Valkyrie

November 1976

Mary Macdonald longs to be held.

Her hands shake with it, the longing. Marlene begins to notice. Mary shoves her hands and her feelings down further into the pit of her stomach, ignoring the pain.

When Mary imagines touch, it is gentle and kind. It is fingers scratching her scalp, skating across her arm, kisses pressed lightly to her forehead. It is soft, never cruel, never unwanted, never forceful.

Milton Mulciber held her down. She remembers it through a fog. His hands gripping her wrists like vices, pining her in place as he jeered at her. A little bit of spittle landed in her eye, where the bruise was beginning to form. The curse, powerful though it was, couldn’t dull the searing terror that ripped through her body. She feels it, again and again, waking in the night to the sound of her own screams. It is for this reason that she always casts a silencing charm around her bed for the night.

Marlene and Lily don’t know. Or, at least, they are kind enough not to let Mary know that they do. She is grateful for that. Even in this strange, foreign world of magic, they remind her of home. Through them, she remembers her youth, the young Mary who watched flying brooms and magical sparkles with wonder.

Mary knows better than anyone just how dangerous magic can be.

~*~

They say war is approaching. Nobody likes to talk about it much, Marlene especially. She buries her face in the newspaper whenever one of the boys begins discussing it over breakfast, which is where they find themselves one blustery morning.

“My dad says the ministry has growing concerns that they’ve got spies in their ranks,” James Potter says, letter dangling from one hand as he spoons porridge into his mouth with the other. Lily, to Mary’s left, wrinkles her nose at him. Mary supposes it’s only fair. James and Lily have only recently struck up a truce, with James agreeing to stop pestering Lily with date proposals and Lily relenting to stop calling James an “arrogant toerag”. Still, talking while eating is enough of an offence to invoke Lily’s ire.

Sirius Black makes an annoyed sound from next to James, tossing his hair. “Well no shit, the ministry’s corrupt. You know who just got a promotion? Fucking Malfoy, that slimy git my cousin married.” He pulls a face and leans back against Remus Lupin’s shoulder, sighing dramatically with his head back. “So much for the blood purity of the noble house of Black, no one’s less pure than Lucius Malfoy.”

Mary and Lily glance at each other. Comments like these are frequent, especially from the purebloods among them. Lily shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. Today is not the day to fight. And, of course, Mary acquiesces.

In her best dreams, it is Lily who touches her. No one has softer hands, softer skin, softer love. Mary craves it like air. She takes any crumb, any morsel of love that she can get and cradles it gently against her breast, letting it sink into the deepest parts of her heart.

Mary is a stranger to magic. She is good at it, sure. Protection charms are her specialty. But it feels foreign in her body, like an intruder. She cannot ignore how her nerves scream with warning when she casts a spell, because magic was never supposed to be a part of her. But it is now, lodged into her where there was no space for it. A splinter.

The others don’t quite get it. Marlene, James, Sirius, Peter, even Remus, they do not understand the feeling of alienation that surges, as though she steps further away from herself the more magic she casts. Lily gets it, the betrayal in her very core. They’ve talked about it, late nights in bed with the curtains drawn, quietly swapping stories of home as a reminder of their pasts. At Hogwarts, it is easy to lose yourself in it all. Lily is her anchor, her compass. Lily dictates and Mary follows.

She loves all her friends, but it is hard to explain the level to which lily brings Mary comfort. Especially now, as the skies darken, and whispers become more prevalent. She’s scared, fuck, she’s scared. It is easy now to blame her shaking hands on the situation at hand, but that is almost worse. She thinks of Mulciber’s face suddenly and shudders.

“You there, Mary?” Marlene’s voice nudges her back to reality. Mary blinks and glances to her side, down into Marlene’s big brown eyes, creased with worry.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Mary says and smiles, but she knows it’s not convincing. Still, Marlene gives her another scrutinizing look before returning to debating quidditch stats with Sirius, James, and Peter.

Mary looks to Lily to stabilize herself, but Lily has Remus engaged in a deep conversation about some history book. Everything feels floaty and weird. Fingers trembling, she pushes herself up and away from the table, mumbling something about using the restroom.

