Mary’s hands where they rest on her shoulders and squeezing them slightly. “I love you too.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mary says, pulling Marlene in for a flash of a hug before shoving her away with a smile. 

 

“You’re a big softy, Mary,” Marlene says, bumping their shoulders together as they press back through the beaded door and into the shop. 

 

“Keep that shit to yourself, McKinnon,” Mary snaps, but her smile ruins the effect. “You’ll ruin my reputation.

 

Marlene mimes zipping her lips shut and tossing the key. Mary rolls her eyes but lets Marlene sit behind the counter and pilfer from her coveted candy stash for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Marlene eats sweets and completely forgets she was interrogating Mary about the Mystery Woman.

 

Well, she can’t win them all.

 

~

 

Calypso’s Antiques and Curiosities is…charming. 

 

It is filled to the brim with fine china, beautifully draped necklaces, and racks upon racks of robes. 

 

It is also enchanted to be bigger on the inside. The aisles of various goods expand endlessly in every direction, and Marlene is well and truly lost. 

 

All she has is seven antique plates, her wand, and pocket lint. 

 

It was meant to be a fairly straightforward task: split up into groups, collect as many charming plates for the reception as possible, and reconnect after two hours at the front of the shop. 

 

Marlene had wandered a little too far and gotten too distracted extracting a plate from the top of an overfilled bookcase and she didn’t realize she couldn’t hear Alice and Mary’s bickering until it was too late. 

 

It’s been thirty minutes since she last had contact with human life. She may very well perish before she has a chance to write her will. No one will find her body in this maze for years. 

 

She would give anything to be relieved of this solitary confinement. 

 

She’s just about to start scribbling her will onto the back of an antique painting, which she’s planning to use as a headstone, when her solitude is broken. 

 

“Oh,” Marlene says, following the pair of boots at the edge of the aisle up, to find Dorcas Meadowes’ bemused face. “It’s you.”

 

Solitary wasn’t quite so bad.

 

Meadowes tips her head to the side, the wooden beads in her braids clicking together with the motion. 

 

“It’s me,” Meadowes confirms, biting back a smile as her gaze flicks between the painting Marlene’s holding and the quill she had conjured poised to deface it. “What are you doing?”

 

“Nothing,” Marlene says, shifting the painting behind her back and banishing her quill in one quick movement. “You can’t prove anything.”

 

“I’m not sure what I would even be trying to prove,” Meadowes says, rolling her eyes. “That you moonlight as a terrible art collector?”

 

Marlene flips over the canvas for the first time and realizes it’s a truly heinous depiction of a cat riding a broomstick. 

 

“I’ll have you know that I contain the multitudes and this,” Marlene says primly, shaking the canvas for emphasis, “Is the height of artistry.”

 

“Sure, McKinnon,” Meadowes drawls amicably, “You’re a real masterpiece.”

 

“And anyway,” Marlene continues hurriedly, trying not to blush and failing miserably. “What masterpieces have you found for the wedding?” 

 

Marlene lifts her collection of plates demonstratively. 

 

Meadowes lifts a wicker basket she produces from—somewhere, Marlene didn’t even notice her carrying it over—and reveals five beautifully painted porcelain plates with unique designs. 

 

“Oh, nice,” Marlene says appreciatively. It’s good to acknowledge the merits of your competition, especially when you know you’ll win anyway. 

 

Marlene passes her stack of plates over for Meadowes’ judgement.

 

“You’ve been busy,” Meadowes says, brows lifted as she surveys two ornate plates. “These are amazing.”

 

“I try,” Marlene says, face warm as she pushes up from the admittedly gross floor. Who knows when the last person was able to come down this aisle let alone clean it. She needs to get out of here. “We should try to find the others.”

 

“Sure,” Meadowes says, agreeably. 

 

She even gathers Marlene’s plates along with hers to stow in her basket. She’s…suspiciously nice. Marlene had assumed Meadowes was being nice in front of the brides-to-be but this? There’s no one to perform for here.

 

Just Marlene. 

 

“Okay,” Marlene echoes, trailing after Meadowes and trying to walk normally. Since when did she have to think to walk?

 

Being around Meadowes now is…different, is all.

 

Before, the ground between them had been charged with competition and fed by house rivalry. It had been familiar and reliable and easy. 

 

And after the camp and the lake and the accident…well. 

 

The ground had shifted between them into something warm and then that ground had been abruptly snatched away. It was easier for Marlene to pretend they had never shared any ground at all. 

 

But they had. Once. 

 

Marlene had been so close to her. Not close to beating her. Not close to losing to her. Not close to the idea of or being or pretending or any of the other bullshit. 

 

Marlene had had her safe within her palms and she’d dropped her on that cold unforgiving ground. 

 

And the air between them had remained frigid and competitive ever since. 

