Dorcas Meadowes

Cora hadn’t even realized that Dorcas had heard her speak, too focused on getting her wand out and glancing around to try and take stock of what all was happening around them, to try and decide what to do first. It was only when Dorcas wrenched her hand away from Cora that she realized that she had still been holding the other girls hand, and that the other had heard her. She rolled her eyes at the snarl, but lifted her wand up a bit more from where it was at her side, giving Dorcas a glare.

“Of course it’s why I came, why do you insist on being such a jerk?” She snapped out at Dorcas in return. There was no hint of doubt on Cora’s face, or in her actions. She had been training and doing all that she could so that she could help, and being in Diagon Alley had helped change that, and her, for battle. Was she still slightly scared? Of course she was. But was she ready to help, and to do whatever it took? Absolutely. Even if that meant having to look her relatives in the face and fight them.

She was sure that someone had noticed them already, and quickly muttered out a shield charm to block the both of them for a moment, just in case anyone decided to throw a spell their way. It was also, she hoped, a balm for Dorcas, to see that she would help to protect the other girl and also be willing to fight along side her. She wasn’t sure that Dorcas would ever understand that she was on her side and wanted to help, but she supposed that it wouldn’t hurt to keep trying to prove it to her.

“Do you want to make our way across here back to back, or would you rather run off headfirst into danger on your own?” She asked her after a pause, “Because I will work with you. But if you’d rather run off, don’t go getting yourself killed.”

.

“You’re the one who was a jerk first,” Dorcas retorted, which might be childish but was also true. She wasted another second on scowling at Cora, then turned away from the other witch with a grumpy stomp that made her curls bounce. There were more important things to focus on right now than Cora Greengrass -- not that she was likely to see it that way...

Ah yes, there was the condescending attitude that Dorcas remembered so well, right on schedule. She rolled her eyes. Even Moody was less of an arse about it, and he at least had reason to regularly treat everyone around him like an idiot. What was Cora’s excuse? Oh right, her pristine pretty pure blood that made her somehow so much better and smarter than everybody else, to the point where even when she asked for help understanding something she didn’t, she didn’t actually want it. Everyone else was far, far too lowly for the great Cora Greengrass to listen to! Especially Dorcas!

“Don’t act like you’re a dueling master talking to an idiot child,” Dorcas growled between her teeth. She kept half an inkling of awareness on Cora, just in case the other witch chose now to betray them all by flinging a hex at Doracs’s back; it wasn’t hard to split her attention like that, even when she was scanning the room for threats. It was no different from being on the Quidditch pitch, although admittedly a Bludger didn’t hurt nearly as much as a Curse if it slipped past one’s guard. Cora was just another opposing Beater, Dorcas decided; that was the best way to think about her. And if she raised her Bat (her wand) to take a swing at Dorcas, she’d make her regret it.

“I’ve been doing this longer than you and better than you. I hexed Voldemort.” True, she had lost that duel -- but everyone lost in duels against Voldemort. Dorcas had hexed him and lived, and that was more than Cora could say. Not that Dorcas expected the snobby, arrogant toerag to acknowledge any such reality. No, Cora would probably start prattling about how she would have handled things if she had been the one to fight Voldemort (not that she ever would, given her scorn at the idea of running “headfirst into danger,” never mind that that was what they had come her to do...) and how she would have obviously been able to defeat him in two or three spells at most, silly child, should have let me do it instead blah blah blah...

“You can come with me if you want,” Dorcas added, because while she’d love to free herself of Cora’s presence (being around Cora felt like having a bit of Toothflossing Stringmint stuck between her teeth: thrashing and tugging as it tried to get loose) she wasn’t sure she wanted Cora to be free of hers, free to go off and do whatever it was she’d come here to do (since it wasn’t to “run headfirst into danger” it had to be for something else) such as betray them to Voldemort and his Death Eaters. “But don’t get in my way.” Everyone that Dorcas could see looked like a victim, running and stumbling and screaming with fear all over their faces, but she knew there had to be Death Eaters here; there had to be a reason they were screaming. She pushed forward against the tide of fleeing bodies, looking for the source of the threat that propelled them.

