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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------------------> WHEN MAEVE ENTERED THE LEAKY CAULDRON, she was greeted by the strong scent of alcohol and grilling meat. A shroud of darkness clung to the stale air. In the dim lighting provided, laughter thundered, and the occupants were having a jolly good time. Maeve spotted those who worked at the Daily Prophet seated along the walls in a long row. They were exchanging inside jokes and jibes. Maeve's stomach clenched at the thought of interrupting them.
Rita was the first to spot her standing below the archway, looking as lost as a cactus in the snow, and waved her over. She pushed the other intern to make space for Maeve, to which the younger girl looked at him apologetically, but he was already adapting, conversing about Melissa, probably about the report he had done today.
When Maeve sat down beside Rita, the latter threw her arm around the former, her manicured nails digging into Maeve's shoulder, and vaguely reminding her that her own nails needed to be looked after.
"Maeve, Maeve, Maeve-y," Rita sang, and that last nickname felt so wrong coming from her mouth when Maeve was so used to hearing it from Bruce. "Two days training to be a journalist. How is it?"
"I learnt a lot," Maeve dutifully replied, because she had.
Rita smiled, satisfied. Lowering her voice, she said, "I hope you're not terribly upset about not taking the witness statements earlier."
Maeve stiffened slightly. She was upset, but Maeve could understand how her lack of experience would interfere in taking the witness statements properly. After all, during this period, she was supposed to trail, observe and copy the actions done by the reporters whose daily routine she envied. "Not really. But...Well, could I perhaps accompany you when you take statements or do anything else? I won't say anything, just...shadow you." Like Rachel said I should, but you've been neglecting to let me come.
Rita hummed thoughtfully. "I'll see," she said at last. "Did you submit your article for your column this week?"
"Yes," Maeve replied.
"How nice it must be, to have a column when you've not even graduated," Rita mused, her tone airy but venomous. "When you're not even a journalist."
Maeve stilled, and Rita's sharp nails dug into her skin hard enough for Maeve to wince. She tried shrugging off Rita's iron-hold of a grip, but it was futile. Maeve's gaze bounced frantically around the room, for anyone who she could signal to help her. But they were all too engaged in their own conversations to pay attention, and Rita's smile was believable like she was teasing Maeve instead of hurting her.
"Stop," Maeve bit out. Whatever lightness Maeve's heart had contained after speaking with Regulus seeped out like a paper cup with holes.
Rita laughed as she retreated her arm. "I just think it's odd, see," said Rita, taking a sip of a drink Maeve couldn't identify. "Are you that good of a writer, or are your parents that wealthy? Ah, nepotism. It must be nice to speak what's on your mind, leave early, not work on weekends despite receiving barely any work, and walk around like you own the place, which, now that I think about it, isn't technically wrong considering you actually do own the place. It's surely a better alternative than actually working hard. Kudos to you." Rita saluted Maeve by raising her drink, before smiling angelically and interjecting herself into a conversation with another reporter.