 

Until…this. Whatever this is.

 

Marlene remains quiet as they wander through the endless expanse of the store. She’s terrified she’ll say something she can’t take back. That she’ll ask a question she shouldn’t–or worse, that Meadowes would answer honestly. 

 

So she keeps her mouth shut and watches Meadowes. 

 

There’s a confidence in the way she carries herself, a certainty in her smile that she didn’t have before. She’s taller and Quidditch hardened and maybe it’s not that she’s bigger as much as she isn’t afraid to take up space anymore. 

 

She’s grown into herself.

 

And yes, Dorcas Meadowes is still heartstoppingly stunning. It’s terribly unfair. 

 

“Why’re you being so…nice?” Marlene asks, because the question is digging at her, sticking to her ribs and wrapping around her throat. She can’t think because Meadowes is being kind and thoughtful and downright pleasant and Marlene doesn’t know how to take it. 

 

“I’m a nice person,” Meadowes says with a wicked smile. 

 

“Sure,” Marlene drawls, disbelieving. “But not to me.”

 

“Would you believe me if I said I’ve moved past everything?” Meadowes asks, stopping to look Marlene in the eyes. She rubs at her forearm absently like it aches with an old wound. “It’s been years, McKinnon, don’t you think I’ve moved on?”

 

Marlene looks at her. And, yes, they’re both older now. Meadowes is softer around her eyes and sharper along her jaw. She has all the success life could offer and she’s living the life seventeen year old Marlene could only dream of. 

 

If Marlene were in her shoes—strong, beautiful, and making money doing what she loves—she could maybe have forgotten about that summer. 

 

But Meadowes isn’t Marlene. She’s sharper, more cunning, and much more willing to play the long game to get what she wants. 

 

If the world isn’t quite right for Marlene, she gets out of its way. If the world isn’t perfect for Meadowes, she moves the world. 

 

“Not even for a second,” Marlene says, searching for some kind of answer in Meadowes’ expression—some truth in the lines of her face or the shape of her eyes. 

 

All she sees is carefully crafted blankness. 

 

Fucking Slytherins. 

 

Meadowes opens her mouth to weave some sort of lie, when a shuffling followed by a crash sounds from behind Marlene. Before she can even turn to investigate, Meadowes gasps and tugs Marlene down the aisle in the opposite direction. 

 

“My luck cannot be this bad,” Meadowes hisses, grabbing Marlene by the elbow and yanking her into a booth filled with dolls in various states of distress. 

 

“You’re telling me,” Marlene hisses back, trying not to look at a porcelain doll with a cracked face in its dead eyes and failing. “Merlin’s beard, Meadowes, what did I do to deserve this torture?”

 

Meadowes whips around to look at Marlene, apparently taking in their tortuous circumstances for the first time, and winces with her whole body. 

 

“Okay, yeah, this is unfortunate,” Meadowes admits, scowling at the dolls as if they has personally offended her. Marlene swears she sees one of them blink out of the corner of her eye. 

 

Once again, she wishes desperately to be anywhere else in the world.

 

“Rita Skeeter is here,” Meadowes says, tugging Marlene deeper among the dolls and tucking them behind an ornate cabinet. 

 

On the one hand, they are surrounded by horrifying fucking dolls. On the other hand, Meadowes is leaning against her, one arm propped against the cabinet by Marlene’s head as she glances around the corner and it’s–she is…distracting to say the least. 

 

“The gossip rag lady?” Marlene manages to ask, only a little preoccupied by the way Meadowes’ braids fall in a curtain over her shoulder. It has everything to do with the fact that they obscure Marelene’s view of the haunted dolls and nothing else. 

 

“Yes,” Meadowes hisses with no small amount of venom.

 

“What–is she stalking you?” Marlene asks, attempting to peek around the corner to see the nosy reporter for herself. 

 

It’s terribly unfortunate that several things happen all at once.

 

Marlene pivots and slips on a loose piece of parchment on the floor. Meadowes reaches for her, catching her by the waist and Marlene snaps her hands forward to catch herself–effectively gripping Meadowes by the shoulders as they both tip treacherously.

 

Marlene’s eyes snag on the curve of Meadowes’ mouth as it drops open in surprise. She has the slightest gap between her front teeth. No news outlet ever managed to capture the exact perfect crookedness of it. 

 

And in that exact moment, the flashbulb of Rita fucking Skeeter’s camera immortalizes the incident forever.

 

“Isn’t this just lovely?” Skeeter simpers, her enchanted quill and camera floating behind her like some convoluted entourage. 

 

“Fuck you, Skeeter,” Meadowes sighs, righting Marlene and pinching the bridge of her nose with bone-deep resignation.

 

“Always a pleasure, Ms. Meadowes,” Skeeter replies, sickly sweet as she apparates from the store.

