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[moragxmacdougal-blog]

[If the girl is blushing, a rosy hue rising to her cheeks and throat beneath her pallor, it goes unnoticed in the darkness and excused by the boy's surprising and sudden fervor.] "That... surprisingly makes a lot of sense, Nott." [The reply is uttered with a certain amount of surprise, and Morag purses her lips to convey her mild fascination at his conclusion. His actions are more pronounced than she's ever seen them and his enthusiasm is contagious- something she though to be a myth prior to this very moment.] "I can appreciate that." [She mimics his hand wave and then turns her head to follow his gaze, eyes landing on the aforementioned pergola.] "Aye. Then a taciturn astrologer I shall be, Theodore. So long as there is no risk of wolves--" [She's solemn and her brogue is somehow thicker, as if she's not working as hard to conceal it, but beneath the solemnity there's a gleam in her eye that suggests she's being humorous, in her way.]

Salt in the wound, sweetheart. [He snickers in spite of himself; his amusement is easily won.] Oh, nothing… it’s just… Greengrass gets this look on her face and her gaze is sharper than any dagger, you know? Maybe you or Zabini don’t, but Malfoy knows it too! Not really. So long as our interests coincide, I suppose? I think people want us to act like a hive mind, when in actuality we’re just agents of our own best interests. [His dismissive hand wave is more emphatic than intended.] I don’t need a chaperone, Morag! Merlin! I need someone that appreciates silence and the stars. — See the ivory pergola in the distance? Perks of being dragged by the collar to Greengrass dinners.

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You're better, I suppose, but not by much. [she smirks, pleased with the jab and then immediately worries that he may have taken it seriously- this feeling lingers for several seconds until he suggest they walk together] What've you done now? I was under the impression that your lot got along most of the time- all silver tongue serpents, you are. Alright, alright, I'll come along. You seem to need someone to shroud you from any sly hexes anyway.

Noooo. I am utterly and… wholeheartedly! Insulted that you would presume that I am no better than Malfoy or Parkinson! So, no. I may or may not have made our hostess very upset over a simple misunderstanding, so I need to take a walk. With you. Please.

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I'm not entirely sure that's an accurate statement, Theo. What fun could an eagle have amongst a nest of snakes? Unless, of course, I'm to be the source of entertainment?

Mor — Morag, I swear, you’re not going to regret this. Come with me!

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"I doubt you could tell it was written by a muggle or not, merely based on the verbiage. I have a small collection of intriguing literature, magical or not." She shrugged- the pureblood had never been taught equality, but still the thought of keeping the muggle writers works on the same shelves as her celebrated wizard tomes made her skin begin to crawl. It wasn't as though they were worthy.

"I suppose it's the content. Muggle writers are wonderfully imaginative. It's actually quite adorable- I suppose they must have some direction for the creative parts of the human mind since they can't channel it into magical ability. That still doesn't explain the meaning of the word 'dystopia', however. From what I've gathered it's some sort of bleak, desolate realm."

❝I must say--

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❝I must say--

"-- this Margaret Atwood is positively witchy. How can it be true that she's not of magical heritage? Despite the Muggle references, her novels are surprisingly intriguing. Although I should ask- what does dystopian mean?"

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“Well why shouldn’t I tell you apart from your brothers? You’re Harry’s best friend, everyone knows that,” she said all of this as though he were silly- and it was true. Everyone knew the gangly redhead as Potter’s best man, and should easily be able to pick him from the rest of the Weasley clan. She was smiling at him now, one redhead to another- some said that they all looked alike, redheads and Weasleys, but she knew better. She didn’t realize that this could be taken as an awkward reaction to the current conversation, but she was thoroughly enjoying it. “Oh, the Yule Ball? She told us everything. The Ravenclaw house was and is very close, as surprising as that may seem. Apart from marks and intelligence, there was no real cause for competition between us, and thus we became best friends. Being best friends entitles you to everyone’s gossip, and I do mean everyone’s.” The redhead shrugged a little and tilted her head, as if all of this didn’t matter- as if knowing the intimate details of that night and his apparent failure as a date were inconsequential minutiae in the grand scheme of things. Morag was like this- like many others in her house- she analyzed information as she came upon it for its importance, and then discarded it if it seemed as though it might not help her toward her end game. In this case, the information had been laid out to remind him of his weakness, to drop him down from whatever high horse he might be riding on (his contribution to Potter’s success or the fact that he was playing Florence Nightengale to so many half-breeds). This was not, of course, for any reason of malignant origin; it was merely how she operated when she desired information that was being kept from her. It wasn’t something the was proud of, her ability to manipulate, but it’d come in handy when coupled with the façade of the quiet, shy girl that she wore so easily. 