“And don’t keep yammering on about how brilliant you are and the rest of us sorry idiot suckers should just put you in charge already, yadda yadda,” she continued, almost more to herself than to Cora; she wasn’t sure if the other witch was even following her. Dorcas wasn’t running, after all, but she was going headfirst towards the danger. That was why she’d come after all! “This isn’t some fancy garden party where we need you to tell us what fork’s inexplicably inappropriate to use -- and remember, I know you can’t even handle that without screaming for help!” she added sharply, more annoyed still with herself for being taken-in by Cora’s pretense of hapless sweetness when she was really just another nasty snob. “So keep your snooty, patronizing mouth shut, or find someone else to simper at. Maybe somebody in a silver mask,” Dorcas added in a mutter as she crouched down beside Lucius Malfoy’s stupid fountain, blinking against the spray to fix her sights on a black-robed target. “I hear they like that sort of thing.”

arabellafiggaf​:

While Arabella understood that it must’ve been frustrating to be looked at by so many Healers, as Dorcas herself had put it, she still thought it was a small price to pay for surviving an encounter with Voldemort. In fact, Dorcas didn’t seem any more aware of her own mortality, as Arabella had perhaps hoped; instead, she just seemed to have decided to be petulant. Although Arabella supposed that was where she came in. “That’s good,” she nodded, almost comically impassive in contrast to Dorcas’ tone. It wasn’t a result of indifference, but she also had no intention of squabbling over something like this. “I thought as much but it’s best to not assume, isn’t it? In any case, I really am relieved you’re feeling better. These attacks…” she trailed off for a moment, trying to find the words. In the end, the best she could offer was another small smile. “So many people getting hurt, it doesn’t get easier to watch.”

Because that was what she did for the most part. For all she tried to be useful, in battle she was a spectator at best, a hindrance at worst – she didn’t kid herself about that. However, helplessness itself didn’t do much. So she’d learnt to channel it into action instead. And now taking action meant trying to prevent Dorcas from going back to those Healers so soon again. She didn’t need to be a witch to do that, though, and the insinuation that she did had a light frown settle on her face. “I’m not offering to cast a spell, am I? I’m offering to listen.” As for the Inner Circle, in Arabella’s opinion Order members often tended to forget that it wasn’t some exclusive club but instead just a means to facilitate decision-making and enforce at least some level of security. She certainly didn’t need to be in it for her words to be heard, and she knew that the reason for Dorcas’ not to be heard wasn’t that she wasn’t in the circle either. “In the end, we all have the same goal. If your ideas help reach that then of course I want to help. And if I can’t, then we find someone who can. It’s very simple, really.”

Dorcas immediately felt contrition race through her -- a feeling that was much akin to being dosed with icy water, but without the potential amusement-value that such incidents usually carried -- as Arabella spoke about her concerns, about the difficulty of watching people get hurt. Dorcas felt like a selfish little child, consumed with her own petty irritations while Arabella was focusing on the bigger picture of injured innocents...

She squirmed in her seat and said, “Uh, yeah. It’s awful.” The words were genuine, but they came out sounding more like an afterthought as Dorcas tried to brush-past her own feelings of inadequacy. She forced herself to sit-up out of her slump and say brightly, “But that’s why we’re here, right? Because we don’t want to watch it. We want to stop it. So...” She wasn’t sure where she was going with that, so she ended with an awkward shrug.

She wasn’t sure where Arabella was going with her offer to listen, either -- wasn’t sure how her listening would do anything to help Dorcas’s ideas reach anyone else -- but then, Arabella had been in the Order for much longer than Dorcas. (She had also probably done less to disappoint people like Caradoc and Moody.) Maybe -- hopefully -- that meant she was better positioned to pass along Dorcas’s thoughts...and at least she wanted to listen. That was more than anyone in the Inner Circle -- or most of the rest of the Order -- was interested in.

arabellafiggaf​:

There was something very endearing and at the same time melancholic about Dorcas’ fire. It was just so present, even now, even in a casual conversation, and for a short moment, Arabella didn’t know what to do with it. She blinked at Dorcas, once, twice. Then the moment passed, and at least for now, she chose to put the melancholy aside. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said as she finally moved to sit down. Her smile was faint but true, and it didn’t falter when faced with Dorcas’ unenthused response; Arabella had heard other people talk about her recovery, but it was always different hearing it straight from the person themself. “Has anyone other than Beny had a look at you? I know Emmeline has… other issues and I don’t doubt Benjy’s skills, but one can never be too careful, can they?”

Perhaps not a sentiment Dorcas agreed with, she realised as soon as the words had left her lips. It did bring her to the next point rather neatly, though. “I’m not here to lecture you,” she felt the need to clarify. “It’s the opposite, actually – I know you have opinions and ideas and I realise that we haven’t been the best at listening. I want to try to fix that.” She wondered how much of their talk Benjy had shared with Dorcas. Not that it mattered terribly much, either way; the same things she’d said to him she also intended to say to Dorcas.