 

“What an asshole,” Marlene observes after a beat of stunned silence.

 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Meadowes says with a wry grin.

 

Marlene laughs despite herself at the insanity of it all and Meadowes joins in, a little helpless.

 

And for a moment they are not two rivals competing for victory, or two players on opposite sides of the field, or any of the million different people they’ve been to each other over the years. For a moment, they are just two people having a breach of sanity surrounded by haunted dolls and porcelain plates. 

 

For a moment, Marlene just laughs and grips Meadowes by the shoulder, feeling nothing but the bright light of joy between them.

 

~

 

For three days, the cover of The Prophet is filled with that picture. 

 

As much as she should hate it–should loathe the mere idea of them being together in any capacity, Marlene can’t stop staring at the picture every time she passes a newsstand. 

 

Mary won’t stop giving her significant looks involving a lot of eyebrow maneuvers. 

 

It doesn’t mean anything, no matter what Mary tries to imply. 

 

It doesn’t . 

 

~

 

On Christmas, Marlene almost murders her sister.

 

“It’s tradition,” Catherine argues, crossing her arms and tossing her hair and generally bristling all over like an aggravated hedgehog. “You can’t put it off forever.”

 

“You can take your tradition and shove it up your—“ Marlene starts, fingers twitching for her wand. 

 

“You two can’t go two minutes without coming to blows, can you?” Anthony interrupts, leaning against the doorway and rolling his eyes. “Play, don’t play, no one gives a fuck.”

 

“Dad would’ve—“ Catherine starts clearly gearing up for an argument. 

 

“Don’t,” Marlene and Anthony snap at once. 

 

For a moment the kitchen is silent save for the dripping of the faucet and the creaking of the house. Distantly, Marlene can hear Louis Armstrong filtering out from the record player in Mom’s bedroom. Her Dad’s favorite album. 

 

“I don’t want to play,” Marlene says finally, shrugging. “It’s not the same anymore for me.”

 

“It’s been years, Marls,” Catherine insists, stubborn as ever. “Don’t you miss it?”

 

Does she miss it?

 

Sure, she misses the weightlessness of flying, the invulnerability of defying gravity. She misses the early mornings and the ache in her muscles signifying a game well played. She misses the feel of a broom between her palms, of catching the edge of a quaffle with the tips of her fingers. 

 

She misses winning. She misses a lot of things. 

 

Most of all, Marlene misses the way she had felt before everything. 

 

There’s a sense within her of wrongness in touching a broom. Her body doesn’t fit right beneath the stretch of her jersey. Her hands shake when they graze the Quaffle. It’s ill fitting and wrong footed and disorienting. 

 

She isn’t the same person she was all those years ago, and no matter how much her family might want that girl back, she died that summer along with everything else. She can’t go back. 

 

She can’t play. 

 

“No,” Marlene says, and it’s only half a lie. “I don’t.”

 

Over the next hour, Marlene’s siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles file out the back door and into the expanse of the backyard. A makeshift Quidditch pitch has been thrown together with odds and ends from around the house. 

 

Marlene curls up on Catherine’s favorite armchair and fucks with the particular way she likes to arrange the pillows and throws. It’s petty and the best way to ignore the sounds of the match going on outside. 

 

“You look just like your father when you scowl like that,” Mom says, apropos nothing as she settles onto the armchair adjacent to Marlene. 

 

It’s not the first time someone made the connection—Marlene has always been the spitting image of her father. While her siblings got their mother’s dark hair and eyes, Marlene was a copy of her father’s light hair and blue eyes. Her dad used to call her his mini-me and tote her around on his shoulders to highlight the resemblance. 

 

Everyone was so proud of her just for existing, then. 

 

“I know,” Marlene sighs because she isn’t quite sure what to say to it now. 

 

Thank you!

 

Or,

 

I love being reminded of him every time I look in the mirror.

 

Nothing rings quite true. Nothing but the knowledge that it is the truth, whether she likes it or not. 

 

“I always like that Dorcas girl, you know?” Mom continues, clearly the queen of nonsequiturs, absently picking a loose thread from the quilt in her lap. “Very talented,” she glances at Marlene with a barely restrained grin. “Very pretty.”

 

Marlene groans and buries her face in her hands. 

 

“You should bring her around after the holidays,” she continues, blatantly ignoring Marlene’s attempt to disappear into the chair. 

 

“I’m not–” Marlene started desperately. 

 

“That Rita sure knows how to frame a shot,” Mom sighs, tipping her head toward the mantel over the fireplace. 

 

To Marlene’s immediate horror, she sees Mom has cut the picture from The Prophet to size and framed it for display. Honestly, and she means this sincerely, fuck her life. 

 

“Mom,” Marlene hisses with no small amount of horror. 

