& what is a girl if not a pulsing thing

The Leaky Cauldron was not usually where Mary could be found hanging around on a Tuesday morning, and yet, here she was. She’d spent the first part of her morning dropping the girls off at Reginald’s parents’ house for the day, leaving them with her in-laws and a very stern be good as warning ( though she had little doubt they would be ). She still wasn’t back at work full-time yet, and was using her day off to get some much-needed shopping done in Diagon Alley, deciding to drop into the Leaky Cauldron quickly for some tea and a quick bite to eat ( she hadn’t realised she’d neglected breakfast until she’d already left the house, the hollow feeling following her around for the rest of the morning ).

She hadn’t even yet made it to the counter to order when she heard someone calling her name, eyes instantly tracking in the direction of the voice to settle on someone she was fairly certain shouldn’t be speaking it with such enthusiasm. She wasn’t afraid of Emma Vanity ( no, why would she be? That would simply be absurd ), but she hadn’t spoken to the woman in years, and for very good reason. The last time they’d been in the same room together had been at Mary’s wedding ( she’d seen countless films where the protagonist objects at a wedding – she just didn’t think people really did it ). Part of her felt sorry for Emma, but another, perhaps more petty, part of her was simply upset.

“Emma.” She says, hesitating in place like a deer trapped in headlights. She opens her mouth to say something to get herself out of the situation, but suddenly Emma is inviting her to sit, and her legs seem to be obliging all on their own ( she might not like the woman, but she’s certainly not rude enough to rebuff her entirely ). “It’s been a while.” She says awkwardly, before clearing her throat to try again, “Go on, then.”

Mary Macdonald’s name never belonged on Emma’s fickle, ever-changing and long list of friendships, even back at Hogwarts. They were never friends, but the Slytherin would argue that they were never enemies either. She didn’t understand how the other woman was perceiving the situation, but to her, things were simple. To her, things were always simple, especially when she had no ties to the situation she could pretend to forget in an instant. Perhaps, the burden of remembering fell heavier on Mary’s lips, but Emma’s spirit needed reconciliation. She couldn’t stand tension and wanted everything to be alright. 

Still, she regretted everything a moment later, when she realized she would have to actually open her mouth and address the situation. She hadn’t even thought of how exactly to do that. Still, she noticed the fact that the other person sitting at the table seemed more uncomfortable than her, and she was happy that she wasn’t Marry in that moment, regardless of how prettily Mary’s new surname rang. Things were long gone. Everything was gone. Perhaps all Emma wanted was to bring it back for a moment, even if just in form of a rushed apology she hadn’t even thought through. 

She didn’t go on -- not for a fairly long time. She just stared into a distant wall, trying to search for a right beginning. Still, Emma wasn’t the person to hesitate for long, even if she would be wrong. “Mary, look. Things are long buried, but it doesn’t change the fact that they were unfair to you. That I... perhaps left a bitter taste into your mouth on a day supposed to be nothing but honey and rose petals and other nice things I frankly don’t even understand all that well.” The position she was in was dreadful. She bit her tongue until the taste of iron replaced much more horrible words. “Fucking hell, Mary, if you prefer it that I pretend to never see any of you again on the street, then that’s fine, but I just thought it would be better, more mature... fairer to everybody, if we talked. I might be wrong. Just say the word and I’m done, erased.”

   the woman still looks as if she expects orpheus to launch a hex at her for existing in his presence. he elects not to comment on this, in case he makes things worse, instead turning his attention to the letter and mechanically running through casting every detection spell he knew - mostly protocol, some just for good measure - on the letter. it wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to sneak something deadly in through the post, but nothing seemed amiss, thankfully. 

   “ i see. just one moment, miss vanity. “ his attempt at a joke seemed to have worked, if for the wrong reason; it was a victory he would take. assuming she would be familiar with the protocol, he carefully opened the letter and scanned the interior, checking the envelope while he was at it. seeing nothing amiss, he re-sealed it and reached over to rummage around his drawers for the right stamp.

   “ then you’re braver than i. i have the utmost respect for auror mckinnon, mind you, “ he added, to fill the uncomfortable silence, “ but that respect includes not wanting to get on her bad side. in this line of work you get a very clear idea of what your colleagues are capable of, i find. “ finally finding what he was looking for, he stamped the envelope neatly and signed below the crimson ink. 