She was aware of the man upstairs, but he posed no threat to them. He looked worn around the edges- a father doing a bit of week-end shopping for his little ones, she assumed. Perhaps the mother wasn’t in the picture, or maybe she had been, once. The war did that to families. It hadn’t been only death that ripped them to shreds, but living life knowing that the person you’d married had a specific set of ideals, when it came down to things. Or, the stress of it all drove them apart, like a great wedge hammered into place by fear and distrust and horror. Morag had seen the articles in the Prophet that spoke about these things, and she’d been thankful that her mother and father loved each other in such a way to never be affected by silly things such as wars and battles fought not for them, but for another class entirely. It wasn’t their place to intervene, and so they hadn’t. Except, of course, when their daughter’s life had fallen into danger. Only then had they risked what little renown they still had in England to whisk their only heir away from the din and chaos that Hogwarts had fallen into. She was thankful for this, but also a bit forlorn that she’d missed the most exciting parts of the battle- it was as though she’d been reading a book and then just as she made it to the plot’s climax, she’d found that the pages had been torn out, leaving only the happy (or so they claimed) and torment-less conclusion. 

“I think that one should only join a cause if they believe in it. If they don’t, then what’s the point of staking one’s reputation on such a trivial thing?” she asked flippantly, tilting her head the other way. “Perhaps that’s why I haven’t. Or perhaps, I saw how badly things went for those who chose definitive sides the first time things went bad, and now I’m a bit more careful about voicing what I do or don’t support, mm?” She was being antagonizing, and she knew this, but it was only to help him recognize her point of view. Sometimes Gryffindors (or anyone who’d fought as a soldier for Dumbledore or Potter in the second war) seemed so keen to push their chivalry, their greatness on people that they didn’t understand that others might have a varying set of morals. The basis of right and wrong did not, as they say, lay in the eye of the beholder. Therein lie the trouble, she supposed. “I should be worried about those that don’t want to be locked up against their will. Why won’t they? It’s for their safety and ours. The potion might be your way of contributing to a safer night, but what if you weren’t around the ferry contraband across the invisible lines in the sand? What then? These so-called oppressed beings would be loose wolves, likely wandering the streets or caged in their homes and riotous, potentially causing harm to others. I mean no disrespect, Ron, but what happens if there isn’t someone around to break the law for those that refuse to honor it? Only bad can come of this, I know that you know that, elsewise you wouldn’t be so keen on getting this shipment out the door.”

Peddling Potions For Werewolves ♯ (Ron & Morag)

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I wouldn't know, she thought but didn't say. That might be giving away too much about herself for her liking. She realized that she'd already said quite a bit and she suddenly reverted, mentally, into her shell. She did not know Percy Weasley, even know, after they'd spoken, and he did not know her. "Status is only everything to those that place value on it," she hummed quietly, staying carefully neutral. To her mum and dad, status was not everything- but it was something. She'd been raised to understand her superiority to those without magical cells running through their veins, and so she truly believed it. Morag had, of course, learned during the war that it might not do well to broadcast that belief. Plus, she'd been schooled along so many half-bloods that it was sometimes hard to remember who was which, especially when those like Hermione Granger consistently outscored her in their yearly marks. 

"Well, murder and touting your lineage are two very different things, though I suppose those that do one or the other are more likely to practice both, considering what I've learned about the war," she noted, eying the book in his hands. Was he going to buy it? Or should she move on to another tome, just as old? "I detest paperwork. Penmanship is not my finest talent. It is such a bore. I often charmed my quill to write for me when I was at Hogwarts," she revealed with a slightly dramatic sigh. "I don't suppose you're going to give that up, are you?" The redhead nodded at the book in his hands, a little wistful. She sighed. Outside the sky was churning, threatening to rain again as it did so often in the late spring. Morag found that it reminded her of home, but sometimes she wished it'd dry up already and give way to the wild tangle of summer that came after. Those were the glorious days, tinged with golden sunshine and extra hours of daylight; days spent reading by ponds and in the park or basking on her overlarge windowsill like a cat. She longed for them during the darkest hours of winter and now they were so close she could all but taste the freshly cut grass on her tongue.