Dorcas bristled. It was more instinct than personal, the automatic response to someone maligning or doubting any of her friends. “Yes, actually,” she retorted hotly. “Mum and dad took me to St. Mungo’s, where Benjy also works, remember?” She folded her arms, now more sulky than angry as she lamented, “I’ve been looked at by so many Healers.” She deflated still more and added with a sigh, “So many.”

That was one benefit to her very public fight with Voldemort: as opposed to most injuries obtained in activities on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix, there was no need for -- nor, indeed, any chance of -- trying to keep these a secret or come up with some other excuse for them. Everyone knew she had fought Voldemort. Everyone knew she had gotten hurt. The Daily Prophet had interviewed her twice, and probably would have interviewed her again if she had given them answers more along the lines of what they wanted to hear (and had been less distracted looking around as though Ainsley Abbott were going to pop out of hiding and challenge her to a duel mid-quote).

coragreengrass​:

Cora had been spending quite a bit of time at Headquarters; both as an effort to feel like she actually belonged, and because being around her family was getting more and more difficult as time went on. Not that being in the same room as Dorcas Meadowes ever made her feel welcome or like she belonged, but Cora was finding more ways to ignore the girl and not let her get on her nerves. She had just looked up from some work she was doing, when she saw the patronus and scrambled up to go and see what was going on.

She was leaning against the wall as it came in, watching and trying to place who’s patronus it was, and processing that the voice was Severus’, only to fully understand the message. For a moment, it felt as if her heart had stopped, as if she were hearing it from far away… and then it cut off and she bit her bottom lip sharply, because she knew what that had to mean. Things seemed to descend into chaos then, and Cora felt frozen for the moment.

Her hand reached, almost absently, almost desperately, for something to hold onto. She’d been seeking maybe the table to steady herself, or a chair to hold onto while she processed and got her wand out. Certainty it wasn’t for another’s hand, because she still felt as if none of them truly wanted her there, and she didn’t want to be seen as weak, especially not like a time during this. The last thing she wanted was to give any of them an excuse to tell her off.

A hand had found hers, and she didn’t even realize what was happening until there was a crack and they were apperating into the Ministry. The wards were down, had someone said something about that that she’d missed? She clung to the hand tightly for a moment, seeking the solidarity and the comfort in it, in knowing that they were off to fight, and they had to have each other’s backs in this, in making sure the Death Eaters were finally taken down…

Until she looked up as she pulled her own wand out, and realized the hand she’d been holding belonged to, of all people….

“Dorcas Meadowes, of course,” she muttered, more to herself than to the other girl.

Dorcas was already looking for a target for her first spell -- for her rage, for her grief -- her blurry eyes scanning the crowded, frantic atrium, her mind on thoughts of nothing but the battle to come and the loss in her heart when she heard her name. It was so quiet she almost thought she’d imagined it -- over the sound of screams and spells and shattering stone, the mutter was barely audible in her ears -- but the vitriol in the words was too real for any passing fancy to encompass.

She turned and only then realized whose hand it was she had grabbed, whose body she had carried with her to the Ministry: Cordelia Greengrass.

For a moment (a dangerous moment, but fortunately no enemies seemed to have noticed them yet to take advantage) Dorcas froze, gaping. It felt like it had been months since thoughts of the other witch had even crossed her mind, although in truth it had barely been six weeks since their bitter snarling match in the lost and much-lamented Potter Estate. It was just that so much had happened since. She’d faced Voldemort head-on and lived; she’d seen her beloved Diagon Alley in flames; and Mister Fortescue had died because she hadn’t been fast enough to stop those who wanted to harm him. She hardly felt like the same Dorcas Meadowes she had been in the early days of March.

Cora had become practically insignificant in the interim. She was easy to dismiss because she was easy to put in a neat little box: just another snooty pure-blood. Dorcas had written her off as exactly like all those girls at Hogwarts who had been mean to Emma after her (awful) fiance had been killed. Cordelia probably thought Antonin Mulciber had been a dashing gent too; had probably gone to his funeral and sighed and turned her nose up at Emma’s tears... Which meant she wasn’t worth thinking about. Not once Maddy had come along, anyway. That might have had more to do with Dorcas’s quick dismissal of Cordelia as being worth stewing-over than any enforced maturity resulting from the trauma of the intervening weeks...

