"Mum I really don't want to stay at Aunt Romaine's for three weeks," Marcy groaned as she carried her suitcase down the stairs.
"Why not?" her mother frowned, taking her suitcase from her and setting it down next to the living room sofa. "You used to love summers there as a child."
"Yeah, like ten years ago," she groaned again, plopping down on the sofa and covering her face. "Her entire house smells like cats. Not to mention she has like seven."
"You know your father would be very upset if he heard you talking like this-"
"I don't give a damn what he thinks," she interrupted her mother. "I don't want to go. I don't-"
"Marcella Cartier," her mother said sharply. Marcy sat up. She hated her full name, and her mother knew that. Which is exactly why she had agreed to call her Marcy, but every once in a while when her temper flared, she went for the full blow. That's when Marcy knew it was serious. Her mother was an elegant woman with black hair and grey eyes much like her own. Her hair was twisted up into a neat bun, and she stood straight with her hands on her hips. "I don't like your tone. You need to start acting like a lady, otherwise you'll give yourself a bad name and not only that, you'll never find a suitable husband."
"I could care less about acting like a lady, let alone finding a bloody suitable husband," she muttered grumpily, leaning against the sofa. She bit her lip as her mother glared at her. "I'm sorry, Mum, I just really don't want to spend my seventeenth birthday brushing cat hair off my clothes and talking about the newest fashion in the elite pure-blood society," Marcy drawled the last few words.
Who spent their coming of age birthday in a villa in Brighton? Seriously, she would much rather be spending it with her three best friends Andromeda, Xia, and Pru. Hogwarts honestly couldn't have started any sooner. She usually complained about the Slytherin Common Room being too cold, but she missed her dormitory and her bed, and even the chilliness that came with it. She was actually looking forward to her last year, except for the endless load of schoolwork she would have to endure.
Her mother rolled her eyes. "You're being dramatic. I'm sure there are plenty of people your age who you'll meet, and then if your father and I are lucky we might get to see you for dinner every other night."
"Marianne? Are you down there?"
"Yes sweetheart!"
"Perfect, are you all ready?" her father asked as he walked into the room, pecking his wife on the cheek. He had his jet black hair gelled back while tracing his sleek mustache with his pinky.
"Of course. Marcy simply can't wait to see her aunt after so long, right dear?" Her mother gave her a sharp look as Marcy stood up and walked over to her. She decided not to answer the question. "Oh Harold dear fetch me my purse will you? It's on the counter over there."
"Alright. Well, just one more minute till the Portkey is ready," he rubbed his hands together, staring at the old newspaper that lay flat on the table. "Marcy, I expect you to be on your best behavior."
"I'm not a kid, Dad. You don't have to lecture me," Marcy replied indifferently, irritated that her parents still felt the need to run her through the expected mannerisms as if she already didn't know. She was going to be seventeen in a little over two weeks. She wasn't a baby anymore. Sure she whined and didn't always use the most polite words to express her emotions but she knew how to behave when the occasion called for it.
"On three everyone, ready?" her father asked as they all took hold of the Portkey.
Within moments, Marcy felt pressure, as if there were a hand grasping her waist and pulling her backwards. Her head continued spinning for a few more seconds until she was suddenly knocked against the ground, her head pounding worse than ever. She mentally noted that she never had to use a Portkey again when she came of age. That thought alone made her feel loads better as she sat up. She was sick of being underage. She didn't get what the bloody fuss was about when it came to restricting magic.
She narrowed her eyes as her parents hovered down slowly, an amused look on their faces that grew into laughter when they noticed her on the ground.
"It takes practice," her mother smiled, helping her gather her things off the floor.
It seemed they had landed in Aunt Romaine's backyard, which had changed a lot over the years, compared to the deserted mess of weeds it had been when Marcy had last visited. She distinctly remembered pulling the weeds out of the ground and chasing one of her aunt's cats around the house with them. Now as she looked around, she took note of the variety of flowers in the garden that had replaced the weeds, and the small statues that lined the cement on the new patio installment.
She stood up, brushing the bits of debris off of her dress before readjusting her hair. Her wild curls, she had learned, were untamable no matter what she did to try and contain them.
"You're here!" a shrill voice came from the back door. "And not a minute too soon!"
Marcy turned to see her aunt running out at her, her hefty torso enclosing her in a hug so tight that for a few seconds she feared she wouldn't make it to her birthday.
"It's good to see you too, Aunt Romaine," she muffled, her face in her aunt's shoulder. Her aunt smelled like cats and perfume, so naturally, nothing had changed. Well, except the smell of the cats had grown stronger.
Aunt Romaine pulled away and held Marcy's face in between her hands.