"If not, I think I'd better get going," she said hastily, rocking backward on her heels, her words quiet to match the atmosphere of the shop. "Although if you ever feel like loaning it out, owl me?" The Ravenclaw offered a little smile, more for herself and the success of this social interaction than for her companion, before turning on her heel and wafting through the jumble of shelves toward the shop door.

{ of osmics and octavos } | percy & morag

[moragxmacdougal-blog]

This is where you reign.

You are the daughter 

of the wolves and the breeze.

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“I know what a Marching Manticore is,” Morag said lightly, batting away the sand with which he tried to confuse her as though she were the northern wind. Hogwarts years were small, and she’d heard of Ronald’s expertise at wizarding chess long before that fateful night in the dungeons- the details of which had never quite surfaced, at least not in the Ravenclaw common room. He was playing defense- and spectacularly so; she’d cornered his queen early and now he was making plays in other sectors of the board in an attempt to draw her attention. It wasn’t that easy. The Ravenclaw house held weekly chess tournaments. She was standing close now, just on the other side of the counter, and she found herself reaching out with one finger to trace the edge of the box, her gaze lingering on the secreted away potions and their compartments. It was clever, really, but still illegal. “I could report you, you know,” she said quietly, frowning as though she weren’t quite sure the origin of that particular thought, just that it was logical and that she’d meant it as an observation- certainly not a threat. “I was in Ravenclaw, if that’s what you’re asking. And no, we never met, although we were in the same year. I knew Luna, but I don’t think she fancied me much. She is an odd girl. Interesting, though. My name’s Morag. Morag MacDougal? And you’re Ronald Weasley, but everyone knows that. You took Padma to the Yule Ball.” It was a funny thought to bring up, of all of the memories associated with the gangly redheaded Gryffindor.

Morag smiled a little, her shock all but dissipated now because, truthfully, the damage was already done. Her hands were clean in all of this, and she wasn’t about to dwell on the disastrous route down which he was headed. She’d withdrawn her hand, the single digit tucked back amongst the others and curled tightly against the rise of her palm, where they were almost certainly leaving half-moon indentions. How could he be doing this? Was he not risking everything he’d fought for in the war for a silly prank- or smuggling ring, whatever it was. Apparently, Ron Weasley hadn’t got his fill of excitement, although Morag didn’t find herself all that surprised. It was in their nature, was it not? She’d attended Hogwarts sandwiched in between several of them, and it was a good week when one of the redheaded troop wasn’t in detention. Nearly all of them had played Quidditch, too, so she supposed that it was a good outlet for them, and that Ron was simply bored. “You’re helping them,” she said quietly, looking over her shoulder as the bell tinkled, indicated another had entered, but they’d shuffled off upstairs, clearly in search of something not related to the recent werewolf uprising. “Why?” she asked, placing her hands on the edge of the counter and leaning in slightly. The ice in her eyes was neither cold nor calculating, but rather earnest and shrouded in a coronet of pale lashes.

The desire for an answer to this puzzling riddle overtook her at once and her fingertips pressed more fervently into the surface of the counter. “Why?” she repeated. “I won’t tell a soul, who have I to tell, anyhow? Padma probably wouldn’t allow me to bring you up in a conversation, so you’re safe on that front.” She was not swayed by his approach or his forceful hand motions, but rather intrigued by those as well. The redhead was, almost, like a wild creature who’d never before seen people- she’d never been harmed by them before, so why should she be afraid? Morag blinked at Ron. “What’s so obvious about it?” she hissed, aware of the person that now lingered upstairs. “It seems more obvious to me that the creatures are dangerous, and should be locked away. Where are those going?” She pointed at the potions. “Shouldn’t the ones who’ve turned themselves in for safekeeping have priority over those who’re on the run?”