But right now, Cordelia was not so dismissable. Right now, they were standing together hand-in-hand in the midst of a sudden Death Eater attack -- just like they had been the first time they had met, when Dorcas had so foolishly thought that Cordelia’s fear meant that she was someone worth saving; meant she was an ally worth having. Now she knew better, but that hadn’t stopped her from reaching-out without thinking and grabbing her again. Now she knew better, but here they stood once again, and once again Dorcas had no one to blame but herself.

She glowered and wrenched her hand away and snarled, “What do you want? Get your wand up. Get ready to fight -- isn’t that why you came?”

arabellafiggaf​:

Whatever she might’ve thought about Dorcas’ methods and ideas, it certainly didn’t translate to anything personal against Dorcas herself; Arabella cared for her as much as she cared for anyone brave and honourable enough to join the fight. And so upon hearing about what Dorcas had had to face during that attack – what, not who, because anyone capable of this much evil had given up on any humanity they might’ve had – she’d been concerned. Still was. And for all the other agenda she had to want to speak with Dorcas, wanting to check up on her wasn’t just an excuse.

But while Arabella hadn’t expected enthusiasm, necessarily, she also hadn’t expected to have a book thrown at her. “That’s okay,” she said, bending down to pick up the book, throwing a quick look at the cover. “Was it not good or is this a bad time? Because I was actually hoping to have a quick word if you don’t mind.” She took a moment to also look at Dorcas, curled up in her chair, seeming anything but relaxed. Which wasn’t a surprise, all things considered.

And although Arabella doubted she’d appreciate hearing the same questions she probably already got on a daily basis, she had to ask. “Are you feeling better? I wanted to check up on you earlier, but I didn’t get the chance.”

Dorcas Meadowes had never been the sort of witch to stand on her dignity, so she made no effort to pretend to be anything but eager for the distraction that Arabella offered her. “Please!” she said, waving the woman to a seat nearby, “Absolutely I’ve got time for a quick word! Or a dozen, even!” Given the speed at which Dorcas generally spoke, she had time for a great deal more than that, but she didn’t think Arabella was the sort to measure them out literally. (Severus probably would have, just to be contrary.) Dorcas hoped not, anyway; if Arabella was going to offer her a distraction on which to focus, it would be better if it was one that would consume more than a few seconds of this interminable recovery time.

But of course, that was exactly what Arabella wanted to talk about: Dorcas’s recovery. One would think she was the first person who’d ever had Voldemort’s wand turned on them personally! That was very much not the case, yet everybody still fussed.

LOCATION: House of Bones / Ministry of Magic DATE: May 2, 1982 OPEN to ONE RESPONDENT

The sight of an unfamiliar patronus wasn’t exactly startling to Dorcas; the Order used the silvery projections for communication, after all, and she didn’t know them all by sight. It wasn’t like she needed to: you couldn’t exactly fake the voice that came out of a patronus, the words spoken being distilled from thought itself in a way -- and besides, as far as she knew no one outside the Order of the Phoenix even knew how to make them speak.

Dorcas thought she remembered somebody having a doe anyway, although she wasn’t sure quite who off the top of her head -- maybe one of the Longbottoms? Still, even though she wasn’t startled, Dorcas did race down the hall to hear what message the doe carried. It might be something exciting!

She came into the room just in time to hear the unmistakable acerbic click of Severus’s words and she grinned at the sound of her friend -- but then the grin froze, slipping into a rictus of horror instead, as she processed what he was saying: Voldemort. The Ministry of Magic. An attack, already underway. No warning, no chance to tell them sooner. He’d slipped away as soon as he could, knew he was breaking his cover but the stakes were too high...

The message cut-off in the middle, the patronus flaring and then disintegration -- not fading the way they usually did when dispelled or overwhelmed, but failing in a sudden cascade of nothingness. Dorcas didn’t realize what it meant -- but some part of her did.

Sevie, no! she wanted to scream, but the words choked-off in her throat and burned her eyes instead, hot and stinging and strangling. She barely heard what came next for the rushing in her ears and the hollow swooping pit of loss opening in her stomach like a sinkhole. Sevie was dead. Voldemort was at the Ministry.

Dorcas didn’t wait for instructions, for coordination; everything was chaos anyway. She reached out and felt a hand fumble its way into hers; the other already held her wand. She didn’t stop to think about the Apparition Wards that should have stopped her; had she overheard someone say something about them being down in the atrium, or was she just acting on instinct? It hardly mattered; her thoughts were all flyaway fragments of loss and horror and rage and fear and the cold, hard knowledge that one way or another this was it.

APRIL 1982: ONCE BURNED...