She finds herself outside the owlery, which is convenient since this spot is only used by snogging couples and thankfully is currently empty. Her breath comes in short and stuttered, and she flattens her palm against her chest.

Her body wasn’t hers in that moment. It was Mulciber’s, and the curse’s. her mind was there but it hurt so bad that it kept floating away. She can still feel the pressure around her wrists, his hot breath in her ear. He tasted like cigarettes.

Everything feels wrong. Mary curls in on herself and tries desperately to tear at her wrist. She keeps floating away like she did then, and it reminds her so much of imperio that it’s almost worse.
Her skin
skin
skin

She doesn’t know how it ended. At some point, she blacked out. When she awoke, still all floaty and wrong, the first thing she saw was the open window, a white curtain fluttering and birds chirping. That isn’t right, she thought.

Madam Pomfrey asked who it was. Mary just stared at her. His eyes were everywhere, she shrunk under their gaze. She couldn’t speak a word.

Milton Mulciber, son of a prominent pureblood family, assaulted Marisol Macdonald, mudblood. Nothing she could say would ever change that.

But she still relived it every night since. She still floated away and thought about it and screamed and cried. She’d learned everything she could on imperio and taught herself spells to heal the gashes on her wrists that she’d open up.

Nothing changed.

~*~

At Hogwarts, she is Mary, yet another distinction between her past and present lives.

Back home, they call her Mari. Her mother still calls her Marisol every time. She says the name is like music to her ears, “it would be a crime to shorten it!”

Mary misses her so much. Her voice, her hands, her smell. She misses the homemade food being made when she came home from school, seeing her mother and father cooking together in matching aprons, singing off-key to Latin pop and dancing. She misses Rafe and Nico and ana. She misses the feeling of belonging.

When she goes home now, none of it is quite right. She sticks out like a sore thumb. She doesn’t respond much to Mari anymore, doesn’t have any of the same interests she did when she was little. She doesn’t know how to talk to her siblings anymore or play with them. When they ask how school is, she pushes food around on her plate and says it’s fine. Nothing she can say can bridge that gap.

Rafe asks what magic is like. He seems the most interested in it. Nico seems to resent her for leaving, and ana doesn’t quite understand it all yet. She tries to tell him what it feels like, but he can’t possibly know. It’s the loneliest feeling, to not belong where you came from.

Hogwarts is weird too. Yes, she has Lily and Marlene and the boys, but her past life feels distant when she’s here. Here, she’s Mary Macdonald, muggleborn Gryffindor slut. That’s what they call her, slut. Nobody back at home would call her a slut.

She doesn’t know whether she’s Mary or Mari. Sometimes, she wonders if she is neither. Caught between two worlds, whoever Marisol Macdonald was supposed to be fell through the chasm, never to be found again.

~*~

In the third floor girls bathroom, Mary Macdonald is pushed up against a wall.

Hands in her hair, frantic and desperate. Hot breath on her cheek. Knee pushing into her side. Lipstick smearing across her face. Teeth digging into her lip, hard enough that Mary makes a noise of protest.

It is quick and passionate, less of a desire than a carnal need. Mary needs this, needs this to forget. She needs lips, tongue, and breasts to forget his face.

Not her wrists, though. Those remain untouched.

Hestia pulls back, breathing heavily. Her hair is messy and her lips are parted. She looks like a goddess, glowing from within.

“You okay?” Soft whisper. She always checks in on her like this.

Mary nods. “Yeah, yeah, keep going.”

Hestia looks at her with those honey eyes, melted gold, and dives down. Mary arches up with pleasure, all thoughts exploding in colour. This is the feeling she craves: an absence of thought, replaced with pure and protecting sensation.

~*~

Mary watches Hestia walk through the Great Hall. She does not let slip, not a coy look or wink. Head straight, walking ahead with her friend. There’s a lilt to her step, a slight hesitation when stepping with her left leg. Mary knows that, because Hestia is careful with that leg when they fuck. Mary has her wrists, Hestia has her leg.

“Why are you watching Hestia Jones?” Lily says, beside her, carefully scooping some chicken onto her plate.