Peddling Potions For Werewolves ♯ (Ron & Morag)

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 “Oh- I see. You’re one of those. I’ve heard of your lot. Are you an Unspeakable, then? It figures- the one Ministry occupation I have the most interest in and there’s not a bloody way to figure out anything about it-” The redhead paused, placing a hand over her mouth, eyes wide when she realized she’d swore. “Sorry.” She folded her arms across her chest, a tactic she used sometimes to make herself feel small and safe, though it wasn’t tied to any one particular feeling. Being out and about, in public, around people.. she felt the need to become small and unseen. It was often the reason she so readily retreated to books after a time spent out; it was the way that she decompressed. “Have you got any particularly good ciphers?” Morag briefly debated asking him to owl her one, but thought against it. They were hardly acquaintances.

  She decided, right then, that she enjoyed conversing with Theo. He wasn’t really like the others in that he didn’t demand personal information from her because he so readily did not want to exchange it for his own, she realized at once. She didn’t mind. Histories and tales of excellence; grandeur and falls from grace… it didn’t interest her, really, if they weren’t written down and bound painstakingly beneath two leather covers. Morag didn’t care to know where one came from, simply because she didn’t believe that that was an accurate picture of the person she was presently conversing with. True, there were some that adamantly stood by the adage that a person was built by the prior successes and failures, but Morag was not of this school of thought. She found that a person was shaped by the present moment and was constantly changing, and she preferred to know that version of them rather than some outdated and preconceived notion of what they could have been.

The exterior shell returned (she recognized it only because it was also a defense of her own, although her shell was less droll and cold), and her lips pressed together into a thin smile. It was a warning, she found. Not truly- he was not threatening her- but she could sense that she’d trod too close to something that he might not want to reveal. The Ravenclaw inwardly pulled back and put up a layer of her own and it settled across her face like a thin veil. “Page counts are only an end if you wish them to be. There’s no stopping you from diving into the next story,” she pointed out gently, then shook her head lightly when he spoke again. “Well then, it sounds as though you’ve got it all figured out. You’re a mysterious fellow, Theo. Has anyone told you that? I suppose they have.” She ignored the slip but tucked it away to be pried out and smoothed like a crumpled piece of paper and examined later. “You’re not, but if you’d rather go, don’t let me hold you back.” Morag smiled again, smaller this time. “Time is money,” she repeated, her voice thin and almost ghostly. “It’s been nice talking to you. And good to finally formally be acquainted.”

Unlocking the inner machinations of another person’s mind was like a lock with the key just out of one’s grasp; venturing into an active mind was fraught with difficulty, the thought tendrils curling into coils at the slightest provocation. Progress was slow, but patience was a needed virtue. Puzzles kept a brain active and pushed it to its capacity and beyond — pondering, absorbing, learning. “I can’t say exactly,” he said, with a curt nod at her sentiment. The blonde was a stickler for rules, a habit deeply ingrained since childhood. “But, I enjoy a clever cipher every now and again, along with the classic logic puzzle — any combination of words that engage more than simple entertainment.”

Hogwarts had been a controlled environment in which he could observe his classmates, as they were unaware of his presence in the woodwork. Outside in the real world, it was much harder to do with their lives pulling in all sorts of directions. He relished the role of observer; this environment required interaction and absolutely required taking on the role of participant. And that had been what Theo had done, throwing out the line to the MacDougal girl and reeling her in for small talk. Curiously, despite the lack of proper acquaintance during school, this conversation transcended insignificant small talk and dull topics. The caveat, however, was that it hinged on giving out personal preferences and details that he held close at all times.

"Consider yourself lucky," he replied coolly, his careful and detached exterior returning to the forefront. The unpleasant feelings dredged up by the increasingly personal conversation caused his stoic demeanor to falter, just for those few inconsiderate seconds. Carrying himself well in front of others — especially strangers and old classmates — had always been stressed, thus his snap was quite unbecoming. But the demure redhead wasn’t forceful or commanding like Parkinson or Greengrass, so Theo wasn’t concerned with making proper amends. "A cure? No. Books are a means to an escape but that only lasts so long as the page count, correct? I’ve found my own brand of remedy that takes the edge off almost immediately," he continued, willing himself not to fidget anymore. "I’m not proud of it. But it helps." And that admission caused him to retreat hastily with, “I’m not keeping you from shopping, am I? Just say so, love. Time is money, of course.”