   “ everything looks to be in order, miss vanity. if you give me just a moment i’ll write up your receipt of delivery. is there anything else i can do for you today? “

“He’s not allowed to write back,” Emma snapped, as if gone from under a spell that kept her still, quiet and sweaty to that moment. It was a piece of information she didn’t doubt the man knew very well, but, for the first time, she was ready to voice an old concern of hers. This particular auror seemed like the right kind for this question. “I’m just worried that he doesn’t receive them. That I’ve been writing letters you’re burning after I leave. Does he get them? Can you promise me that?” Her eyes turned into two pleading beacons. 

The mention of Marlene, once again, brought a smile on her lips. There was some sort of familiarity that she both appreciated and found a little inappropriate -- but either way, thankful she was. “Yes, I don’t think I’ve met anyone who would purposefully pick a fight with her,” she sighed dreamily, though she could count at least a handful of people she shared the mark with and who would love to hex the hell out of her. Those details, however, had to remain unsaid. She simpered innocently as the thought passed.

The question caught her off guard. Although it was hardly the first time at the auror station, she never expected it when the process was done and she was supposed to walk away. Relief, but also a feeling of futility, overwhelmed her. She shook her head slightly. “No, unless you want to be super illegal and have a drink with me. Lord knows I need one. But I get the feeling that it’s not the greatest idea.” Emma shrugged it off, as her smile grew more cattish. “Don’t worry. I can handle drinking alone during the day. It’s a regular hobby by now. But thank you very much. It was very kind of you to handle my letter.”

Alice knew that she really shouldn’t have been reading the daily prophet here. She usually prided herself in being able to keep herself calm and collected. To be honest, she wasn’t managing too badly today. She just didn’t look very happy. And she figured it wasn’t surprising really. Her cousin’s little girl had been attacked as she slept. Even with the fact that that family had disowned her, Alice’s own child beng hunted has been well documented. It wouldn’t be surprising that she was reacting this way. She saw Emma approaching, even bfore she grabbed at the prophet she was reading. The brunette looked up, and then just shrugged. “I’m fine.” And not upset. She was angry, not upset. “I suppose we could talk though.”

“Okay, that sounds good. Come on, I’ll buy you a lemonade... if you like lemonade and you’re looking for something mellow. In any other case, I’ll buy you whatever else you want to drink. Leaky’s over here,” she pointed at her left, eager to sip from a strawberry milkshake herself. She didn’t know or understand what Alice was going through, but more than anything, she knew better than to leave her alone in that state in the middle of all kinds of people. She hadn’t picked up much from the Death Eaters, but one lesson she would never learn was that there was no room for weakness in the public eye. 

Sophia wasn’t one to go out and party. In school she had been all about sneaking off with the more popular kids and getting into all kinds of trouble but now she preferred a quieter existence. She was happy to be with Emma though. The girl was familiar to her and though she no longer wished to be on the same side as her she had nothing against the girl. She enjoyed her company even. Perhaps even considered her a friend. Being a death eater again terrified her though she didn’t wish to give up her freedom once more. “I’m ready to go out with you.” She agreed with a small smile as she reached up to fix her hair once more. It was a nervous habit and she found that she often had a hand upon her hair. “Your hair looks fantastic like always. I’m glad that we’re spending some time together.”

“You’re too sweet. I don’t know what to do with it,” Emma sighed in a moment of genuine, fond smiling at the other young woman. In an ideal world, the two would lean on each other’s shoulders, troubled by the same doubts and the same thoughts, but although there were still bridges to cross that neither of them would voice out loud, Emma still felt a kinship, perhaps recognized the way Sophia’s smile faded at times and just related. “I’m happy too. It was about time. We’ve both been a little sad for too long, I think.” She gently let her hand fall on the other’s shoulder as the two were prepared to go in. “Let’s get uncharacteristically drunk. It’s a must, at least once in a lifetime.”

Diagon Alley wasn’t precisely the ideal place for strong reactions -- she knew that and had fallen into that trap many times before, crying on her way home. For that, Emma felt like she had to do something about Alice holding a newspaper and practically burning holes through it with her eyes. Hoping she wouldn’t startle her too badly, she grabbed one hand grasping tightly the piece of paper. “Alice. Do you need to talk to someone? You appear more than upset. We could go somewhere more private...”