“’m not.” Mary says, still looking. Hestia vanishes beyond the doorframe.

“Are you two friends?” Lily asks, and there’s something so curious and earnest about her question that Mary nearly confesses. Instead, she swallows her pride.

“No. I think she’s friends with Emmeline, though.” This is reasonable to say: since becoming quidditch captain for the Ravenclaws, Emmeline Vance and James have become good friends. Mary doesn’t mind Emmeline, she’s got a wicked sense of humour, but she hasn’t gotten that close with Emmeline as compared to lily or Marlene, who seem to think Emmeline’s the best thing since sliced bread.

“Oh, yeah, she is. They’re kind of a weird group, aren’t they? Those two older Ravenclaw boys, the Slytherin quidditch captain, Emmeline, and Hestia jones?” Lily bites into her food, chewing fully before adding, “They’re not too bad, though. Emmeline says you and Hestia would probably get along.”

Well, she’s not wrong, Mary thinks. Changing the subject, she glances around. “Are Marls and the boys coming anytime soon for dinner?”

“Quidditch practice, I think. Pete’s at the greenhouses and Remus is sleeping already.”

“Already? It’s barely six.”

Lily opens her mouth to say something, and closes it abruptly. “I don’t know, maybe he’s ill or something.” She pokes out her elbow into Mary’s side. “Come on, you should eat something. Afterwards, we’ll play Gobstones.” She grins widely, showing that chipped incisor Mary loves. “I’m on a winning streak, you’ll test me.”

I love you, Mary nearly says. Looking back at the doorway, where Hestia is already gone, it seems her courage has left her.

“Sounds good” is all she says, reaching to get some pot pie.

~*~

Hestia Jones began on September 26th, 1976.

Mary was, as she tends to be when all good things happen, quite drunk. The seventh year Hufflepuffs know how to throw a good rager. Thanks to Pete, who manages to be on good terms with everyone, it seems, got them in. Mary remembers taking to the dance floor with Marlene, twirling and giggling. Somewhere, she could spot Lily in the crowd, chatting with some pink haired girl.

Between then and when Mary finds herself stumbling around outside Hufflepuff tower, she must have gotten really drunk. Like, eyes spinning in her eye sockets, one shoe missing, drunk. She keeps reaching down to grab at her other heel, and can’t seem to keep her balance when she walks because of the height gap.

There, sprawled on the ground and unwilling to get up, Mary lays there and thinks about just falling asleep. She wants lily to come rescue her, lift her up and carry her back to Gryffindor tower. Lily’s big, strong arms. Marlene is strong but lily is too, deceptively so. She wants lily’s bicep because it’s so perfectly shaped, soft yet firm below. Mary wants to kiss every bit of lily’s rolls all the way down her body. She wants to feel her stomach pressed against her own, inhale her jasmine perfume—

“Are you okay?”

Mary groans in response, trying to turn her head to look but the corridor spins faster. There’s a figure above her, and Mary tries to concentrate.

“Hey, hey.” Firm hands on her shoulders. Big amber eyes suddenly level with hers. Mary’s breath hitches. “I got you. Where do you need to go?”

“Stay… here.” Mary manages to slur finally, after a moment. Her tongue feels too heavy in her mouth.

She feels herself be propped up against the wall, her head lolling like a cut marionette. There’s a soft swoosh, and there’s a glass pressed into her hand.

“Water,” the soft voice says. “Drink up, Macdonald.”

Mary doesn’t ask how the figure knows her name. She gulps down the water like it’s all she needs to survive, reveling in the feeling of her mouth being moistened once again. God, she does really hate alcohol.

They stay like that for a while, Mary chugging glass after glass while the figure keeps conjuring more. At glass five, she finally turns and looks.

She recognizes the girl, if faintly. She’s a Hufflepuff in Mary’s year. Brown skin, dark loose curls scooped messily back from her face, a delicate pointed nose and lips. Her eyes, like melted gold, tracing every line and movement of Mary’s face. She’s bold, unashamed of openly staring. Mary, entranced, stares back.

The girl smiles, revealing two slightly crooked front teeth. “Feeling better?”