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She didn't need to be reminded that the youngest Weasley boy skated through his courses at Hogwarts by the grace of having the good luck to be friends with the likes of Granger and Potter- one who absorbed talent from books and the other who nearly burst with raw, untapped power. It was a shame, although she supposed that they'd eventually all grown into their greatness, even if it was during such a dreadful event. "I can't imagine working there. There are so many... people," she admitted with a tiny shudder that rattled through the bones in her shoulders. The redhead gave the other a small wince of a smile when he pointed out what exactly he'd said. "Oh, of course, I mean, I know you didn't. It's just- these days, you know.. If you're a pureblood it's almost as though you're under a magnifying glass or something."

Morag didn't really feel that way, but it was something she'd heard someone else say. Her family had been completely and beautifully neutral. She wouldn't deny (well, she probably would) that there were certain aspects of dark magic that appealed to her knowledge-driven mind; and of course there were also certain subjects and topics that she'd studied at school that she found quite appealing. Charms and the History of Magic, to name just two. Morag would've gladly stayed at the school two more years and taken loads more classes- she so desired to devour knowledge like some deep sea creature, perhaps like a lake dwelling creature. Her lips quirked a little at the thought and for the first time she thought that perhaps her father had named her correctly. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to presume, or to put words in your mouth-" she said, shifting uneasily on the spot and looking everywhere but his face. "-truly, I didn't. I guess I really don't know what to say, after the fact, you know?" How did one proclaim their independence of the horrible acts of war while still advertising the purity of the one thing their family and ancestors held so dear? Did it do well to dwell on one and not the other? What then, was the correct option? Morag chewed her lip a little and finally met the pale blues of his irises, blinking quickly and changing the subject even though she'd rather just leave- but he had the book she'd laid claim to. "Your job- you like it, then? The Ministry isn't as boring as it sounds?"

{ of osmics and octavos } | percy & morag

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"No thank you," Morag replied succinctly, the expression of exasperation from the male coming across as a lewd request- and whether she'd interpreted it as that or a joke, it wasn't outwardly clear. Still, there was the slightest glint in the Ravenclaw's pale gaze that might've suggested that she indeed got the joke and was merely stoking the flame. Although, the shy redhead normally didn't tease- she didn't really see the point in doing so when the truth so adequately spoke volumes about a person's character. It also happened that people didn't much care to hear the truth, and herein she'd discovered the 'point' of teasing- it was a way to veil one's truths and observation of faults in humor and good-natured jabs without setting a match to the bonds of friendship. Morag had, of course, observed all of this from her quiet corner, tucked away into the nonfiction section of the Ravenclaw common room- humans were terribly interesting creatures in the ways in which they interacted. Girls,  it seemed, had used humor and teasing to build their power amongst the group, always vying for some sort of top leadership position that she didn't quite understand. Boys, on the other hand, utilized their jabs and hidden criticisms as a from of affectionate 'flirting', almost. It was intriguing, the way that females used the knowledge they gained as a way to tear each other down while the males seemed (as a whole) more accepting of their flaws as a collective group and celebrated them (or ignored them altogether).

And thus was the furthest that Morag had ventured into the realm of platonic playfulness. The Patil twins had occasionally teased her, but after several blank, blinking frowns, they'd eventually stopped in favor of better, more entertaining subjects. Now she stood, still concealed by the shelving unit, blinking at the second-youngest Weasley. Amid the shop that was decorated brightly, largely in warm hues, the two redheads stood- one grouchily ignoring the other who looked on in veiled bemusement, if not slight concern. They could have been siblings- maybe, probably, but their coloring was different to those that looked close enough. Morag's hair was more coolly red, contrasting sharply with the extreme milkiness of her skin while Ron was freckled and orange-headed with pale lashes and eyebrows. Both similar in both looks and class, and yet so very, very different. She moved to the side, revealing herself and almost feeling a bit bad about surprising him but then she reminded herself that he was the one performing acts of questionable legality. "Well, then. If they aren't boxing telescopes-" Morag looked pointedly at the label on the side of the box. "- then what are they?"

