ONE
Historians will look back at this moment in time, the traces filed away in some manila envelope marked in dark lettering “THE MISFORTUNATE HAPPENINGS OF M.J.M.”
When that moment comes, the reports will cite the wine as having been red.
“I thiiink I hate you,” Marlene sings, much too giddy and carefree and alive.
It’s been weeks since Mary last saw her— that last night in Scotland, their very last night at Hogwarts, a blur.
Marlene’s not changed much in the moments between then and now. She’s grown an inch or so, here or there. Not that Mary cares enough to take notice. Marlene’s always been tall — taller than Mary.
She’s still so, so beautiful.
There are layers of gold, tied tightly together in a knot off her shoulder. Her hair’s grown, Mary suspects. The roots at her head betray Marlene the same way that they have since childhood. Even in the dark corner of the tavern, Mary can make out the brown freckles along her cheeks. How they align so delicately. How their positions change when she smiles; when she sniffles; when she laughs too hard or too fast. It's a visible heaven to witness.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise then, when Marlene —the same girl Mary’s known for years— flops down onto the open seat next to Mary, wobbling when the chair shifts beneath her weight.
It’s certainly not the first time that they’ve met. There is too much overlap in their friends, in their lives, and in their histories for that. It’s not even the first time Mary and Marlene have engaged in a conversation that began with a declaration of hatred. Too many commonalities in their dispositions and ideas about the world.
In fact, Mary quietly believes that she and Marlene might have become great friends, if not at least allies in a more neutral position, had Marlene cared enough to try.
For a while, Mary believed that Marlene would outgrow the childishness of it all. That Marlene would outgrow the territorial sense of ownership and birthright to the people and things she loved. Of the that’s mine and don’t touch when Mary got too close.
Then Marlene and Now Marlene are the same, Mary knows. Evidenced by the slurring words of flame that Marlene throws Mary’s way; and in the groan that she lets leave her lips when Mary refuses to indulge.
Mary watches, eyebrows raised, as Marlene continues to struggle with futile attempts at steadying herself atop the stool. She’s mumbling now, something along the lines of Don’tlaugh and help me. Mary fulfills one request, but not the other, opting to down the last of her glass instead.
By now there’s a crowd forming somewhere behind them. It’s a quarter over eight and hours have passed since Mary has seen either of the grooms. Amongst the chaos, there’s a laugh that erupts—no doubt in the shape of a lovesick, spoilt man by the name of James Potter.
Ah. Sirius and Remus must still be present then.
Mary contemplates ignoring Marlene’s arrival. She’d much prefer ordering another round of red which she knows will drown her whole. She deserves another drink, she should try to enjoy herself tonight. Marlene obviously has been.
Two of their best mates have just gotten married, for Christ’s sake. As if there’s not a war on around them. Just like the idiots that they are, so terrified of everything but love and war. So innocent and unknowing.
So brave, she remembers Dumbledore saying.
So foolish, she remembers thinking.
They’re only children — the lot of them dumped freshly out of Hogwarts and into a battle of life and death. So when the barkeep asks if she’d like a refill, Mary only briefly recognizes the tilt in her own head before a glass of sparkling red appears.
Alas. There are worse ways to spend an evening.
She throws back the first sip experimentally, feeling the way it burns down the length of her throat. Mary knows without looking that Marlene’s watching the motion, following the liquor from the glass to her lips to the part of her body that yearns for warmth the most.
When Marlene’s focus finally travels back up, Mary’s already met her eyes.
In the end, it’s Marlene who breaks first. Her resolve only extended so far. “Y’know… I think you’re the worst. And.. an.. And I despise you so much.”
It is only after half a pint has disappeared — and with more effort than she’ll admit to having spent— that Mary decides she can no longer ignore the glare Marlene pins her way. She turns to face Marlene.
“You’re the worst and I despise how you..” Marlene repeats, slower this time. She hiccups when Mary laughs. “S’not funny.”
