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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----------------------> MAEVE HAD ONLY HEARD RUMOURS ABOUT IT, hushed whispers uttered in scared tones over how it would grip onto you and never let go despite how many times you attempted to shake it off, despite how many times you prayed in desperation for it to stop, for it to all be over, it would still stubbornly cling on and affect everything that you do. It was a legendary foe, frequent to arrive and nearly impossible to overcome and Maeve rued the day she attracted its mighty power.
Maeve, of course, was talking about writer's block; affectionately dubbed as the bane of her existence.
It felt suffocating, it felt as if every irking of inspiration, creativity and motivation had been sucked out of her, as if an eclipsed sun burnt across her valley of daffodils, blanketing the world into a breathless darkness.
The worst part was, it was during these terrible times that her quill and journal beckoned her to write, humming a merry, siren's call. However, Maeve couldn't write. No matter how much she wanted to, no matter how much she yearned to, no matter how much she forced herself to, she couldn't write past a word.
Usually to Maeve, the need to write something, anything would be everlasting and ever-present and she still felt the immense, overwhelming desire to do so. The only problem was, she didn't know what to write. If inspiration was everywhere, then why the hell couldn't she seem to find it?
It had been nearly two weeks since she had written something, let alone an article that she was proud of. Luckily, Maeve had written a tremendous amount of articles before the troublesome writer's block had decided to grace her and so, her Friday's column in the Daily Prophet, Musings with Maeve, was not left without words. Unfortunately, Maeve had now, apparently, forgotten how to use words.
Sure she penned down notes as her alter-ego, Somebody, but it wasn't the same as creating a new world with the power of words on a page. It wasn't the same as immersing herself into weaving a story, having full control about what occurred in it and what didn't, who died, who lived, everything. It wasn't the same as escaping into a world of her dictation where anything she wished to happen, would. Maybe it was close, but it wasn't the same at all.
Maeve had been plagued by writer's block two weeks ago, on the eventful day that the whole school started prioritising the need to decipher the identity of Somebody over their studies. The so-called game had become border-line obsessive to the seventh year Gryffindors and Slytherins since they both had something to push harder, to be victorious for.
Shortly after the Runes class that had led Maeve to silently claim Professor Babbling to be her least favourite teacher, James and Severus had taken the Wizard's Oath on all the pre-discussed conditions in the courtyard with practically the whole school as their witness, an action that had made Maeve difficultly swallow the overwhelming desire to bash her head against a tree to wake her up from the nightmare that Maeve was sure she was trapped in.