"Oh, I don't need anything," she said hastily, shaking her head a little. "Can't one browse and not be condemned for it?" She tilted her head, brows pinching in the middle of her forehead while she drew slowly closer, one step at a time, and peered into the box. It was a clever operation- not the best she'd seen- but clever enough, she supposed, to outwit the Ministry who was otherwise distracted at the present moment. She pursed her lips. "They're potions." Her gaze snapped upward, icy hues meeting warm blue irises that spoke of humor and mirth and certainly not criminal inclinations. "You're smuggling potions!" Her voice peaked- the shout was about as loud as a normal person's speaking volume- and then she immediately grew quiet again. "Why?" Certainly Ron Weasley would know that those afflicted by the lycan disease were terrible, ugly beings- he'd grown up in a respectable enough family (well, before the activities of the war- their reputation had been altered greatly afterwards, and it was entirely dependent on whom you asked whether they thought the Weasleys were a positive or negative force within society-). Her question hung in the air between them, heavy and noiseless while music jingled on from upstairs and she felt the need to add something more, so she looked around slowly at the expansive shop. "It's quite a big risk to take," the Ravenclaw commented lightly, her eyes falling back to his face.

Peddling Potions For Werewolves ♯ (Ron & Morag)

[moragxmacdougal-blog]

"I don’t really have a process. I’m very much an in-the-moment actress. I suppose I just kind of wing it because I feel that as long as I know my character, I should be able to be spontaneous on set." -Sophie Turner

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praise the eternal justice of man ✉ morag&theo

Theo: I can see how the noise could startle or offend the other owls whilst in his excited state -- it's quite humorous, actually, I don't think I met an owl that flew off before I was done sealing the letter. Apologies for that last one. When I find a suitable novel for you to read from my collection, you can meet Penny and see for yourself.

Theo: You won't find a single title in my family library. Did they? That's interesting, to say the least. I suppose I should ask: do you have Muggle authors in your library? Reading the books in my library was entertaining for a while, but then I needed more entertainment than they provided. Excellent. I'll be sure to find something to serve you well at your flat. I see. Well, again, I appreciate the gift.

Morag: He's certainly not of the quiet disposition. But it most certainly keeps me on my toes- one can hardly scritch out a sentence for fear that my dreadful fowl will screech and ruin the page!

Morag: There are... some, yes. Although it seems as though my mother was more apt to allow Muggles with magical relations into our library than anyone else. It's a shame, really, because they can write, the poor darlings. I suppose their talents must get funneled into other things if they fail to express the magical gene, don't you think? I do hope you enjoy that one, and if you don't, well- I've plenty more!

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Morag shook her head. "No, I'm sure that we didn't. Ron was never the academic sort. But I think that that's something Penelope liked about you. I mean, I heard." The redheaded girl wouldn't hardly realize that what she'd just said might be taken awkwardly and so she plowed on anyway, encouraged by the small amount of details that they had in common. "Do you like working for the Ministry? My father says terrible things about Ministry workers, no offense, of course. They're terribly wonderful things- you know the sorts that fathers tend to say as they get older.” She smiled a little and there was a fondness there, lurking beneath the surface like a creature in a loch. She missed her father, sometimes. Definitely more so than her morose and stoic mother, from whom she’d inherited nearly all of her looks. The books and tomes came solely from her father, as well as the pets that she kept on their northern Scottish estate. Her father had been the little girl’s favorite early on and her dear mother, still stricken with grief over a lost love, conceded this to her husband nearly right away.

Her eyebrows raised when Percy Weasley- of all people, of all the Weasleys, actually- admitted that he got by on the seat of his trousers at his job. “You? I can’t hardly believe that. Surely you don’t-“ To an ex-Ravenclaw, this was a scandalous thing. “Well then, if you can’t tell me much about your work, what is this ‘loophole’ you’re investigating? I’m only interested because you’ve been dangling it before my nose like a carrot, and I’m the one who had the book first, if you do remember,” she said, her words spilling out like a stream, quick and quiet before trailing off at the end. She punctuated her sentence with a pointed look toward the open text. “Well? Not that I need to know, of course. We aren’t one of those families.” Were they? They did hold themselves in rather high regard, but it wasn’t as though they’d lead the charge in slaughtering their lower-born neighbors..

{ of osmics and octavos } | percy & morag