Chasing.
Mark stops in midstep outside the Gryffindor common room. The portrait of the Fat Lady eyes him up wearily as though he might lash out and attack her at a moments notice. He wants to do nothing but collapse against the cold stone of the walls around them but he swears he hears his mother’s voice in his head as she lectures him, telling him what a bad idea it was and what wrinkles it would leave in his dress robes. Instead he clears his throat, the nerves evident in his movements as he pulls at the lapels of his jacket and sniffles. In his hands are a bouquet of lilies, another suggestion by his mom, Mark swears that she watches too many muggle dramas but he can’t deny her anything.
Instead he pulls his phone out of the pocket of his jacket and checks the messages there for the fifth time. He’s early he knows, and as the minutes tick down to the meeting time, Mark runs his hands through his hair, hoping to smooth out any stray pieces.