"Oh look at you," she smiled enthusiastically. "You've grown so much. You're just beautiful, just…oh Harold now we have to find her a nice husband or else-"
"Let's not talk about husbands just yet," Harold chuckled, embracing his sister and giving Marcy room to breathe.
"Well I see you haven't changed," Aunt Romaine frowned at her younger brother. "She's almost of age you know and with the season approaching you'll want to get her started at least."
"Actually," Marcy said this time, stepping in as her father looked at her questioningly. Well it was more like the don't-say-anything-that's-too-clever look. "I'm not interested in finding a husband."
And that's how an hour later, Marcy found herself sitting at her aunt's kitchen table, her parents side by side and tense as ever, as Aunt Romaine poured them all cups of tea.
"You simply can't put it off Marcy," her aunt shook her head. "You know what they used to call women who weren't married at least by twenty-two in my time? Old maids. That's right. Marcy the Old Maid. Is that what you really want? To be referred to as a, a…well a maid? I mean your parents deserve to have grandchildren they can spoil. Do it for them at least."
Her mother's jaw was clenched, and Marcy could tell she would be getting an earful later for not keeping her mouth shut earlier. She just had to go around advertising that she didn't want to get married like every other conventional lady of the elite society. And what was wrong with that? Feminism was a rising cause around the world. Marcy had read about it. It was always the elites that held a tight grip on their traditions, so desperate to reject change. Well, she had decided she was a feminist.
"I mean I didn't necessarily love William at first when I married him but there was that definite attraction that was a start. I'm sure if that dreadful illness hadn't taken him he'd be right here agreeing with me that-"
"Aunt Romaine," Marcy cut her off, trying to keep her voice as ladylike and gentle as possible. "I'm not saying I never want to get married. I just don't want to get married right now. It's too early and I-"
"You know your great-great-grandmother actually became engaged when she was only fourteen. Fourteen! And here's this generation talking about waiting till their mid-twenties. The eggs will rot I tell you," she shook her spoon at Marcy.
"Romaine, we are officially changing the subject," her father finally pitched in, standing up. At his sister's wide eyes he said, "We came here to spend time with you. I'm sure this conversation will continue another time but for now let's discuss something, anything, else."
Her father was very protective of her, something she liked and disliked. He wasn't just going to give her up to any bloke who came along with a fortune. It was going to take much more than money and prospects to convince him, something that Marcy was thankful for.
"Marcy," her mother called to her. "Why don't you go and unpack?"
"I think I'd rather take a walk by the beach," Marcy smiled sarcastically at her mother before making her way out the front door.
Within moments she was walking along the shore, the wind in her face, carrying away her negative thoughts of the expected gender roles she was supposed to satisfy before bringing them right back into her head. She opened her hair and decided to let it fly wild. She could feel her temper flaring when she bent down and picked up a few pebbles.
"Stupid season," she muttered to herself as she walked over to the water and kicked off her shoes. She started throwing the pebbles out across the waves, trying to make them skip. It only frustrated her more when they plopped straight into the water. "I don't have to marry anyone. All of you stupid arrogant men can find some other old maid to make fucking babies with because I'm definitely not signing up for that!" she screamed loudly before throwing all the pebbles in the water at once. Before she knew it, she was panting as her hair flew against her face.
"I'm offended."
She spun around, startled to see who had just overheard her rant. Her eyes widened as she came face to face with the most beautiful boy she had ever seen in her entire almost seventeen years of life. He had jet-black hair that was messy and pointing in all directions, and green eyes that were sarcastically narrowed yet amplified by the amused curve of his lips. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a black sweater broadening his chest and shoulders.
Marcy was probably drooling. He was perfect. She didn't believe in love at first sight, but maybe this was it. This was all she was going to get. She blinked a few times. Of course it wasn't love. What was she thinking? It was obviously lust. The unladylike thing to do would be to make out with him and get it out of her system.
Wait a minute. That was probably what he was expecting. A good looking guy like him probably knew that he was good looking and therefore expected to get whatever he wanted through his good looks and charm. Well she wasn't going to just be another girl. She was a feminist. Marcy Cartier was a feminist and she was going to throw it all in this perfect lust radiating Greek statue's face.
"Offended?" she managed to get out, trying to raise her voice. The last thing she wanted was to come off as a squeaky mouse. She crossed her arms to indicate a more defensive and confident demeanor. "Good."
"Good?" he repeated, letting one of his hands drop out of his pocket as he took a step towards her. "You just accused me of being a stupid arrogant man who just wants to make fucking babies with an old maid."
She tried not to bite her lip despite the urge. It sounded rather awkward when he put it that way. "Well…I was referring to the general male population."
"I am a part of the general male population," he raised his eyebrow at her. "Unless you want to insult me further and not even consider me a part of the male species."