Without truly thinking, Emma approached her former colleague with a bright smile. “Oh, wow, he grew up so big,” she commented, delighted, wanting nothing more than to say a few nice words. “He looks just like James.” But then, without as much as foreseeing it, she dropped the bomb, not realizing she had said a blunter until after the words echoed in her ears too. The smile faltered into a concerned look, deciding to wait for Lily’s reaction before saying any more stupid things. 

Professor McGonagall always managed to turn her stomach upside down. For reasons unknown, Emma felt absorbed, completely taken aback whenever she entered a classroom, and although the sight of her should have softened up after Hogwarts, it hit similarly. She was holding a handful of potion ingredients as she caught a glimpse of her former professor and, despite wanting nothing more than to appear collected and neutral, it was inevitable Emma dropped the fullest jar she had in her hands. 

“Fuck,” she breathed out, immediately regretting even that. “I mean, good afternoon, profess-ssor,” she was quick to correct herself, but the dash of rosiness hadn’t left her cheeks. “What a mess, huh?” A sea of clumsiness was ready to drown her, but her only lifeboat was feigned nonchalance, in this case. “I’ll... I’ll clean, don’t worry.” Emma was careful placing the rest of the products on the ground, away from the liquid spilled from the jar, before awkwardly drawing out her wand. Even the appropriate spell was escaping her memory in that moment, but she didn’t hesitate giving McGonagall a messy, but honest simper.

As soon as Emma has heard of those happened the other night, during the St. Mungo’s Gala, she knew she had to reach out. At the same time, she objectively knew many other people with even a slight attachment towards Elizabeth or her daughter would crowd the domain once again showing their uncalled for compassion and attention, so she didn’t want to follow their example and perhaps bother the mother in such delicate times. Instead, she took her best quill and a piece of parchment and started to write.

Elizabeth,

The news of little Liza being attacked struck like Stupefy, but I cannot imagine what it did to you. Being a mother is a sorrow past my understanding, but I would like you to know that I’m here for you, if you do need anything. Now, I imagine you’re no longer in the mood for visits after the extended party ended up the way it did, but whenever and if you want to see me, please let me know.

As usual, my schedule is ready to entirely depend on you. Please give me some good news regarding your daughter’s situation. Is the alright? What kind of attack was it? More important questions cannot be asked in a letter. You never know who reads it first. 

Yours and worried,

Emma V.

“The gossip column is just my side project” Rita mused with a shrug. Sure the gossip column had been her main thing when she’d graduated hogwarts. But now, she only truly wrote it in because she enjoyed it. What she enjoyed more was the juicy, drama filled big headliners. In terms of Elizabeth and Liza. “I made it very clear to my boss I don’t write about my family. Elizabeth is like my sister. She’s going through enough trauma as it is. I won’t have her name, nor Liza’s slung across the prophet” And that was all she would say on the matter. She didn’t write about Elizabeth full stop. Of course, shed mentioned Stephen once or twice, but only words that her friend approved of. “That’s what sleeping potions are for darling” She teased, a little laugh on her lips. “But I dont have any trouble sleeping….. apart from when there’s more fun to be had by staying awake”

“Glad to hear,” Emma deadpanned, though the conversation was already exhausting her. Merlin, she’d forgotten how much of an energetic vampire the blonde could be at times. But what struck her even more were the last words, making her flinch as she recognized the same mindset in herself in certain cases. It was odd to think that the two shared the same idea, even if in something as irrelevant as simply going to sleep. “Well, Rita, what can I say? My head hurts bad enough. I think it’s sufficient Rita Skeeter conversation for the whole month. But good luck with the boring people you do want to write about, as opposite to the interesting people you don’t want to write about because they’re your, um, sisters.”

When in need of a smoke and a terrible piece of advice, Emma found herself on the porch of the Carrow family, by now used to spontaneous visits (she hoped). “Obliviate me right this second,” she sighed, dramatic as usual, but not without a bit of self-irony and humor. “Name one party that went worse than this St. Mungo’s silly Gala. I’ll wait.” It wasn’t even true. She could name, on spot, more fiascos than she would like to admit. “Also, please tell me you did not hurt Lizzie Nott’s daughter just because you’re jealous of her hair. Please.” She knew it wasn’t Alecto’s style to go after family when having a personal feud and, even more, she knew it wasn’t about hair, but it was Emma’s attempt at diffusing the tension and making it sound more childish and pointless.  

