Marlene just can't take it anymore. The pressure has been building up inside her and she's near exploding. It's too loud, too hot, too crowded, too unfamiliar, and even though it's supposed to be cozy, the red of the furniture and walls is making her blood pound in her ears. She's leaving.
Gryffindor Tower is packed. Marlene has never quite appreciated how many people there are in her house that she has never spoken a word to in her life. The dormitories are probably filled with Alice's angsting about this week's crush, as usual, and she's not in the mood to put up with that any longer than she has to.
She leaves the noise of crowds and music behind her as the Portrait Hole closes, but it feels like something is tightening around her chest. Marlene swallows, realising that the only way to get past this particular one is to refuse to let it overcome her as usual.
She walks on shaky legs into the nearest empty room, presses her back against the wall, and sits down on the floor with her eyes closed. The stones of the castle are cold even through her shirt and in the sweltering heat of June, they seem to ground her somehow. Without opening her eyes, she takes off her shoes and socks, placing her bare feet on the stones.
"You're Marlene McKinnon, and you're not going to have a breakdown in an empty classroom," she whispers to herself, her voice and forcibly steady breathing the only sounds in the room apart from the distant thudding of music. She puts her palms on the stones as well, trying to calm herself.
"Get a grip, you weakling. You don't want to prove them all right, do they? You're going to train as an Auror and work for Dumbledore's organisation, you can't afford to do this. They're just people. You're a person, Hestia's a person, Lawrence is a person, Davey's a person, and they're alright. Just get control, and it'll all be alright. Don't you dare let them see the effect they have on you. You're Marlene McKinnon, and you can do this."
The silence of a long-deserted room is only stirred as she gets up, taking a few deep breaths. She wipes her sweaty palms on her skirt, pulls on her shoes, smooths her hair, and straightens her posture. She fakes a smirk so well nobody could tell she was recovering from a panic attack.
Because she's Marlene McKinnon, and however unhealthy she knows it is, dealing with these issues can wait. She doesn't know that she'll be decomposing in a coffin in less than five years, and would be flipping her hair and walking out that door like that even if she did know.