He was doing it. He was trying to get her to confess that she was wrong. Well she wasn't going to let him have it. "Tell me, how often do you think about sex?" she asked, walking in small circles now to give off a feeling of control. "I read somewhere that the average man thinks about sex every seven seconds."
"You're implying that in the past minute we've been talking I've thought about shagging you at least eight times."
He was definitely smart.
"You're the one who implied the 'shagging you' part," she nodded her head. "My point made."
"Wait a minute sex and shagging are the same thing," he frowned, taking his other hand out of his pocket now.
"I said sex in general, not specifically shagging me. You did a wonderful job of illustrating where your mind was wandering off to."
"I wasn't thinking of shagging you," he said, scoffing at her. "I don't shag old maids."
She whipped around at him, obviously angered by what he had just said. That was all she needed to hear after her aunt had lectured her about being an old maid for the past hour. "I'm not an old maid!"
"Hey," he shrugged. "I'm not a stupid arrogant man."
"I think you should turn and walk away now before I take out my wand and-" her hands flew to her mouth as she realized her slip. She had just said 'take out my wand' to a Muggle-born. He was probably going to think she was crazy or delusional or something. Luckily she'd caught herself before she'd gone any further so it shouldn't be too difficult convincing him it was a slip of the tongue error. She straightened herself out. "I mean my fist…before I take out my fist and…punch you…with my fist."
She stared at him with wide eyes, waiting for his response. He stared back, looking a little confused before he reached into his back pocket and pulled out something long and slim.
"Is this the fist you were talking about by any chance?" he asked as he held out his wand to her.
Her hands flew to her mouth again, and he chuckled. She continued staring at his wand as he grinned at her, before she lowered her hands again and asked, "You're a wizard?"
"What were the chances of that, eh?" he laughed, sticking his wand back into his pocket. "Jamison," he said taking a few steps closer to her, offering her his hand.
She stared at it for a few moments before slowly taking it, her grip loose. "Marcy," she drawled out, still shocked that the one person she had managed to come across was a wizard. It definitely made things easier, especially because he was so cute. Not that that meant anything though, because nothing was going to happen.
"You look a little familiar," he said, his hand falling to his side. "Do you go to Hogwarts?"
She nodded slowly, still weary of this random gorgeous wizard who had popped up out of nowhere. Maybe this was her friends' idea of playing a big fat joke on her.
"I'm in Ravenclaw, seventh year this year," he nodded at her, grinning his perfect grin that made her insides melt.
She cleared her throat. "I'm…" Marcy trailed off. She couldn't say Slytherin. Nobody liked anybody who was in Slytherin. If she told him she was in Slytherin he would run off in the other direction before she even had a chance to finish her sentence. Not that she cared. If he ran, that is. "…in Hufflepuff," she said the first thing that came to her mind. "I'm in Hufflepuff."
"Hufflepuff?" he raised his eyebrow. "You're in Hufflepuff?"
"Yup, seventh year," she said nervously, holding her hands behind her back. "Home of the chipmunk."
He laughed, obviously amused by her show of House spirit.
"What's so funny? There's nothing wrong with Hufflepuff," she went from smiley to angry in a matter of seconds, her hormonal rage once again getting the best of her.
"It's a badger. You called it a chipmunk," he pointed out, trying to keep his face straight as it temptingly edged out into a smile.
"It's a stupid rat and I can call it whatever I want," she snapped at him, brushing her hair angrily out of her face.
He laughed again. She didn't understand him. Everyone usually took a few steps back when her anger flared, or at least look scared, but he just kept laughing every time she yelled at him.
"Well the Sorting Hat definitely placed you in the wrong House with that temper."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she raised her voice again. She hated it when people commented on her temper. Her mother did it enough and it pissed her off. Only Marcy was allowed to criticize her own temper.
"That's exactly what I mean," he laughed again, falling into rhythm with her as she began to walk along the shore with her arms crossed.
"Well I'll continue what I was on about earlier," she said, stopping in her tracks and narrowing her eyes at him. "If you don't leave I'm going to take out my wand and-"
"What, jinx me?" he continued grinning at her display of anger. "Are you even seventeen yet?"
"Yes," she immediately answered, trying to lengthen her head to seem more superior.
"Prove it then," he smirked at her, this time crossing his arms. "Pull out your wand, and prove it."
She stared at him with fury before groaning and stomping away from him. Now she was acting like a child. He had brought out the child in her and she hated it when that happened. That was never supposed to happen in public.
"Well for your information," she turned around again, "I'm turning seventeen in about two weeks so if you're still around I'll be more than happy to prove it by performing a stinging jinx on your face."