“Much.”

“I was worried I’d have to bring you to Madam Pomfrey if you didn’t sober up a little more. She likes me, but not that much.”

“You’re Hestia Jones.” Mary guesses, finally puzzling it out. “Seeker for Hufflepuff. You’re at the infirmary studying with Madam Pomfrey a lot.”

Hestia seems surprised, eyebrows lifting. “I didn’t realize anybody noticed me.”

“How couldn’t they?” Mary asks, genuine, staring at Hestia’s profile. There’s a smattering of freckles against her cheekbone. “Everybody knows who you are.”

Hestia blushes, pink and pretty, and looks down at her hands in her lap. “I mean, I could say the same for you. Muggleborn Mary Macdonald, who got three Outstandings in her O.W.L.S!”

“How do you know that?”

Hestia leaned in, voice a whisper. “Your two girlfriends are fond of talking about you, you know.”

Now it’s Mary’s turn to blush. “They’re not—we’re not—I’m not dating Lily.”

Hestia cocks her head. “I didn’t think you were.”

“Oh.”

“They’re proud of you, though. Lily and Marlene. The tall gangly boy, Remus, he is too.” Hestia leans in a little. “I pay attention to everyone, but you’re worth watching.”

Mary, feeling her neck burn, goes to chug her sixth glass, which has mysteriously been refilled while they’ve been talking. Afterwards, she mutters, darkly: “That’s not why you know who I am.”

It hangs like a dark cloud over her entire reputation. Mary Macdonald, not just a muggleborn but a mudblood, a slut who sleeps with any man who comes onto her. That’s what the Slytherins say, what they whisper after her. Those three outstandings, in Defense against the Dark Arts, Ancient Runes, and Charms, came from her sleeping with the teachers. She’s promiscuous and open: the worst thing any girl could ever be.

Hestia is quiet for a while. Then, softly: “If something happened… it’s not your fault, Mary. Those boys, they’re real dicks. They’re just threatened by you. Don’t let them dictate your future.”

Mary shakes her head, tears springing to her eyes. “You don’t know what happened.”

“I don’t need to, to know that you’re a good person, Mary Macdonald.”

She feels it deep in her chest, her next words: “Call me Marisol?” She’s never said that to anybody, not even Marlene or Lily. They wouldn’t understand, what her name means to her. Right here, right now, she needs Hestia to call her by her name, if only just to hear it again.

“Marisol. Pretty name.”

Mary smiles, and it triggers the tears to stream silently down her cheeks. She buries her head in her knees, sobbing openly. A hand presses between her shoulder blades, warm and present.

“Shh, it’s okay.” Hestia whispers, “I’ve got you, you’re okay.” The gentleness of it all makes Mary cry harder. The softness of Hestia’s touch is all she’s ever wanted. So, recklessly and craving more, Mary lifts her head, still crying, and presses her mouth to Hestia’s.

Mary has kissed girls before, back home. The summer before second year, she had a thing with a gymnast, Alessia, who had pretty black eyes and pin straight hair. She has fantasized about Lily, too.
Hestia is different. It is less passionate, instead softer but no less important. It warms Mary down to her very core, a sobering sensation that forces her to pull away suddenly.

They are very close, noses almost touching. Hestia’s pupils are blown, her chest rising and falling quickly. A curl has slipped loose from her bun, and Mary suddenly longs to run her fingers along it.

“Okay.” Hestia says, quiet and raspy. “We should get you to bed.” She clambers to her feet, pulling Mary up with her. The wave of drunkenness hits her when standing, but Hestia has a strong grip. Together, they make their way through the corridors, silent except for the soft pitter-patter of their feet.

The Fat Lady glares at them when they approach, but Mary mutters the password and she lets them in with an unimpressed “Hmpf!” Up the spiral stairs, to Mary’s dorm room, where Hestia pushes it open with her hip, now half-dragging Mary along with her.

Ellie’s asleep already in the furthest bed, curtains drawn tightly. The girls’ other roommate, who thinks they’re all supremely annoying and goes out of her way to make sure they all know. Mary makes a face in her direction, just before finding herself slumped unceremoniously into her bed.

