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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
-------------------> UNFORTUNATELY, THE WORLD DIDN'T END. The earth wasn't flung out of its axis, didn't collide with a star and become space dust. The birds didn't stop singing, politicians didn't obtain moral codes, chocolate pudding continued to taste delicious, the pillars of Hogwarts still looked lonely, and the sky remained painted with virulent colours as if to mock her from a cosmic scale.
Maeve treasured the letters she wrote anonymously, and choosing to kill that part of her—Somebody—made her shatter her own heart, and use the shards to wound the most precious parts of her.
It was for the greater good, a vicious voice that strangely sounded like her Headmaster reminded her. The grand reveal of her identity could push people to spiral into darkness, and Maeve couldn't have that weighing on her conscience, certainly not after Headmaster Dumbledore had informed her about the situation. She couldn't claim obliviousness or ignorance anymore, just obvious ignoring of the situation.
Not to mention, despite her taking pride in doing such an activity, she truly did not know if her letters held any impact on the receivers; and if they did, Maeve was scared to wonder whether it was negative or positive.
Maeve's mind had been opened to a whole new cynical list of possibilities ever since she left Headmaster Dumbledore's office, and questions she hadn't earlier considered now tormented her. What if some didn't want to receive letters? What if some considered her letters annoyances? What if it was making them more upset?
It was the right thing, Maeve repeated for the nth time, and hopefully, if she echoed it on a loop, she would believe it. Because if it was the right thing to do, why did it feel so wrong?
Nevertheless, it had been done. Maeve had halted the letters she used to write under the pen-name 'Somebody' and buried that part of her.
But nothing happened.
Breakfast was eaten, assignments were copied, students were scolded, pudding was spilt (accidentally, but Maeve was mortified nevertheless. It was a sign of Murphy's Law in action and the subsequent destruction of all things happy), and plans were created.
The world didn't stop, didn't mourn, didn't show a single sign that Maeve's sacrifice was recognised or acknowledged. It was like it didn't matter, that she made a big deal out of nothing, that she was over-reacting.
Halley took to reminding Maeve that as it had only been a day since she had 'killed' Somebody, and considering the vast amount of letters she wrote per day and the even larger number of students at Hogwarts, most of them received her letters—whether or not they wanted it—scarcely, and so a day's absence wouldn't make a noticeable difference than say, a month; and so, the hunt for Somebody's identity continued to the rest of the school.
But Maeve did not listen to logic when she was sulking, or at all, except in special circumstances, so she merely hunched her shoulders more, scribbling the story of Miss Puppy, an adorably scary turkey vulture planning to rule the ocean kingdom, which was due for that week's edition of 'Musings With Maeve'.