It’s really, really not. Mary laughs again anyway.
“I’m the worst and you despise me because?” Mary questions, reaching for her glass. It all feels very cat and mouse, and for some reason, Mary wants to play.
There are only a few sips remaining in Mary’s glass, and she should consider rejoining her friends soon. She can hear Peter on the piano now, the group of them humming along to some French musician Mary cannot remember the name of.
“I don’t,” Marlene sighs, wiping the palms of her hand against her knees. She lays her head against the countertop, hiccuping. “I love too.. I love her too much.. For all that.”
Mary doesn’t mean for what happens next to happen. But, as with most things in her life, the bad thing happens anyway.
The glass falls onto the table, shattering against the harsh wood. Instinctively, Mary throws herself over Marlene’s frame, attempting to shield her from the worst of the glassy mess.
The silence that follows is piercing. It alarms Mary at first. If not for their proximity, she might have believed that Marlene had fallen asleep right there on the bar top.
Except, as proximity of this nature often reveals, there’s a heartbeat beneath Mary’s own. A heart beating at a rate faster than a resting one should warrant.
Mary pulls back to examine the mess that she has created. The barkeep has already begun wringing a wet cloth to attend to the spilled wine. There, alongside centuries-old scratches and dents, are new cuts from her shattered glass. Mary feels bad for a moment about adding to the roughened wood. She runs her hand along the table, flinching when a piece of broken glass splinters her.
“Ah,” Mary says dramatically. Marlene sits up at the sound of her voice.
And that’s when Mary spots it. Right there, dripping down the front of Marlene’s neck. Dark red seeping into an otherwise bright suit.
There’s burgundy on Marlene’s shirt, from where Mary’s just splashed her wine.
TWO
Mary shouldn’t be here. She was invited and she agreed to go, but she really shouldn’t be here.
They’re at a party somewhere in West London, waiting for the clock to strike twelve. It’s the thirty-first of December nineteen seventy-eight, and Mary Macdonald needs to be as far away from Marlene McKinnon as possible.
She has managed to avoid Marlene for the better half of the last hour, up until people began pulling her aside to ask questions.
“Did ya have a go with Marlene again?” James had asked, the words coming out hurried.
Mary said nothing and so James, lovely James, never pressed.
“She’s looking for you,” Lily said, voice soft and punctual. She always held herself better than the rest of them.
“Okay,” Mary sighed. Lily sighed too.
Sometime later, a boy Mary had never seen before —but who looked identical to Sirius— approached her.
“Marlene-”
“I know.”
Now Mary’s hiding away in a bathroom cubicle, willing Gods she doesn’t believe in to cast a memory charm on Marlene. A simple Obliviate will do.
Instead, because Gods are nothing if not funny, the door to the washroom squeaks open. All other sounds outside are lost beneath a blaring of Don’t Fear The Reaper. Before the door closes, a microphone pierces through the noise.
“Five minutes until New Year's,” Mary hears a voice scream over the speakers, the door slamming shut on the last syllable. For a moment, it’s silent.
“I think,” says the intruder. Mary grimaces, drawing her feet up off the floor and bringing her knees into her chest. If she’s quiet, maybe Marlene won’t take notice. “No, I know.. I know that I would know.. if I were planning on kissing someone at midnight.”
Mary’s eyes slam closed, embarrassment seeping into her bones, lathering her skin. It had definitely not been her best moment, that.
“You an Marlene?” Remus asked, his arms draped around the shoulders of both Lily and Sirius. “Waitin’ for a ball to drop?”
The question felt rhetorical like the three of them already knew the answer before Mary did.
“What ball?” Mary asked.
“Ball, shoes,” Remus waved his hand over Sirius’ head. “An idiom is an idiom.”
“I-” She started, heat rising in her face. “I don’t.. I don’t know. It’s not like we’re together or something. If that’s what you’re after.”
“Ah,” Remus smiled. Something knowing and familiar shined behind his light eyes. “Been there.”