“Shit, sorry!” Hestia whispers, reaching to pull her up and onto the bed fully on her back, reaching to pull the covers back. “Are you going to be okay here like this?”

“You’re an angel.” Mary slurs. “You’re a goddess. Goddess of fire but so sweet.”

“Get some sleep. I’ll let Marlene and Lily know I brought you back.”

She starts to turn back to the door, but Mary catches her wrist. Hestia looks back, face shadowed but no less lovely.

“They write poems about you. Pretty girl.”

Hestia’s brief smile is the brightest thing in the room. “Goodnight, Marisol.”

Mary stares after her for the longest time after she’s gone, until sleep fills in the blanks.

~*~

Hestia Jones becomes the most consistent thing in Mary’s life.

For weeks, they go crashing into empty bathrooms or classrooms together, lips locked. It started out slow and gentle, Hestia murmuring the whole time, walking Mary through it. The first few times, she’d had a panic attack, remembering, but Hestia sat and breathed with her. The more they fuck, the less Mary thinks of it. Hestia understands, but never asks.

They don’t talk much, aside from that one night. It scares Mary, the vulnerability. Hestia is so kind, so earnest, but Mary feels the pit in her stomach deepen with their every encounter.

She wants it to be Lily, truth be told. In those moments, she closes her eyes and thinks of Lily’s hands, Lily’s hair, Lily’s mouth. She moans Lily’s name. They don’t talk about that, either.

In public, they don’t address one another. Mary Macdonald only knows Hestia Jones as a friend of her friends, a girl in her year, a Quidditch captain. She does not know how Hestia’s stomach is freckled, how her thighs are spotted with stretch marks, how the birthmark across her left breast resembles a cloud. They are virtually strangers, in every way except one.

She goes to watch Quidditch matches and spends most of her time observing Hestia instead of James, Marlene, or Sirius. She watches how Hestia moves in dart straight lines, no wavering or hesitation. She’s quick, shooting across the field on the pursuit of the snitch in moments. Her hand jerks out, and suddenly she’s flying back to land, closed fist held up in victory to reveal the fluttering golden ball. The Hufflepuffs crowd around her, chanting, but Mary doesn’t lose sight of Hestia, blushing, turning to look up at the stands. Up at Mary.
It’s a brief glance, and from afar, but their eyes connect for just a second. Mary feels the current run down her spine. In that moment, Hestia’s eyes are the same gold as the snitch.

Sirius is pissed about the match. As soon as he’s down, he’s storming off to the showers, refusing to stop by anyone. Mary, Lily, Remus, and Peter head down to the field to meet with the other two. James and the Gryffindor captain, Maria-Gabrielle McGonagall, are engaged in a deep conversation. Marlene flies over to them.

“Shit out of luck!” She yells once she reaches earshot, propelling herself off her broom with a skilled maneuver to fall into Mary’s unsuspecting arms. Swooning, she bats her eyelashes up at Mary: “Will you still love me even if I lose, Macdonald?”

“I’ll love you no matter what.” Mary responds, and Marlene grins and bounces up.

“Pete, how were my stats?”
“Rough start, Diggory nearly got you nailed with that bludger, but a good recover. You should be more careful with your swinging, you nearly took out M.G. right near the end when she was racing over toward James.”

“You know,” Lily says, impressed. “I can’t believe you’re not a rockstar Quidditch player, Pete. Your knowledge almost rivals Potter.”

Peter flushes a deep red. Further down the pitch, James yelps. “Lilyflower, you wound me!”

“Guy has ears like a bat.” Marlene fake-whispers into Mary’s ear. Around Mary’s head, she calls: “Hey Moony, did you watch any of that?”

Mary’s never quite understood any of the boys’ silly nicknames, but the only one to really have stuck is Moony for Remus. He seems to respond to it immediately, head snapping up from where it was bent into his battered paperback.

“Pete elbowed me for the important bits, and Lily narrated the whole thing, so I basically saw it all.” Remus says, giving one of his odd half-smiles. Mary sometimes wonders how he’s not more popular with girls. He’s tall and lanky, and quite shy and quiet around most people, but he’s really rather handsome. She’d asked him once, at a Gryffindor party, why he was still single and he’d shrugged half-heartedly and then looked away at the drinks table, where Sirius and Lily were trying to see who could chug the most Firewhiskey in thirty seconds.