 

Her mom just smiles back at her, eyes glittering with mischief. “What?” She asks with a shrug. “It’s a good picture.”

 

“We aren’t together,” Marlene whispers like it’s some foul word. “We aren’t even friends .”

 

“You seem awfully friendly,” Mom counters with a sniff. 

 

“She doesn’t even like me,” Marlene argues, trying not to think about the way Meadowes had looked at her in the antique store. It almost seemed…fond. 

 

“So it’s not that you don’t like her ?” Mom asks, squinting at Marlene. 

 

“Mom,” Marlene snaps, face flushing as she glances at the doorway to ensure none of her family is eavesdropping on this frankly horrifying conversation. 

 

“Fine, fine,” Mom says, lifting her hands in surrender. “You don’t like each other and it’s all a huge misunderstanding.”

 

“Exactly,” Marlene sighs, slumping in her seat. 

 

“And it has nothing to do with Lily getting married?” Mom asks, shrugging when Marlene glares at her. “Love is complicated, is all.”

 

“I’m not in love,” Marlene snaps, eyes burning for no good reason.

 

“It’s not some horrible affliction,” Mom counters sharply before taking a deep breath and looking at Marlene with more gentleness than she deserves. “I know you never told me, but I always thought something was going on with the Evans girl. And I know how hard it is to love something that doesn’t love me back.”

 

“I–” Marlene starts, voice cracking right down the middle. 

 

“I know,” Mom says, reaching over and taking Marlene’s shaking hands between hers. 

 

Her hands are warm–weathered from work and wrinkled from time. Marlene and her mom have the same freckle on the back of their hands, and when they press them together like this, they are overlaid like some great eclipse. It’s familiar and her mom’s eyes are so irrevocably kind she can hardly bear it.

 

And she hasn’t told anyone, anything, ever. Mary has guessed and others have given her knowing looks but the truth of it, the ugly mangled mess of her heart, that has remained locked in her chest from the beginning.

 

“No one ever really loves me the way I love them,” Marlene whispers, hoarse and desperate to be understood. And it might not be fair but it feels true–as everyone she loves falls in love and moves forward, Marlene gets left behind. 

 

Musicians and poets croon endlessly about the great unifier that is love. To Marlene, all love has ever done for her is take.

 

“It’s too much,” Marlene says, face burning and wet with tears. “I’m too much.”

 

“No,” Mom says, slipping from her seat to kneel in front of Marlene and hold her wretched face between warm palms. “Listen to me carefully, love is never wasted. You and me, we love so big and so wide it can’t belong to a single person. We need friends and family and maybe also a partner if you ever find someone your actually friendly with.”

 

Marlene snorts and blinks away tears and Mom smiles up at her like she’s something wonderful. 

 

“You’re meant to love, Marlene,” Mom says and pulls Marlene into her arms. “In whatever way you can with whoever you think deserves it. It’s not a waste and you’re just enough—the love you give is enough. Just maybe make sure your spending some of that love on yourself too.”

 

People always say Marlene is just like her dad. Same sharp nose, wavy hair, and round eyes. But Marlene is truly a reflection of her mom, too. Same big heart, dry humor, and short temper. 

 

She always admired those things in her mom—it’s strange to find she has those traits in her bones too. 

 

This resemblance doesn’t sting. It settles some worn, aching part of her that felt she didn’t belong in this family. 

 

It makes her feel at home. 

 

She breathes, and the house exhales with her. 

Notes:

hi!

this chapter fought me every step of the way but i'm pretty happy with how it turned out. it's a little sadder than maybe a romcom denotes but these were the vibes the past month and i'm trying to be positive.

also!
marlene having a breakthrough?? right after i said she was in the pits of denial?? so proud of her

also!!
was thinking about chapter count last week and realized that bc i wrote this with a built in timer (months until the wedding) this is at least eight chapters long but it'll probably veer closer to ten bc i can't write anything without an epilogue and i might need an extra chapter to tie things up after the wedding. i dunno but i'm setting the total chapters at ten for now and we'll see where we end up

also!!!
i know i have marlene tagged as a curse breaker and she's kinda not?? but i don't know what the tag for "heals magical homes" is that doesn't sound like shit. also curse breaker was already a tag and i struggle enough on that front without pioneering new ones

also!!!!
if you've read i don't get a choice in the matter, then you probably know where i'm going with mary's mystery woman but i don't want to tag it bc it would spoil the surprise? i struggle between having little surprises and properly revealing everything in the tags but lets be real its a background ship that i love--you can figure it out. probably

anyways, i think weekly might be a bit much for me with everything that's going on, so in the spirit of transparency i'm gonna say to expect the next chapter in a month. it'll probably be out sooner but i'd rather you be pleasantly surprised than disappointed.

be the positivity you want to see in the world,

xoxo,
autumn