Facing Voldemort head-on had affected more than just Dorcas’s physical well-being; those injuries, while brutal, had eventually healed. The damage done to her beloved Diagon Alley left a deeper scar on her heart; that was her home she’d had to watch burn, the one place in the world that was supposed to always be safe. But then the Death Eaters had come; then Voldemort had come. She’d fought, and that should have been enough -- but the Dark Lord had batted her away like some kind of fly.

Like something that hardly mattered.

Dorcas refused to be dismissed. She threw herself into her dueling lessons with Branwen and Severus with the same enthusiasm as ever, but twice as much focus. The flighty, chattering, irrepressibly cheerful girl wasn’t gone -- but she was subsumed. This Dorcas was every bit as devoted to the cause of the Order of the Phoenix as she had been that day last October when she had accidentally immolated herself while attempting to bring the hopeful flame of the Order’s existence to the world...but now she understood that a few sparks weren’t enough to make a difference. She couldn’t just scrawl the letters of her pain in the air and think that would somehow change the world.

If she wanted anything to change, she had to set the sky on fire.

APRIL 1982: SPREADING WINGS

On the homefront, things had changed for Dorcas as well: she moved-out of the little flat over Flourish & Blotts where she had grown-up and moved in to a new one with her friend BENJY FENWICK. It had been his idea, to grant them both a bit more independence -- and thus make it easier for them to attend to Order matters without having to constantly explains their absences to their respective parents -- but after the battle in Diagon Alley, the move became even more important to her.

She had exposed herself, if not necessarily as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, then as a definitive enemy of the Dark Lord. There was no proof to tie her to the Order (she could just as easily have charged down Voldemort as an angry shopkeeper defending her home as as a member of the vigilante organization; that claim was what kept the Ministry of Magic from prying afterwards) but she knew it didn’t matter: whether she was known or suspected to be a Phoenix or not, she was marked. The DEATH EATERS would be watching her...which meant moving out of her parents’ home was the best way to keep them safe. 

If someone in a silver mask wanted to come and try to kill her for having the audacity to throw a hex at their precious Dark Lord, so be it; Dorcas would face them down unafraid. But coming home to find her parents’ dead bodies on the floor was something else entirely, and the attack on Diagon Alley had brought home to Dorcas for the first time the very real possibility that she might be courting danger for more than just herself.

Dorcas wasn’t the only one spreading her wings, of course...but since Benjy knew how well (or more accurately, not well) she got along with MADDY WARREN, he kept quiet about his burgeoning reconciliation with his former friend. If Dorcas ever suspected her new roommate of being less than forthcoming on certain subjects, it was easily ignored. He was her friend, after all. That meant he told her everything...just like she did him...

APRIL 1982: KINDLING FLAMES

There were two bright notes -- of disparate type -- that alleviated spring’s darkness:

EMMA VANITY, her best friend since the day that Dorcas discovered the other witch crying in a Hogwarts loo, was now her girlfriend. Dorcas was over-the-moon-elated, and not just for her own happiness: a side-effect of their romance was that Emma had finally had-it-out with her family for (Dorcas hoped) good, and she had shucked-off their shackles to stand strong and proud and free of the Vanitys. Dorcas couldn’t have been prouder...or happier.

MARY MACDONALD, who in Dorcas’s eyes was quickly becoming the most (only) useful member of the Inner Circle, had recruited Dorcas to assist in pushing the Order to take a more active role in the war. The fallout from the attack on Diagon Alley had derailed some aspects of their scheme -- the Order was too busy to listen to petitions like that, and there were hopes they might finally be starting to take some action anyway...but not enough, and not fast enough, for Mary and Dorcas. So they acted on their own.

Successfully dragging Emlen Lowe in to face the music for his murder of Florean Fortescue (unofficially, at least; handing him over to the Order wouldn’t lead to Azkaban but it was something) alongside once-and-future-ally FRANK LONGBOTTOM wasn’t actually connected to her off-the-books activities with Mary, but it fell into the same category for Dorcas. It was all action, all devoted to the cause of ending -- and winning -- the war. So what if it was illegal? The Order was illegal! So what if the Order didn’t know about it? Mary knew about it, and she was in the Inner Circle! So what if she hardly told her friends about most of it? She was just keeping them safe.

WOOD: Yew CORE: Dragon Heartstring LENGTH: 101/2 inches TYPE: stout and springy WAND-HAND: Left

DRAGON HEARTSTRING As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.