“But she’s your date for tonight,” Sirius said, a bit bewildered. “It’s common practice to kiss when the clock strikes.”
Sirius made it sound so simple. Like life could really be a fairytale without the complications.
“She’s not my date,” Mary said. Which wasn't necessarily a lie. A partial lie. An omitted truth. “Marlene invited me tonight, but you’re all here, too. I would’ve shown if any one of you invited me.”
“But we didn’t,” James said as he approached. “Invite you, that is.” He was carrying four drinks in his hand, each spilling over the top.
“Yeah… Only because Marlene asked first,” Mary sighed. “Look, I even think I overheard Longbottom say Marlene’s already got someone in mind for tonight. Someone she actually wants to kiss.”
And because the Gods are fucking hilarious, a voice from behind Mary asked, “Who am I kissing?”
Mary contemplates flushing herself down the drain. She’s heard stories about the toilets at the Ministry of Magic which do something similar.
“And I do know,” Marlene continues. “Because I’ve been looking for her all night.”
Mary’s heart drops. Slowly, painful and deadly, she lets her feet fall to the tile. The door to her cubicle opens not long after.
“Well, hello,” Marlene says. “Fancy seeing you here. Come often?”
And it’s not true, what Marlene said earlier. Mary’s only actively been avoiding her since eleven.
“Who have you been looking for? I can help you find her,” Mary offers, rambling so much that she doesn’t notice the step forward that Marlene takes.
“Oh, I know where she’s at,” Marlene says, grinning. Her eyes drop to Mary’s lips. “The question is, does she want to be found?”
Mary wants to be found. She wants to be found perhaps more than anything else in the world.
“Can I kiss you?” Marlene asks.
“If this,” Mary starts, stumbling over the words in her mouth. The conversation feels so foreign all of a sudden. “If this is just a New Year's thing, Marlene..”
The door to the washroom squeaks open, the sound from outside washing in. Nobody walks in and nobody walks out. There are cheers and laughter and the unmistakable shout of HAPPY NEW YEARS!
It’s the first of January in nineteen seventy-nine.
And so.
Mary reaches up, bringing Marlene’s face to her own. Marlene lets out a muffled grunt as Mary’s hands grasp at the back of her neck. One second, in a secluded bathroom, the world shifts.
One second and they’re kissing, like there’s not war and consequences and way too many questions not being answered. Two seconds, and Marlene’s pulling back. She rests her forehead against Mary’s.
“I’ve wanted to do that since last year,” Marlene says with a grin.
Mary laughs, but all she can think is I have wanted to do that for so much longer.
She looks up at Marlene then, noting her blush; how suddenly the blood has rushed into her cheeks. It’s so scarlet.
THREE
There’s a saying derived from Benjamin Franklin’s 1735 Almanac which goes along the lines of: three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
The decision to keep their relationship private had been a somewhat mutual decision. Too much was happening too fast and neither wanted the responsibility that came with being publicly together.
The issue with keeping a secret, of course, is that more than one person is involved in the act.
The secret almost fails the first time in January, just weeks after their New Year’s kiss.
James invites everyone over to his home for luncheon on a Sunday afternoon. The home itself is rather large, with double-glassed windows lining the front of the building. What must have once been overgrown greens which winded the entry podiums, now tan and frail. Nothing safe from the smells of dead grass and January weather. There is a golden welcome mat that greets Mary and Marlene at the front entrance.
Sometimes, even without his knowing or intentions, James makes it impossibly difficult to forget just how wealthy the Potters are; just how much money he has inherited.
The front door swings open when they approach, allowing the two of them to walk through the threshold. Dark, natural wood lines the floor to the foyer. There’s a matching round table that sits directly in the middle of the room. Atop the table is a golden trophy which reads ‘House Cup 1973, 75, 76, 77’.
Before Mary can call out to James, a small house elf appears, escorting them to the kitchen diner where Marlene and Mary join the rest of the group. They appear to be the last ones to arrive.
