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“Babe, there’s no chance in hell that man deserves this much tears. Knowing Lupin, he could never get it up unless he was face to face with Sirius bloody Black.
Mary would say she was done with these situations. First Lily, who’d been torn up over James confessing his love for her publicly just a month ago to him dating Charlotte a week later. The latter of whom had inevitably come to Mary when she felt like her boyfriend of two weeks wasn’t invested in the relationship. So it was safe to assume Mary was over it, especially since her advice always ended up being some variation of the line: ‘leave him, you’re much too good for that anyway’.
But Marlene was Mary’s best friend, and yes, she knew Lily was also special to her (in more ways than one) but Marlene was just Marlene. Soft spoken and smooth skinned, with sienna toned freckles dotting her nose cheeks and forehead, trailing to even scatter across her shoulders and collarbones, Marlene was obviously gorgeous in a way that made Mary physically ill. But she could also be contrary and notably mean when it was forced out of her, and if she could, Mary would give anything for Marlene to have those outbursts more if they didn’t wear her out so much.
Point being, Mary could not just simply brush off Remus breaking up with her very best friend after the mortification that was not being able to get it up even after copious amounts of foreplay. Particularly since Mary hadn’t sat through the torture of hearing about Remus Lupin lack of blood in dick for her usual but effective solution.
“But that’s the point Mare, if he dated me for two years he had to have liked me right? Was I just not… pretty enough for him to like… y’know?”
If she had been drinking anything, Mary would have spat it out all over the bathrobe she’d tossed haphazardly after Marlene had almost dragged her out the shower.
“Elle, if you ever say that again I’m letting all women everywhere know they have no chance and will involuntarily remain celibate forever.”
“The actual fuck are you on about Mare,” Marlene deadpans, breaking out of her distress momentarily.
“Babe, I'm saying if you think you’re not good enough, either you’re severely mistaken or none of us have a chance with anyone ever.”
Mary grins at the red dusting across Marlene’s cheeks, glad it was still February so Marlene’s summer tan didn’t hide the stunning blush across her face or the aforementioned freckles.
“You’re just saying that because you think all women are gorgeous,” Marlene retorts, ducking her head and shoving Mary playfully.
“I’m a lot of things, ma chérie, mais je n’ai jamais été un menteur. ‘sides, all women are gorgeous, that’s just a fact. I just appreciate it more than others,” Mary smiles, raising a brow at Marlene from where the girl is half turned to face her with her arm holding her up on Mary’s stomach.
Marlene huffs, petulant yet grinning back in relaxed humour and natural acceptance. “That doesn’t help me Mare, you’re just reminding me of my half-french half-evil rival.”
“Elle, come on you know it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the fact Remus is just a massive flamer,” Mary soothes, pulling Marlene back against her chest by her shoulders, untensing them in the process.
“Are you sure? You think he’s full-flamer and not just half here half there like Lils?”
“No way babe, first of all i’m sure Red trademarked that, and second I could bet 50 galleons I don’t have that he only said he was because he either hasn’t realised himself yet or he was trying to be noble and spare your feelings in case you thought the last two years were a lie.”
“Were they?” Marlene mutters, low enough that Mary wouldn’t have caught it if she hadn’t been resting her chin on Marlene’s head, inspecting the grown out roots she’d probably use a hair bleaching spell on in a week before Marlene herself realised they’d become noticeable.
Mary might be blunt sometimes and people assumed it was a result of general apathy, but this time she knew Marlene needed it.
“Was he happy around you Elle?”
“Yeah,” Marlene smiles to herself, “he really was the best guy I could’ve dated.”
“I beg to differ,” Mary mumbles, “but that’s beside the point. And were you happy with him?”
“Always.”
“There’s your answer then, babe. How could it have been a waste of time if you both had that much fun being around each other?”
Marlene goes silent, seeming to actually consider Mary’s point.
“I hate to say it,” she sighs, “but you’re right.”
“Tell me something I don't know,” Mary chuckles.
“And that’s why I hate to say it.”
Marlene sighs again, leaning onto her side with one hand flailing upwards to rest on Mary’s shoulder and the other lax across her waist.
Just like so many times before, they fell asleep like that.
Just like all those times before, Mary wakes up first and doesn’t say a thing. She removes herself, followed by Marlene immediately reaching her arms across to her before they flop down to drape over the bed, her long lithe limbs sprawled all across on top of Mary’s blanket. Knowing the temperature would drop in the next hour by the time she came back, Mary grabs Marlene’s teal duvet off her four poster and lays it on her best friend, assessing what was now a tangle of Mary’s own duvet around Marlene’s legs.
Mary leaves the room, glad for Saturdays and the lack of lessons, she heads to Professor Flitwick’s.
While he taught Charms, Mary had come to know the unassuming professor had a knack for the arts, and prior to being Hogwarts Charms master, he had been a freelance portrait painter. Now having almost completed her sixth year, Mary had realised Charms and art were most certainly her things. Lily had Runes and Herbology, which was evidenced by the plethora of potted magical plants adorning the windowsill of their dorm. Marlene had her Quidditch and Transfiguration, the former of which the other two girls were present for every match with Mary often attending the practices.
Just something about Marlene in kit speeding through the air and slowing down when she passed Mary’s perch in the teachers booth was only special when it was Mary in the stands alone. Most of the time, Marlene’s impromptu slo-mo out of a Witch Weekly was accompanied by a remark about James being a helicopter mum or miming Sirius fixing his hair with no hands on his broom to appeal to the masses of third to seventh year girls.
Knocking smartly on Flitwick’s office door, Mary is only stood outside for a minute before the man’s sing-song “do come in,” has her stepping into his office.
Without a need for prompting, he shuffles around the room till he’s stood in front of the polished mahogany cabinet which houses all his magical art supplies. Digging around for a minute or so, an ‘aha!’ followed by the clatter of canvases leads to Flitwick pulling out the deep purple basket Mary kept housed with him for safekeeping, full of everything he’d lent her in the past couple years along with a couple other bits she’d received from friends and family on Christmases and birthdays.
Mary smiles politely, accompanied by a “pleasure doing business with you professor” after holding her hand out for the magicked key to his classroom along with offering her arm for the ready-packed supplies.
“Anytime Miss Macdonald, and I'll be right here till about eight in the evening. If you’re not done by then you know what to do.
“Of course Professor, I’ll show you what I cook up if you’re still here.”
“Another back-view of a mysterious blonde with a completely coincidental number thirteen jersey I presume?”
“Maybe this time it’ll be a three quarter view.”
“And I'm guessing you’ll have a full portrait by the end of the year?”
“Let’s not get our hopes up Professor, baby steps,” she jests back, pulling the door shut behind her.
Traversing through the familiar corridors and down the usual pattern of shifting stairs, Mary unlocks the door, first using the key then a simple alohamora before setting up her materials. Situated for painting yet another even more familiar face, Mary decides it’s about time she breaks this pattern and opts for reverse charcoal, already too used to and too bored of the oil paints she’d become fond of since coming back after Christmas.
Naturally, she doesn’t leave the room till six hours have passed, her watch has almost gone eleven, and five three-quarter portraits later.