Dorcas, too, could be described as “somewhat temperamental,” and her parents no doubt had to suppress a sigh when their daughter was chosen by a wand with dragon heartstring at its core, knowing that any dreams they might have had of a quieter life as their daughter settled down with age were doomed to folly. She is also a quick learner, for all that her haphazard grades don’t seem to reflect that quality, and “flamboyant” often seems like an understatement...but it is perhaps power more than anything that she shares with the core of her wand.

Dorcas Meadowes is an extremely powerful witch, and her biggest magical limitation is a lack of control and experience. Her raw strength already makes her a daunting foe in a duel and the combination of that with her sheer stubbornness often carries her through situations and spells where her lack of aptitude ought to ground her. Were she to master better focus, she would indeed be a force to be reckoned with. It is a good thing that she, like her wand core, has no natural inclination towards the Dark Arts...although given the combination of her hot temper and her unflinching conviction in her own stark views of “right” and “wrong,” one cannot discount such a turn as a possibility.

YEW Yew wands are among the rarer kinds, and their ideal matches are likewise unusual, and occasionally notorious. The wand of yew is reputed to endow its possessor with the power of life and death, which might, of course, be said of all wands; and yet yew retains a particularly dark and fearsome reputation in the spheres of duelling and all curses. However, it is untrue to say (as those unlearned in wandlore often do) that those who use yew wands are more likely to be attracted to the Dark Arts than another. The witch or wizard best suited to a yew wand might equally prove a fierce protector of others. Wands hewn from these most long-lived trees have been found in the possession of heroes quite as often as of villains. Where wizards have been buried with wands of yew, the wand generally sprouts into a tree guarding the dead owner’s grave. What is certain, in my experience, is that the yew wand never chooses either a mediocre or a timid owner.

Dorcas always considered herself a “common” witch -- not in any bad way. She had no objection to being common. She didn’t mind living an ordinary life (albeit her own version of ordinary, which tended to be louder and more prone to breaking things than most people would consider “ordinary”) and never sought greatness. That doesn’t mean it didn’t come to her on its own in some ways. Certainly she could be considered notorious in many places, from the sighs of teachers and prefects whenever she passed them at Hogwarts School or the sighs and resigned smiles of her fellow shopkeepers along Diagon Alley. Dorcas Meadows was someone you couldn’t help but notice.

dearborncaradoc​:

Caradoc didn’t flinch, didn’t take a step back, but instead stood rooted to the ground, to his own belief. This was not the moment to waver, not when faced with Dorcas’ anger. There was something else in there, mixed with the salt of her tears, but Caradoc was never too good at recognizing pain that didn’t come from a physical wound. 

With careful movements, he took a clean handkerchief out of his robe’s pockets. He offered it to her. Not an order, not even one masked as an offer, but an open gesture for her to accept or refuse. The gesture itself wasn’t empty even if followed a script he had learned in his youth. It was the one thing he could offer her, because he would not be apologising for his harsh words. He stood by them, just as he stood in front of Dorcas. Unyielding.

“I care,” he said, his voice even. “I wouldn’t be here, talking to you, if I didn’t care.” And he truly would have not bothered. Caradoc was not someone who liked to waste time, not when he could use it to work on that next move she so easily accused him of not having. Oh, yes, sometimes it was formless, but there was never a moment when he wouldn’t think of the next thing, and the next, and the next. Keeping his thoughts from running too ahead was a problem, at times, and he had to remind himself that he needed to take this step by step.

Like now. 

“I’m here because I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you like we lost James, or Ainsley.” He knew that it would hurt to lose Dorcas. It would in a way not even James’ death had hurt. “So, I need you to really think about what I told you, today. Not now, not even this very day. But tomorrow, the day after it. You have to find the meaning in all of this, while I can only point you in its direction.” Caradoc only hoped he was doing a good enough job of being Dorcas’ compass before she would lose herself, too. 

As angry as Dorcas was, as hurt she was and as alone and unheard as she felt, she had never learned to rebuff kindness. She took the handkerchief; she cleaned her face (even if it didn’t do much good, because the tears kept falling). More importantly, perhaps, she believed his words: Caradoc cared.

Dorcas threw her arms around him in a damp, tight hug, clinging with trembling desperation to the quiet wizard. She had put so much weight on his opinion since the first day she’d found him waiting here in the Order, almost as though he was waiting for her -- for another brave Hufflepuff to stand up and say this is wrong, and I shall make it right.

The rest of his words flowed past her ears without truly registering, but she heard them nonetheless; too upset to listen, maybe, but she heard. Would they make a difference? Would she be able to put what his council to work in her own mind, to understand what he was saying and its import? Would she be able to take those words and grow? It was hard to say -- but one thing at least was true:

Dorcas believed that he cared. Even through her own bitter pain, she never really stopped believing that. She just wasn’t sure anymore that caring alone was going to be enough.