He fell into line with her when she started walking again. "Hey, I get it. You're stuck here in this boring place for your birthday, probably on some forced family vacation, when you'd much rather be at home playing Exploding Snap with your friends, or whatever it is that you Hufflepuff's do for fun."
She peeked at him, pondering his words before asking, "What do you know?"
He sighed, "Well that's sort of my predicament."
"You're here on a forced family vacation?" she asked incredulously.
"Yeah," he nodded. She could smell his cologne and it was making her dizzy. A good dizzy that is, but that made it all the more worse. "I mean don't get me wrong, it's nice out here, but I'd rather be with my mates. My parents are always doing their own thing."
"You have a villa here?"
"My grandparents have one down at the end of the coastline. Like I said, it's nice but boring," he whispered that last part in an attempt to ease his guilt, which resulted in Marcy breaking out in a grin.
"Well my aunt is probably more of a handful than your grandparents," she inputted. "She just spent the last hour lecturing me on getting married, otherwise I'll turn into an old maid."
"So that's why you were shouting at the water about making babies with old maids," he nodded at the realization, making her blush.
"You make me sound like a barbarian," she bit her lip, embarrassed. "I mean I know I'm loud sometimes and I do swear when I really boil over but you weren't meant to hear any of that."
"Well I'm glad I did or else I'd still be walking around this place alone and clueless," he said earnestly as she continued staring down at the sand. When she didn't say anything, he went on to say, "So you're getting married then?"
"No!" she shouted immediately. "No no I am not getting married and I definitely don't plan to either. It's just stupid elite pure-blood expectations and-" she stopped herself, realizing that she was starting to sound like a Slytherin. "My parents are just old-fashioned like that. Well, more my aunt is. Nooo my parents are too actually." Great now she was blabbing. That was her problem. She was either too quiet or too outspoken. She had no balance, and the constant thought of talking too much was making her anxious.
"Nah I get it," he said, furrowing his brow. "My parents are pure-blood so I've got pressures on me to keep the family name going. But then again they don't really believe in all the pure-bloods have to marry pure-bloods nonsense so I guess I can't say anything about that."
"Right," she smiled nervously, not bothering to mention that her parents definitely believed in all the nonsense of pure-blood to pure-blood matrimonies. They lived by it actually. "Well, I'm a feminist so I don't believe in women being submissive."
"Do you even know what that word means? Feminist, I mean," he laughed at her again, a habit he seemed to have acquired over the past half hour.
"Oh but of course you Ravenclaw's think you know everything don't you? Well I'll say one thing, the Sorting Hat definitely didn't make a mistake sorting you you're your House," she snapped again. There it was, the male complex of 'I'm a man so I know everything.' It sickened her.
"You forgot the part about me being a stupid arrogant man," he teased her, obviously not taking her seriously.
"We already covered that," she sneered at him.
By this time, they had made their way back down the shore and had ended up near her aunt's villa, which she was greatly thankful for. She needed to get away from him before her temper flared again. He made her so angry. It was probably because she was so attracted him. She shook off the thought and turned to him with a sarcastic smile.
"As much as I've enjoyed this stimulating conversation in which you've expressed your obvious belief of being superior to me, it's time for me to leave, because if I don't, I might risk getting in trouble with the Ministry for jinxing you regardless of being underage."
She turned and headed up the shore to her aunt's villa, making it only a few steps before he shouted out behind her, "Maybe I'll catch you later, yeah?"
"Don't bet on it," she said loud enough for him to hear before slamming the door shut. Knowing him he was probably laughing at her, again.
"Making some new friends I see?" her mother said as she approached her. "I told you we'd be lucky to see you."
"Oh please, Mother, I didn't make any friends," Marcy rolled her eyes. She looked around before saying, "Now if you don't mind I'm going to my room before Aunt Romaine finds me and starts lecturing me about my wedding night."
She skipped up the stairs to her room and closed the door gently behind her, not wanting her aunt to know she was back. She gasped when she turned to find a black cat sprawled out on her bed, its yellow moony eyes watching her with curious wonder.
"Angus," she sighed, crawling onto the floral styled bed that had been the same since she was a kid. This had always been her room when they'd visited during the summer, and Angus was basically her cat. Her aunt had bought him the third time Marcy had visited, and had even let Marcy name him. She took the cat in her arms and began petting his head gently as he purred. If her parents weren't so iffy about their furniture, Angus could have come home with her. She had begged her mother for weeks and weeks and she had replied with the same redundant response of, "She will rip the furniture, I will not have it." Her mother hadn't even gotten the gender right. She still called Angus a 'she' and Marcy had simply given up on trying to correct her.
"Oh Angus, you're the only sane thing about this place, the only sane thing," she sighed, scratching the cat's forehead until she drifted off into a deep sleep.