~Chapter Three~
Appearing through a tangled thicket, Minerva clutched her shawl closer to herself, wishing that a cloak replaced the entity. The path was twisted and marred with the occasional falling of pinecones, scattered almost to the point of artistry towards the dark and shutter-blinded house that belonged to her carbon copy. Minerva shook her head brusquely at the untended garden, adorning the front thereof of the home. The brown roses withered at her touch, crinkling as dry parchment before fluttering helplessly to the leaf-invested ground. It was a shame. The garden had no need of ignorance. Gingerly, Minerva kneeled and extracted her wand, bringing the plant back to vitality, to life before its tragedy with a few swishes. Minerva smiled bitterly. "One down, one to go," she thought acerbically to herself.
Minerva climbed the crumbling stairs, wrinkling her nose in disgust at how the steps felt underfoot. Termites had certainly claimed the flight as their own. Brushing the imaginary dirt from her robes, Minerva felt inclined to knock upon the worn, oak door. Squeezing her eyes shut in preparation, she raised a hand and knocked thrice, just as she had lastly done four years earlier.
At the sight of her raised eyebrows, the outcome of no one prowling forth at once to answer was somewhat unexpected. It did not make sense. The door was always answered within two waves of a wand. Peering through the window on her right, all that was seen was the filthiness, invisible from afar off. Raising her hands to peer through the darkened sitting room, the door gently blew open with the wind. Creaking and snaring upon the wooden planks of the entryway, it continued until striking the wall sharply within the home. Wincing at the noise and at her insufferable curiosity, Minerva padded cautiously within the inner realm of the gothic home.
It was darkened to an almost inhuman degree. Uneasiness settling in her stomach, Minerva withdrew her wand a second time, lighting it wordlessly as she did so. The house was in utter shambles. Paper was strewn everywhere, and-was that blood on the wall? Minerva hastened to inspect the questionable ruby substance, but before she could do so, a very loud sniff interrupted her pursuit. Turning silently towards the left door, Minerva extended her left hand to open it.
Shutting her eyes tightly as it creaked, Minerva found her sister sitting at the still-standing table. Clutching a faded handkerchief to her eyes, she dabbed furiously at the wetness that streaked down her cheeks. Though scandalized to find the house in such a state, an overwhelming rush of pity held Minerva rigid, staring at the opposite form of her sister, who glanced occasionally out the westward window of the kitchen.
Shivering at the draft that was not there, Minerva quietly made her way towards the lamenting figure, careful to avoid the sight of broken glass and portraits trailing upon the floor. She waved her wand a second time, dousing the light before finally reaching the woman and tapping her on the shoulder.
Marcail acted at once, standing and wielding her wand to face her oppressor. Her face lost the sudden determination however, when she realized that Minerva was in her presence. A heavy silence blanketed the atmosphere, and for the longest time, not a sound was heard apart from the clattering fall of Marcail's chair. Drawing up a second chair with her wand after several moments, Marcail gestured for Minerva to sit down at the table.
Minerva obliged without a word, and sat while Marcail paced towards the magnificent window, which was easily the grandest one in the house. Minerva was abruptly envious of the view of the sunset Marcail must witness every night, but there was a contrasting figure here; she watched the sun rise through her bedroom window. Marcail watched the sun disappear as she drank the last dregs of her nightly tea. The contrast was so great it was almost to the point of irony; Minerva had managed to maintain her stead in society, no matter how encumbered it was with wandering eyes at the Ministry. Marcail, on the other hand, had withdrawn from everything that had made her herself, once alive and destined to become as great as a flaming phoenix, she had become death-like in her dismissal of life and the wondrous attributes it did conceive.
Marcail stood beside the window, bringing her shaking hands to stroke it as one would a lover. Minerva observed in the courtesy of silence, her throat constricted by words that she could not utter. A sheen of light which trailed from the open dining room door, waltzed upon her sister's back, and further indications deepened her grim emotions. Marcail's hair was tousled and tangled as a spider's web. The ebony tresses had vanished beneath a film of what was presumably dirt and dust, accumulated only by destroying the interior of her home. As the room steadily grew brighter, Minerva's eyes roamed about the room, carefully scanning for anything that may be of use to her in dialogue. Shattered glass and mere remnants of what looked to be a family portrait still lingered upon stark wooden floor near the doorway, but also, tucked behind the door itself was a scrap of flashing newspaper. "LAW!" it flashed threateningly as Minerva silently picked her way towards it. So that was it. Marcail already knew.
"Why are you here?"
The raspy voice made Minerva nearly jump out of her skin, as she was kneeling and examining whom the portrait once contained. It was not a normal family portrait after all, but a peculiar still one of Marcail and Hans…
Minerva turned slowly back, grazing her palms upon the broken glass as she did so. Inhaling sharply at the pain, she stiffly withdrew her wand and healed both hands before approaching the darkened figure near the window.