In reality, it was possible that Mary might’ve been waiting for Dorcas’ fire to fizzle out. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d seen it happen, people going in with all these ideas and expectations and just ending up growing complacent. Or scared. Or just killing themselves because they got too cocky. But Dorcas was still alive. And Mary needed her for this plan. “Better excited than terrified, I guess,” she admitted with a shrug. “I’m not gonna force anyone to fight if they’ll just drag their feet. Which is why I won’t even bother asking some people if they wanna join, they’ll just hold us back. But if you’ve got any names in mind, I’ll hear it.”

She was a bit less sure when it came to the Order becoming more active, however. “Are they? Everyone’s so damn busy doing their own thing, thinking their plan’s the best. I don’t expect much from them anymore.” She had, back when she’d joined. The Order had seemed like a dream come true then; an entire organisation dedicated to fighting against the very same thing Mary had been fighting against since the moment she’d stepped into the wixen world. Now it seemed more like a book club – all talk, no excitement. “Whatever. Can’t do anything about that anyway. But I’m done waiting.”

And it seemed like Dorcas was too, along with her merry men. Mary nodded along, much less concerned with whatever shit they’d been getting up to. “People die every day just for being born with magic. If you get shit done and still manage to stay alive, good on you.” Sure, it was dangerous, but they could die at all times anyway. Might as well do something worthwhile before that. And every little act of defiance helped, Mary was convinced. “Good, so we have you, me and those two. Do I gotta talk to them too or have you got it? We’ll probably have a first meeting sometime next week after I’ve talked to the rest too, we’ll see. I’ll let you know. For now just sleep on it, get some ideas, do whatever you want. That cool?”

Dorcas thought it was extremely cool, and enthused thusly many (many) times before Mary finally managed to disentangle herself from the peppy young witch. Unfortunately, their plans to appeal to the Inner Circle were dramatically derailed by the Death Eater attack on Diagon Alley -- but distraction though it was, that attack only fueled the need for action all the more.

While Mary was made wary of the risk of people around her dying, Dorcas was haunted driven by her encounter with Voldemort and by the death of Florean Fortescue. When Mary initially rebuffed Dorcas’s interest in taking “off the books” action on their own, Dorcas went even further off the books on her own -- and it was thus left up to Mary to play the voice of reason and reel her back in before she got herself badly hurt...or worse.

It was perhaps an uncomfortable role for Mary, more used to playing firecracker than quencher, but on the other hand Dorcas listened to her more than either of them ever seemed to listen to anyone else. Dorcas trusted that Mary meant what she said when she said she wanted to take action, but that they had to be smart about it -- rather than just saying that as a sort of empty promise while doing nothing.

“Nothing” was definitely not what they did...although “nothing” summed-up the bulk of what they reported of their activities back to their fellows in the Order.

alices-husband​:

“He said that we don’t have anything to lose.” Frank let out a breath. He didn’t want to disappoint her again.  At the time of the conversation with Benjy, he probably hadn’t thought about what it would be like if Gideon didn’t greet him at work anymore, or if he couldn’t pick up candies at Dig’s. He didn’t think about how half of his bed would be permanently empty. But their sacrifices would be worth it, in theory. 

“But we’re the only ones giving the muggleborns hope. And that by itself means we need to do more, even if it means… well, maybe we can hope that someone else will come and take up the helm if we fail, so maybe it would be good to be more–wait, Annalise? As in–Leina Nott’s sister?”

As in, my cousin Annalise? Frank blinked, and while he was in the middle of agreeing with Dorcas, he was tripped up by the name. He chewed slowly on his mahamri. “I mean–I suppose sharing sweets is why Dig’s shop is still up and running in Diagon Alley then! Hopefully…”

Hopefully he won’t end up like Florean’s shop? It felt like such a cruel thought. 

Dorcas gave a rather long summary of what she had found, but most fingers pointed at Lucius Malfoy. “Lucius Malfoy’s been smart to stay out of the way of law enforcement; he’s not acting alone, but I also think he could get others to work for him too. Unfortunately, we can’t break his door down–even if that would be satisfying. So what do you want to do next?”

His question implied his assistance, much like how he had offered his help to Mary. He didn’t have to beg her to let him take care of things; she could make that decision herself.

Dorcas didn’t see why they couldn’t break down Lucius Malfoy’s door, and she grumbled as much -- but the fact that Frank was actually listening (that he had listened to Benjy, whom Dorcas trusted more than anything) went a long way towards settling her down enough to listen in return...at least until the attack on Diagon Alley later that month.

