Chapter Text
The McKinnon sitting room looked as if someone had tipped out the contents of a department store and a fabric shop, then given it a brisk stir with a broom.
Lace-edged tablecloths hung over the backs of armchairs. Boxes of sugared almonds and paper parasols were stacked precariously beside a wireless that was half-playing, half-fizzling through a Bay City Rollers record. A bolt of deep green tartan had been draped over the mantelpiece like a flag, and the smell of hot pins and singed fabric hung in the air where Mrs McKinnon’s wand had been working overtime.
Marlene had been home less than four minutes when her mother tried to pin her to the carpet with a measuring tape.
“Hold still, for Merlin’s sake,” Mrs McKinnon barked, mouth full of pins. “You’re fidgeting like a bairn.”
“I’m not fidgeting, you’re stabbing me,” Marlene said, swatting the woman’s hand away before another pin could jab into her side. The bridesmaid dress was a muted gold satin with a drop waist and a skirt that wanted to cling in all the wrong places, the sort of thing you might see in a 1973 Witch Weekly spread. Mrs McKinnon insisted it was timeless. Marlene privately thought it looked like it had been cut from a pair of curtains.
From the doorway came a low whistle. “If I’d known you’d be trussed up like that, McKinnon, I’d have brought a camera.”
Marlene didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Dorcas was leaning against the frame, the sort of person who could make a doorway look like a magazine spread. She wore a sharply tailored two-piece suit in storm-grey, the trousers flaring just enough at the ankle to skim her polished boots. Her hair was braided close to her head in intricate rows that gleamed when they caught the light - precise, deliberate, and impossible not to look at.
The overall effect was effortless rebellion, and from the look on her mother’s face, Marlene knew the intended reaction had landed.
“You’re late,” Marlene said, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
“Trains,” Dorcas replied with a shrug, crossing the room in three strides. “Your mother’s stabbing you again, I see.”
“She calls it fitting,” Marlene muttered.
“Then I’ll stand well clear,” Dorcas said lightly, slipping her hands into her pockets. She caught Marlene’s eye for a moment too long - a quick spark, easily missed and Mrs McKinnon, none the wiser, moved on to tutting about hemlines.
Before she could continue her attack with the measuring tape, a crash came from the hallway, followed by Mary Macdonald’s unmistakable voice: “Don’t panic! I’ve got it!”
Mary appeared moments later, windblown and rosy-cheeked, balancing a box from which several teacups were actively attempting escape. Her skirt was riding up from where she’d clearly run the last hundred yards, and the smell of fish-and-chip vinegar clung faintly to her hair. Lily Evans followed, looking equal parts exasperated and amused.
“You were meant to levitate those,” Lily said, brushing droplets of coastal rain from her coat sleeve.
“I was! They just… well, they got ideas,” Mary said cheerfully, shoving the box onto an armchair that immediately tried to shuffle away from it. She spotted Dorcas. “Oh, you’re here. Excellent. The chaos quota just went up.”
“Flattered,” Dorcas said, leaning back against the wall with her arms folded.
The front door banged again. Sirius Black came in first, shrugging rain off his leather jacket, followed by James Potter, in an unbuttoned brown corduroy suit, the knot of his tie slightly skewed, his hair refusing any kind of order.
“Maaaarlene,” Sirius drawled, sweeping into an extravagant bow that nearly sent a stack of shortbread tins tumbling. “Your scandalous London boyfriend, as promised.”
“Better make it clear you’re joking before Aunt Isobel hears you,” Marlene said, plucking a roll of tartan from under his elbow.
“I am joking,” Sirius told the room in general, though his grin suggested otherwise.
James clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re here to improve the scenery and the dancing, not start rumours. How’s the blushing bride?”
“In hiding,” Marlene said, “and if you lot break anything before the ceremony, she’ll kill me before she kills you.”
Before anyone could reply, a grey owl swept in through the open window, scattering pins across the carpet. It dropped a folded copy of The Evening Prophet into Marlene’s lap and vanished into the salt-thick air.
The headline was printed in ink so black it looked wet:
ANOTHER WIZARD MISSING: MINISTRY INVESTIGATING.
The record on the wireless hissed through a gap in the song. Dorcas’s eyes found Marlene’s, sharp as flint.
Then Mary cleared her throat, as if physically pushing the mood away, and said brightly, “Right, who’s helping me rescue the rest of those teacups before they smash themselves?”
James leapt up immediately. Sirius followed, muttering about whether whisky could be involved, and the house fell back into its comfortable racket.
Mary led the way into the hallway, clutching another box to her chest. The cups inside rattled like they were plotting an escape.
“Mind those,” James said, stepping over a heap of tartan. “If they smash, your head’s going on the mantelpiece.”
“They’re fine,” Mary said, nudging the kitchen door open. “Sirius is the problem. He stacked the heaviest box on top of the lightest one.”
“That’s not a problem,” Sirius said, following them in and giving the dripping ends of his hair a shake. “That’s stacking.”
“It’s sabotage,” Mary shot back.
“It’s strategy,” Sirius said, dropping his jacket on the table and missing a sugar bowl by inches. “Keeps the lighter box from floating off. First rule of Hogwarts.”
James wiped rain off his glasses. “First rule of Hogwarts is don’t let Sirius near anything breakable. Remember Slughorn’s crystal punch bowl?”
“That was a political statement,” Sirius said. “And Elton Hex dropped his whole set of self-playing drums that same night, so I was hardly the worst.”
Mary shoved saucers at him. “These aren’t self-playing, so try not to hex them.”
“Merlin’s pants… just cups?” Sirius peered into the box. “No whisky, no biscuits, just cups. Mary, I’m starting to think you brought us here under false pretences.”
“I did,” she said sweetly, pressing a stack of saucers into James’s hands. “Now be useful.”
“Work is a cruel rumour,” Sirius declared, taking them anyway.
James loaded plates onto the dresser. “Hope you’re this helpful in a kilt. Pretty sure that’s why Marlene invited you.”
“I’ll be devastating in a kilt,” Sirius said. “Wind catches right, I’ll start new rumours faster than The Prophet‘s gossip column.”
Mary smirked. “For once, on purpose.”