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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--------------------> THERE WERE A FEW MINUTES TILL FIVE when she returned home. Her father was still at work since it wasn't five-thirty yet while her mother was due to arrive late in the evening. In the corner of the parlour sat two large cardboard boxes, which after sneaking a peep in, Maeve found contained party decorations. Her father had remembered the surprise party Maeve had wanted to plan for her mother. Maeve's mouth curved into a crescent moon of a smile.
Maeve recruited the house-elves on her plan, instructing them to make all of her mother's favourite pastries and sweets. Then, she withdrew her wand from the holster and waved it around. Flamboyant streamers aligned into waves on the ceilings. The lights on the crystal chandelier that hung in the midpoint of the room dimmed to provide a calming atmosphere, and glowing bluebell flames floated up into the air.
Maeve fished out fairy lights and balloons from the boxes and strung them around the room before transfiguring ornaments on the walls. Gathering parchments from her room, Maeve wrote 'W E L C O M E B A C K' and drew patterns around it. She strung it through a thread, making a make-shift banner, and hooked it on the walls.
Barely had Maeve returned from the garden behind her house, a bunch of daisies and daffodils in her fists, when she heard the front door open. In a run that could have won a marathon, Maeve rushed to place the flowers at appropriate places before composing herself to greet whichever one of her parents had returned home first. A peek at the wall-clock informed her it was a little past six.
However, when Maeve heard multiple voices speak over each other, she stayed quiet, as to not interrupt the guests one of her parents had brought with her. In doing so, she accidentally eavesdropped on their conversation.
"—understand, but still," said the most dominating voice, which Maeve recognised belonged to Bruce's mother. "I mean, are you seeing the statistics, Marius? The death rates are horrifying. And Bruce... He's such a kind soul, and yes, I know he's safe at Hogwarts with Albus watching over him but he's going to graduate soon. What then, huh? Am I supposed to keep a keen ear for the radio for whether they'll call out the name of my son in the list of the day's dead? Or worse, what if he goes missing, and I won't even know if he's dead or not! He's seventeen. Seventeen. I shouldn't have to worry whether or not he'll cross twenty. And yet, I am. For Merlin's sake, I told him to not return for the holidays because I was afraid the train would be hijacked by that bastard's psycho followers!"
"That would never happen," the Headmaster assured smoothly, and Maeve could vaguely hear the sounds of coats being discarded onto racks. "I would never allow that to happen."
"I'm sure you'll not allow a lot of things, but that doesn't guarantee it won't actually happen," said Bruce's father, his American accent easily identifiable as the group moved closer to the parlour where Maeve stood frozen. "Look, Albus, I respect you greatly, I do. But the concerns we have are valid, especially since the international community is echoing them. Britain is in a war, however much you'd like to honey the word. So can you blame us for being worried about our only son? You've heard all about it in the newspapers which are practically singing those deaths!"