“Not everyone.…” Rita mused, a little smirk on her lips, and not letting any more information out. On the contary she actually has a close few friends that she found very interesting. The thing was, she had vowed to never write anything scandelous about Ophelia nor Elizabeth. So that didn’t make her job any more interesting. She just raised an eyebrow at her former friend. She figured that there was supposed to be some sort of insult within Emma’s words, but Rita honestly didn’t really care. “And?” She mused with a shrug. “I wouldn’t be a journalist if I cared about what people thought of me” Nobody really liked a journalist, and she knew some people she consorted with only did so to keep her from writing from them. She was in a powerful position, and she had worked hard to get there. She wasn’t going to let petty little remarks from people that she didn’t care about bother her. “The people that matter like me, and that’s all I give a damn about”

“Is the headline on an attacked child not intriguing enough? Or, remind me, were you writing for the gossip column?” Emma smiled for herself, quite enjoying the irony of it. “Quite fitting.” In a way, if even someone as lowly as Rita Skeeter could find something to do with her life that suited her, even in some twisted way, why couldn’t she find anything on that earth to be good at? But those were personal thoughts she tried to shake off in front of vipers like her former dorm mate. “Don’t worry, Rita, I wasn’t imagining you care what people say about you. Because if you did, I bet you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. Which I don’t wish for you. Everyone deserves a good sleep from time to time.”

It was a lovely, hangover flavored morning that she decided to spend alone, at a table with flowers on it, eating something soft and cooked -- which was more than she could eat at home and, at the same time, more than she could afford most mornings. Still, today, she felt productive, different, alive. She decided to keep moving early, despite the headache. Even when she saw Mary Cattermole, she didn’t do more than flinch for a moment, replacing surprise with a small smile --just enough not to be impertinent or feigned. 

It took her a moment to get the words out of her throat, but it seemed as if she was stronger in that particular morning. “Mary!” The name felt forbidden on her tongue. A mix of shame and personal bitterness made it difficult to swallow. They hadn’t spoken since the incident and Emma never felt the need to, until now. “Mary, please take a seat. I’d like to talk to you.” Without a speech prepared or a plan of action, she just figured it was best to solve possible conflicts even if spontaneously. The desire was odd and uncharacteristic, but the sight of Mary did inspire that.

Still applying lipstick without being able to see her reflection, Emma was vibrating at the thought of a night out, needing one badly despite having attended a party only a few days ago. The place she chose was questionable enough to ensure having a great time for the night. Or at least they wouldn’t get bored, which was essentially as good as having fun. “Is my hair looking decent?” she inquired, preparing to go inside. “Or, better yet, are you prepared for DE girls night out?” The joke made Emma uncomfortable -- and she was the one to make it, but still, adrenaline and enthusiasm were taking the best of her.

Going out was an art on its own for Emma Vanity, who found it incredibly pleasing to pick a pub, an outfit, two other wixen she knew to invite to join her for the night. The mixes were always different, because she feared she would get bored if she saw too much of the same location or if she went out two times in a row with the same person. Still, the reasons behind her choices as soon as she stepped into shadier places had nothing to do with some inner darkness. She frequented Knockturn Alley pubs because they were exciting and filled with interesting people, not to hide among them, like a criminal (although she sometimes felt as such -- and it wasn’t even far from the objective truth).

However, Emma didn’t have a radar for the simplest of things. In a room full of people who would smirk when approached by her, she would always pick the auror on duty or the married guy. That night didn’t stray from the rule. After a decent number of alcoholic beverages, even a popular face like Kingsley becomes labeled as the cool mysterious guy who doesn’t seem to have fun... unless I go over there and introduce myself as Fun. Without hesitation, without considering what might go wrong, she approached mercilessly. “I have a very special deal to propose here. I’ll buy you a drink and then you’ll dance with me. You look like someone who dances well and, trust me, I really need a good spin.” She looked around with nonchalance. “And there’s no one else I suspect would provide.” There they were, the many words she would regret in the morning, even if she didn’t remember the interlocutor.