"What do you mean by that, Mersey?" Minerva questioned softly. The odious nickname of Marcail's was used only in an effort to lighten the mood. Though scorned a name it was, Minerva hoped that Marcail would relax at the pretense that she meant no harm by her visit.
Marcail turned sluggishly towards her sister, as if in pain before meeting her eyes. Marcail's eyes of freshest greenery had dimmed to sage in their separation. The glow that once met her eyes with laughter had receded entirely. Compassion met Minerva at eye contact; never had she seen eyes full of such fear, such brokenness. Without a second thought, Minerva gestured to Mersey, and Mersey hugged her as if they were children again. And for a moment, they were. Just Mersey and Minerva. Marcail materialized again as soon as the embrace ended, and she looked back towards the western window, her ebony robes glittering softly in the wayward sunlight which streamed graciously from a single sheen evidently from a small, circular northern window hailing above them.
Marcail inhaled suddenly, preparing herself to speak in a numb tone. "I died today Minerva," she remarked limply, eyeing the dead brush trees outside her home without their foliage. Minerva opened her mouth to reply, but Marcail brushed her hand beside her face, as if waving away an irksome fly. "I do not care. It was inevitable in the end, regardless of what I did to prevent it."
Minerva shook her head, aghast. "Mersey, surely you don't mean that you will adhere to the law?"
Marcail eyed Minerva in bitterness. "Of course I mean that. How else am I to live? Hans and I will both bend to death, should we complete our vows of marriage as intended."
"Marcail," Minerva began, her voice raising in utter disbelief, "you were never one to follow any despicable rule such as this as a child. Why begin straightaway with the most insufferable law there is to bear?"
Marcail clenched her teeth in fury. "Have you not listened to what I just said? Hans will die because of me. I will not allow him to breathe his last for the extent of my idealistic desires!"
Minerva shook her head irritably, lacking the desire of audacity to point out that Marcail was never one to pursue impracticality. "Marcail," she began in a deadly tone, "has Hans heard word of this?"
Adverting her eyes at once, Marcail mumbled something along the lines of 'doesn't need to know'.
"'Doesn't need to know'? Marcail, Hans is the one that needs to know the most! What do you propose you will do when he wonders why you have become so distant, so inhumane to his further advances upon the brink of marriage? What then? Have the poor man suffer primarily in mourning because his own fiancée cannot just inform him of why she is hurting him so?" Her shout was now leaping the brink of intolerant aggravation now, and Marcail could not stand it a moment longer.
"Expelliarmus!" she cried.
Minerva's wand fumbled its way weakly through her hand, but she maintained her firm grip upon it, moving opposite to her furious sister's face. "You're too sapped of magic for a duel. If we were to commence at this moment, however, you would fail."
Marcail turned her back on her and Minerva resisted the powerful urge to throw a few hexes at her sister. One rule of conduct learned as an auror was to never curse anyone with their back turned- even if you wanted to. One had to see the whites of the eyes of the enemy before committing such an act of brutality.
Minerva hastened to approach her sister a second time; attempting to draw her away from the window was going to be a challenge.
"Minerva, you don't understand. I love Hans…" Marcail trailed off in a small, unsure voice, a shadow of herself returning in the outlines of her face as she said this. "You have never loved anyone. I have to disregard the concept of his love bound to mine because of a law. I have to marry another notwithstanding my undying love for him."
"Marcail!" Minerva cried, bemused at Marcail's blindness. "Hans will yet love you, regardless of what you must do. If he does not, then he was never worth your love in the beginning. It will be far better to have this law obeyed now rather than later, however. The pain will be minimal if this is done with quickly and properly."
Marcail snorted indignantly. "'Done with quickly'? Is that all that matters? I am now required by law to marry a man I do not love, and not a respectable man, either. A pureblood who won't give a rat's ass about me. Is that what matters?"
"I do not have the time to discuss the cons and pros of such a marriage," Minerva said angrily, gritting her teeth as she did so. Before she took her leave, however, Marcail's voice interrupted her meticulous pursuit.
"Minerva?"
Minerva halted, rotated, and glanced towards Marcail, whose back was still turned.
"Who are you going to marry?"
The words hung as palpable burdens in the atmosphere, each word worth more than any expression could compute, as a ruffled witch austerely set forth from the premises, dreading an unexpected release of the tormenting upsurge of emotion asserting its presence within her.
A/N: I meant to post this last week for Sylvadragon's birthday, but I totally didn't because life... got in the way. :D I started school again so I can't guarantee me sticking to that "every two week" posting thing that I intended with this story, but hopefully, this late chapter will make up for that. Happy late birthday to Sylvadragon also! :D