“Come together then?” James asks, smirking.
“No, we-”
“Well, we-”
Silence.
“We ended up on the same tram,” Marlene sighs, pulling her chair out from beneath the table. She sits with a slouch. “That’s all.”
At that, James’ eyebrows shoot up. Mary prepares to be on the defense, excuses drawing up at an alarming speed. Except, as quickly as the conversation is started, just as quickly is it forgotten.
“It’s snowing again,” Peter gasps, pointing out the large window. Sure enough, white flakes begin falling around them. “Y’know what this means.”
“I call Remus’ team!” James shouts, pushing himself up from his seated position. He rushes toward Remus, pulling him up from his chair by the collar, and out along the walkway leading to the exit. Sirius and Peter follow not long after.
Mary releases a breath she had no idea that she was holding.
There’s another instance, sometime in July, where Mary goes to hang up the telephone with an I love you across the line. She’s sitting with Lily outside The Roundhouse, waiting for the doors to open. An experimental theatrical group from America has come to perform Prometheus, which had interested both Lily and Mary, but not Marlene. So Marlene stood back whilst Mary and Lily caught the train to the Chalk Farm district, promising to ask many questions when the two returned.
It took all of two hours before Marlene had rung Mary, desperate to know if they had arrived safely. After far too many promises and a rushed declaration of love, Marlene whispers I love you in response, turning Mary’s heart inside out. It hadn’t felt as intense at the time until Lily asked Mary about it two weeks later.
Of course, all things come to a head in August at Marlene’s birthday party. She has a dark, purple bruise just above her collarbone. If Mary had been more prepared or Marlene more patient, the bruise might have been three inches lower.
Marlene offers to wear another pullover, something she could scrap together from the only boxes opened in their flat. Which is new. The togetherness of it all. What was once Mary’s things or Marlene’s stuff is now theirs.
Mary says no, of course. That Marlene looks too beautiful, too excited to show off. Nothing else matters. Not to Mary, not in the world. At this moment, Marlene McKinnon is everything.
So Marlene’s welcoming their friends to the party with a reasonable-sized lovebite that screams look at me and ask questions, please.
In the end, nobody asks besides Remus, who mentions something about Sirius owing everyone a fiver. Mary laughs and tells him that Sirius is so rich, that he wouldn’t even take notice.
Later that night, in the shared spaces of home and ours and forever, Marlene bites and soothes and kisses. There’s an identical reminder on Mary now, that Marlene existed and loved in the space where Mary’s shoulders meet her chest. In the open expanse of her ribcage. In each crevice of Mary’s body that Marlene’s mouth can reach. Her thighs and the bottom of her spine. In the places Marlene can’t quite get to, but somehow already exists in. In Mary’s mind and in her heart.
The marks she sees on Mary’s collarbone, are the ones she leaves visible to the world. She tastes like honey and Marlene has an insatiable hunger.
FOUR
They’re in a row again, for what feels like the sixth time this week. They argue over stupid, insignificant, little things like dinner and the weather. They scream about larger things like money and the war. There’s not a same page to be had when they read from different books.
Marlene leaves on the eighth of May nineteen eighty-one and Mary does not hear from her again until the twelfth. She leaves a note on the doorstep, addressed to Mary from West Ealing. She’s gone home to be with family —with her mum and her brothers.
Mary owls. Marlene returns to sender.
Mary calls. Marlene sends her to voicemail. Rust begins to grow.
FIVE
She finds the McKinnons in late August of nineteen eighty-one. Marlene had gone first, evidenced by the scene of the crime, and confirmed by the body examiners. At first, Mary neither screams nor cries.
No. It takes weeks for the numbness of her body to subside.
The feelings come back to her in dreams. In the nightmares that develop, the ones Mary has about Marlene finally answering when she rings or responding to an owl post. There’s an image, stuck on replay, in Mary’s head for months. She learns to sleep with open eyes, lest she be reminded of the horror. She can’t blink without seeing her, breathe without smelling her, live without feeling her.
