REBEL, REBEL

date/time: october 30, 8pm

status: closed to @marleneonfire

“Okay, so call me the oblivious muggleborn or whatever- but what exactly does one wear to a Samhaim Celebration?” Stepping out of their closet they plop a pile of various robes and costumes onto their bed beside Marlene. This had been their first year invited to Lovegood’s infamous celebration, and based off simply the stories alone they knew trying to pass with a simple pair of antlers, or some moss woven into a skirt just wouldn’t make the cut. Chewing on their bottom lip, they rummage through the pile, looking for anything that screamed ‘swamp witch chic’ but came up empty handed. 

“I mean, I get it’s supposed to be like bones, and sticks, and stuff, but how exactly do you pull that off without looking like you’d just rolled around in a ditch and slapped a mask on?” 

time: late evening 

status: closed to @pcterpcttigrew​

The news had spread like wildfire once it hit the right ears. Peter Pettigrew, the infamous traitor of the Order, had returned. While most speculated his true intentions, and sneered at the very mention of the rat’s name, Mary saw an opportunity. The Dark Mark had been their white whale for the last decade, the one puzzle they itched to try to solve, but never had the opportunity to even attempt it. Those they knew who had the mark were all spies, who needed it in order to keep their cover. Those who would have liked to get rid of it, never would have had the opportunity to make it over the border without Riddle knowing it- that was until Pettigrew anyway. 

It took only a few words of kindness and a warm smile to talk one of the castle’s house elves into pointing them in the direction of the former Death Eater. Stepping through the kitchen doors his frame stood out immediately, being a couple feet taller compared to the dozens of elves scurrying about the kitchen. It wasn’t until then, as their eyes landed on the familiar face did they realize they hadn’t exactly planned for what to say to him. 

He looked so different compared to the wix they’d once known- although “know” may have been an overstatement. He was a few years their senior, one of the infamous marauders who were practically gryffindor royalty for those their age. They could remember in their third year even carrying a bit of a school kid crush on the older wix, a fact they were teased about endlessly by their friends who all drooled over James or Sirius. They hadn’t minded though, part of the whole charm was that he was the outsider in such a notorious circle of friends. Looking at him now, they still saw that outsider, although gone was rambunctious teen they once idolized, replaced with a haunted adult with the burden of mistakes visibly weighing on his shoulders. 

Figuring there wasn’t exactly a right way to approach him, they pushed themself forward not stopping until they were standing directly in front of the small table he was sitting at. “Peter Pettigrew, right?” they ask, before quickly answering themself, “Of course you are.” Pulling out one of the chairs designed for a creature clearly half their size, they sit down across from him. “I’m Mary MacDonald- yes that Mary,” they add, “and yes the curse is still intact despite the whole cursebreaker thing.” Lifting up their good arm they give a pat to their gloved one, which rested frozen against their side. “But I’m not here about my curse,” they grin, “I’m here about your’s.”