Maeve Macmillan liked to write.
It didn't matter if it was writing her thoughts in her diary, short stories in a journal, articles for newspapers, essays for homework, letters to her parents, simple reminders on her hand, quotes on parchment to st...
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---------------------> THE MARAUDERS HAD CLASSES AFTER LUNCH and so did her friends. It was in times such as these that Maeve minutely regretted not having taken up more classes because it meant she was all alone. Usually, she would have spent time writing —an activity that her life had previously revolved around— but now, Maeve chose to aimlessly wander along the corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, observing students who roamed with her and constructing mental notes in case somebody looked like they needed a letter.
Maeve lost count of the minutes that had ticked by after a while as reality faded around her when she began imagining scenarios with the characters that she had created in favour of paying attention to Professor Babbling as she discussed how dangerous blood runes were by paying more emphasis on the illegality to put to practise the theory that she was obligated to teach them.
Maeve was snapped out of her internal musings when a brown barn owl —which she recognised to belong to the Daily Prophet— perched itself onto her, its sharp talons digging into her shoulder, and dropped the letter it was carrying directly onto her hands.
A crease formed between Maeve's brows as she opened and began to read the letter that Rachel Adams, one of the editors-in-chief, had sent her. Summarising the contents, Rachel was angry because despite it being Thursday, Maeve hadn't sent her an article to fill her weekly column the next day.
The tone of the letter was a sour mixture of lecturing and maddening as Rachel alternated between being 'disappointed' with Maeve for her irresponsibleness and ranting that although she technically owned the Daily Prophet as her parents had bought the majority shares in her name, Maeve should not have allowed the power to 'go to her head' and decided that she could create her own deadlines. Rachel ended the letter by informing Maeve that due to the last-minuteness of it, they had decided to re-print one of her oldest articles that hardly anyone would recall reading and how much Rachel hoped she would never have to resort to this measure again.
The pre-evening sun streamed through the windows, yet Maeve's mind was clouded with grey, her mood ricocheting between low and lower.
She hadn't meant to forget.
She really hadn't but it seemed like a silly excuse. Maeve had been a firm believer in the theory that if a person wholeheartedly enjoyed or found something interesting, then, they would be passionate about it, they would never have forgotten about it.
But there she stood, clutching the reminder of her hypocrisy, having apparently discarded her childhood dream of being a journalist and writing articles regarding various subjects, due to having been caught up attempting to keep up her artifice.
The guilt weighed heavily not on her chest but inside her brain. What she had done she could not undo. It felt like ice in her guts. It could be a hundred degrees out and she'd still be frozen on the inside. The only way Maeve could forgive herself for this grave mistake and subsequently, bring enough warmth to melt the frost, was by directing her gaze towards what mattered again and not allow herself to be distracted by anything else.