The death of Florean Fortescue changed everything for Dorcas. Florean had been her friend, a towering pillar of her childhood, and he had died on her watch in a way: she had been the one tracing the vandalism and threats against him, which meant that she had been the one to fail him.

The fact that Frank seemed to share those feelings of failure due to having been there at the time and yet unable to save him -- or even stop Emlen Lowe from escaping -- probably had more to do with his willingness to step outside the bounds of the law to track the murderer down alongside Dorcas, rather than some more orthodox (and legally-sanctioned) partner. Dorcas didn’t care; all that mattered to her was that justice got done.

They couldn’t bring Florean back...but they could make Emlen Low pay.

properpureblood-emma​:

untamedmeadowes​:

It was hard to hear Emma’s words over the pounding of her own heart in her ears, but somehow they came through like sugarbombs dropped in a still lake, heavy and rippling. They were good and bright and sweet…but they weren’t quite right. “You–? I mean, obviously, I care for you too, Ems, you’re my best friend, but I…”

Dorcas forced herself to take a breath. To take a moment. To stop stammering and find the words she needed, even if they came out softer and more uncertain than she meant them to: “What if I do want you to do that again?” she asked. “What if…what if I want you to do that again forever?”

/SUMMARIZE TO CLOSE

Emma does indeed want Dorcas to do that again for forever. The two are officially dating. If/when Emma’s family finds out, Emma resigns herself from the family, and officially frees herself from being under the Vanity’s thumb. She’s excommunicated from the family. 

It was good to know he still had fantastic ideas, at least. In that way, Dorcas’ fervent enthusiasm was wonderful for feeding into his ego – one of the many reasons they were friends, naturally. His grin widened with every clap until he was beaming just as much she herself was. “Yes! Yes, exactly! And a dragon on the roof, you absolute marvel of a candy-addict, how brilliant! I love it! And the tail would of course wrap around one of the front columns, yes, I can see it clear as crystal! Brilliant!”

Of course, that would be a hefty investment. Create this new kind of candy, in different flavours at that, then manufacture it, then advertise it, then add a dragon to the roof… it was a good thing he had some savings! And an even better thing that his parents had even more savings!

“Well, of course, we’d put the name on the collars,” he exclaimed. “How did I not think of that? It doesn’t matter – the idea is out there now and it shall be executed properly!” He shook his head, still much too excited by the latest turns in the conversation; perhaps he ought to stop by the shop more often, if the result were such great ideas. “You know what,” he began with all the confidence in the world. “Between this and some other plans I have in the making, Sugarplum’s will be struggling to stay in business by the end of the year. Possibly even sooner! Isn’t it marvellous?”

He laughed as she snapped her fingers and almost felt bad for teasing her. Almost. “Ah, well, perhaps if you get fired one day we’ll talk again.” But while the two of them truly did make an unstoppable team, Dedalus very much doubted Dorcas would genuinely enjoy working here, despite all his previous claims and jokes. When it came down to it, working at the Delights was just plain boring most of the time – and the kind of boring that candy couldn’t entirely fix either. Then again, what did he know? He’d underestimated Dorcas’ love for sweets before and ever since, he’d been proven very wrong, very often.

Not this time, though. This time it’d be different. He was extremely confident in his ability to create the sweetest, most revolting candy imaginable. “Deal,” he agreed with about as much hesitation as she herself had shown – that was to say, none whatsoever. “Any candy you choose, every day. But if I were you, I wouldn’t start counting my owls before they’ve hatched; this is one bet I fully intend to win.”

.

Dorcas didn’t think it would be marvelous if Sugarplum’s went out of business, because to her that just meant less candy around, which couldn’t be anything but a bad thing. However, she was so caught-up by Dedalus’s enthusiasm that she found herself nodding along in fervent agreement anyway. The idea of getting fired probably should have been at least as off-putting as another candy store going out of business, but it never would have occurred to Dorcas to contemplate such a thing (she would have been much reliable about actually working her shifts if it had). She was going to inherit Flourish & Blotts someday, and it was extremely difficult to get fired from that.

Fortunately for Dorcas and her lackadaisical approach to the job.

They shook on the deal, and Dorcas’s grin was so wide it would have made a less-experienced grinner’s face ache. “I dunno Digs,” she said cheerily, visions of the noxiously-sweet concoctions he was sure to craft for her dancing through her head, “it sounds to me that even the process of losing still has me winning.”