She remembers the night of Sirius and Remus’ wedding often, remembers Marlene’s drunk confession, and the burgundy dripping down her collar. She remembers New Year's —the way blood rushed to Marlene’s cheeks in the bathroom cubicle. She remembers her birthday and Christmas and every single moment since that first day on the train in nineteen seventy-one.
She remembers it all and yet, the only picture that comes back to her in visions is from that night. Marlene had been the one to open the door. She had let him into her family’s home. She had been the first to go, not knowing what would happen to her mum or her brothers.
Marlene had been so light and carefree and alive, at some point. Mary should have been there.
She closes her eyes for the first time since Marlene’s death and the only thing she sees is Marlene. Marlene, at the front entryway, drained of all color. The lips Mary used to call home, so scarlet, turned blue.
(+1)
Dear you,
It's officially Wedding Day! Isn't that something?
I was uncertain whether or not I wanted to write to you this morning. I haven't written you in years and I feel terribly about that. I find it difficult to write sometimes when I have no address to forward my writings to. Some people, mainly my mum and her bab, say that that's just an excuse I've conjured up to make myself feel better. Apparently, I need to feel better because of the fact that I'm still coping. I wish I wasn't. Coping, I mean. I feel as though grief should have an expiration, no? If not for your sake, then mine. Like, at some point, I should be able to sleep without dreaming of you or exist without thinking of you. Maybe not. Maybe that's important for keeping you alive.
Speaking of, I think you'd find it quite strange actually, the way everyone fusses so hard about keeping you alive. You were never one to visit gravesites or pray over the deceased. I used to not understand. I'm not sure I do now. But I think I might, someday. We never talked about life after death, which strikes me as odd considering we walked alongside Death quite often back then.
Did I mention Voldemort's gone? Gone, as in, gone gone. James and Lily's boy Harry -- he defeated the Dark Lord. He's just a child, only finished up with schooling last month. A kid defeated the Dark Lord.
God, Marlene I wish you could see it. London is like something you've never seen before. It's a completely different place now that Voldemort's gone, it's like people can finally live. There's so much right within the world now that you're not here.
I'm mucking this up. I think what I'm trying to say is that it's unfair. I find it unfair that the world got to become so bright and good again after you left us. After you left me.
I really didn't start writing this to be a sap, I promise. Like I said, I wasn't sure I even had what it would take to write to you today until Lily made me swear I would. Lily.. she's still great, yeah. She's actually my bride, believe it or not. Maybe I shouldn't be telling you all this, it's just.. I mean.
Marley, I swear. It's like, for a while there I wasn't sure I'd reach this level of happiness again, or if I did, that I wouldn't know what to do with it. I know it's wrong to compare you two and I would never do that, to either of you. I just.. I just want you to know that I'm taken care of, just like I hope that you are at the moment. I couldn't close my eyes for weeks after I lost you. She stayed with me, in that house, in our home, watching and waiting whilst I slept for the first time in months. She had a newborn on her hip, a dark Lord on her back, and she was making sure that I left the bed at least once before nightfall.
She saved me, Marlene. When I couldn't save myself.
If things were different, I might say something like, oh you'd love her Marlene, but I don't need to. I know you do. We all loved love each other. She looks so, so beautiful tonight. Her dress, her makeup. Her.
It's summertime and the roots of her hair have gone a darker maroon. She's got this hairclip that she purchased specifically for today. It's shaped like a butterfly. I tell her all the time about how I wish I could fly to you. I don't think she knows how much that detail means to me.
I miss you. I love you. I have to go
Love,
From Yours,
Mary
p.s. I tried very diligently to stop starting sentences off with I think when what I really want to say is I know. you taught me that. I think I still fail. I know I'm still failing you, sometimes. I try to be better every day. She makes me better every day. You make me better every day.