Oh. She understood in that moment.

Remus liked Lily.

It made sense: Remus was the first one of the boys that Lily actually warmed up to. Marlene was always one of the boys, she’d grown up with James and Peter after all, but Lily and Mary were fairly outcasted from that larger group at first, being the two muggleborns. They just so happened to share a dorm with Marlene, but their first foray into the group was really Lily and Remus, who partnered together in Potions in second year and found themselves bonding over books and studying. It was clear that they were good friends, but nothing had ever seemed to happen between them.

Of course, Mary was glad for that. She wanted Lily for herself, but that would never happen. Lily wasn’t a—

Lily didn’t like girls. Simple as that.

And Remus must have been hesitating because of James’ clear and persistent crush on Lily. Honourable, but suspicious. Mary never quite trusted Remus Lupin or got a clear read on him. He was an enigma, a mystery. She didn’t dislike him, and they got along well, but there was always an air of protection around him, like the boys and Lily were constantly guarding him from being truly seen.
Even last year, when the boys seemed to fracture. Nobody really explained it, but one day there was James, Peter, and Remus at breakfast, who didn’t seem to worry about Sirius not joining them. Only Pete seemed to speak to Sirius aside from cordial and brief comments, like James. Remus would barely even look in Sirius’ direction.

They seem to be doing better at the start of this year, but there’s still something fragile and delicate about it all. Strenuous. All, it seemed, with Remus at its center. That just adds to the mystery more.

Mary glances down at the book he's holding. Frankenstein. Interesting. She flicks her eyes back up at him, where Marlene is him about his ineptitude for Quidditch.

“I should probably go finish my essay for Transfiguration tomorrow.” Remus says, holding up his book as a shield to block Marlene’s face, which is easy given that Remus is easily 6’4 and Marlene is barely 5’6. “Still missing a few inches.”

Marlene tries to grab the book away from her face but fails. She slumps her shoulders in mock sadness. “I guess I should go shower, too.” She says, glumly.

“Please do, you stink.”

“Oh, don’t go there, Macdonald. I’ve smelled your morning breath.”

“Girls, please keep the peace.” Lily interjects, laughing. “We still have to share a dorm for another year and a half.”

Marlene sticks out her tongue behind Lily’s back, grabbing Remus and strolling off with him. Back on the pitch, James and Maria-Gabrielle have finished talking. He jogs over to them, pushing his hair up off his forehead, glistening with sweat.

“Lilyflower, are you still insulting my prowess?” He teases.

Mary is astounded to find Lily beet red, staring at James’ sweaty figure. “N—no.” She managed=s to stammer out.

Mary’s stomach does an odd backflip, jealousy rearing its ugly head. Through her buzzing ears, she cqn hear Peter asking James about the game, what Maria-Gabrielle was saying. She is still staring at Lily, who seems to be doing her best to melt back into the stands while continuing to go deeper red.

Shit.

Shit
shit
shit

Lily Evans actually likes James Potter.

Mary feels her heart shatter into a million pieces.

Of course it would never work. Of course Lily wouldn’t like someone like her. She would forever be the best friend, the one who understood her past but not her future.

Cause Lily likes magic. She's fantastic at it. She talks all the time about becoming a magic historian or a potioneer. She wants to live in this world. Who better to do it with than James Potter, rich pureblood who was destined to be a great Quidditch player once he left school?

Not Mary Macdonald, who only wants to go back home to her family and old life, go back to being Mari. Mari Macdonald would never be enough for Lily Evans.

And that should have been okay.

But it wasn’t.

Because Mary loves Lily.

And Lily doesn't love her back.

But she doesn’t turn away.

She doesn’t do anything.

She stands there, hands balled into fists, barely processing anything besides the wave of emotions in her head.

Across the field, at the exact moment that Marisol Macdonald’s heart shatters, Hestia looks back through the crowd of Hufflepuffs.

Because she pays attention.