m&mwp.


Dumbledore stands at the front of the room, outlining the new intelligence he has received from the giants to the north. Some of them, it seems, might be willing to join their cause. It's the kind of news that would usually make Marlene's ears prick with interest and heart warm with tentative hope.

Today, though, Marlene struggles to keep her eyes from glassing over. Her mind keeps wandering to a headline in the Daily Prophet announcing the recent marriage of Narcissa Black to Lucius Malfoy. The article comes with a large picture featuring the witch with her hand—diamond glittering as the flash goes off—on the latter's chest and looking longingly up at him.

"Well matched," Sirius had mumbled when he'd thrown the paper on the meeting table. "Bloody purist scum."

Marlene's eyes keep darting to the photograph. She can't help herself. She knows that the two aren't well matched at all. Lucius, peering straight into the camera lens, is too cold and stiff. Narcissa's act is more convincing, but Marlene can see her hand on Lucius' chest is less of a caress and more of an opportunity to push him gently away from her—an opportunity to create space.

"Miss McKinnon?"

She jumps, looking up at Dumbledore with a start. "Sorry, Professor?"

He gives her a small smile, and she realises that he knows. Of course he bloody knows. With a flick of his wand, he folds the newspaper and Narcissa's face slips from view.

"If you could head upstairs to help Hagrid prepare for his excursion north."

"Of course."

She can feel her friends' eyes following her when she excuses herself from the table. As the door clicks behind her, she steadies herself with a deep sigh. Tensions have been steadily rising. People—people she knows—have been disappearing...or worse.

Now is not the time to be distracted by old school crushes.

Marlene gets the feeling it's something she'll have to remind herself of more than once.