mountainrusing

[mountainrusing]

Mary had been commissioned to revamp the walls surrounding the old skatepark, a park that the local community wanted back in use. Something modern, something groundbreaking, a place of discovery and self-expression.

She sat cross-legged in front of it, cans of spray paint at her knees, and she painted, legal graffiti. The walls had been plastered over and rebricked from their previously shoddy state, and Mary was supposed to prevent future damage or vandalism by creating something beautiful. It would be sealed over, varnished with mural paint, preserved like a masterpiece, and if Mary thought too long about it, she’d be overthinking, and then she wouldn’t know what she was painting.

So she let her imagination run wild, her mind buzzing in tune to the constant hissing through nozzles, like waterfalls of gushing heat plunging into ice, like geysers, bursting upright, defying gravity like trees. The growth of art.

Shaking a can of orange paint, then green, then peach, the careful lines of lashes, delicate outline, there was more than just orange, there were lines of copper and red, Mary was drawing a fire, but it was too green and calm to be just that. There was mud and soft soil, too, mother nature, the Earth, green roots twining around feet, hands holding hands, contrasting but they were the same, just hands and just girls. Mary missed the sharpness of her soft chin. Those candyfloss lips. Light pink. The ridges. Slotting stalagmites into stalactites.

When she finished, she tagged it, Mary Macdonald.

And that was the face of Lily Evans, holding her hand, buried in her Earth, the blooming of their flowers.

“Lesbian sex,” Balarabe nodded when he saw it.

Mary choked on her spit. “What?”

“It’s a metaphor, no?” He looked so smug, hands on his hips like an art critic. “Very good representation of the modern youth, the skatepark teens will love it. You’ve encompassed self-discovery, the acceptance of—”

“Babe, what?”

Sighing, Balarabe shook his head at her in mock-disappointment, “You need to get with the times, if you’ve finished this piece, then it’s death of the author to you, you know. Once you release any form of art into the big, wide world, anyone can have their own interpretations of it. Also, you’re gay.”

“I’m married to you.”

“Being gay is a state of mind. Anyone can do it.”

Mary squinted at him. “Are you high right now?”

“That. Is honestly such a racist assumption, just because I’m Black you think that I do drugs. Wow. I’m flabbergasted.”

She raised her hands in apology, “Sorry, sorry. But I don’t think—”

“Who was she?” Balarabe gestured. Who was she to you?

“I— She was…” Not real. “Real,” Mary coughed.

He raised his eyebrows. “Nice. If you want, I’ll tell you about my ex-boyfriend, and then we’ll be even.”

Mary stared at him for a long silence. Finally, she said, “Your what?”

Balarabe smirked at her, “So ginger was your ex-girlfriend!”

“I’ve never had a girlfriend, that’s not—”

“It’s okay, it’s like tea and coffee, and all those other variations: mocha and chai, you know? You don’t need to drink any of those to be a loving human. The one drink we share is water, and we can live just fine on that. So if you don’t like tea or coffee or anything in between, then that’s chill, you do you. If you like tea, that’s also chill, same for coffee, or both, or all. If you’re tea and you like tea, you should ask to drink the tea first, but obviously you’re allowed to like tea. Same with coffee. You can like all of it or some of it or none of it. Like what you like, we’re all drinks anyway.”

“You’re not high, you’re drunk,” Mary concluded.

“Shhh, I’m actually saying some very philosophical things here. My point is, my beloved Mary, that it’s okay to like tea when you’re tea. Or coffee, would you rather be coffee?” he asked very solemnly, curious eyes that were bordering on a joke.

She met his gaze, and it looked like tea.

“I’ll be coffee. But I should say, I like neither, they both taste gross.”

He laughed, “Coffee means women, Mary. It’s okay for women to like women. You did ask if you could drink her first, right?” Balarabe once again gestured to the mural seriously.

Chewing her cheek, Mary let go, unwrapping the bandage that constricted her heart. “Yes. Yes, we asked each other, don’t worry.”

“Cool. What was she like?”

“Cool,” she smiled.

“Mary Macdonald, there is more hot tea than that. Spill it, come on,” Balarabe teased. “How do lesbians get it on—?”

Mary cut him off with a hug, wrapped around his waist, and she whispered so quietly, “I like women.” She let out a soft gasp, “I like women.”

He patted her back, “I know. I do too, actually.”

— — —

May 2000

Dear Lily, Remember when you said you liked me? I liked you too. I was in love with you. Mary

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

Mary always stood by “blood is thicker than water,” and Lily always stood by “the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” But when Lily had Harry, she understood what Mary had meant. Blood is thicker than water. And she understood why Mary had left everything behind, her school friends and their magical life, in order to look after her family, her siblings and her parents. Why Mary chose not to fight, why she decided to run and hide. Looking at Harry, Lily would do the same. She’d hide him, she’d risk everything for him, leave it all behind if it meant he’d be safe. And now she finally understood why Mary had chosen her family over Lily. She understood why Mary had left her. She’d leave everything too, if it meant keeping her son safe.

fic: she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

November 1981

Dear Lily, It’s been a while. I’m sorry it’s been so long. A wix on the street told me the war’s over. I’m glad, I know you fought well. And I’m proud of you. How are you now? I hope you’re recovering well. How’s James? How’s your son, Harry? I don’t know what else to say. I think I’ll probably say more when you reply. You’ve always pulled it out of me. Love, Mary

* * *

December 1981

Dear Lily, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean not to write to you. I wanted to. It’s safe now, because the war’s over, and I think I was just scared. I don’t know what of. Endangering my family? Also you. I get scared when I don’t see you for so long. When you’re not with me, and I’m terrified you don’t exist anymore, or you’re in a world where I can’t exist with you. Like you don’t need me. I’m really sorry. I’ll try to be less depressing now. War’s over! Are you getting ready to celebrate a homey Christmas? What’s your son like, as spoiled as James? Is it a really busy holiday period? I know you didn’t write back last time. I don’t hold it against you, don’t worry, I was just thinking. I’m sorry I missed your birthday, and your wedding, and I’m sorry for being a coward when it came to writing. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you for the Christmas card, or the birthday one, and I’m sorry I didn’t respond. I’m sorry for getting married and not inviting you, and for only telling you afterwards. I’m sorry for believing that the divide between us was too big to bridge, because you’re my best friend. You remember when you said that you’ll always love the people you’ve ever loved? I love you, Lily. I always will. Mary

* * *

No response.

All of her friends didn’t seem to exist anymore. Or they couldn’t hear her. But Mary would remember them forever. Maybe she only realised how deep their connection ran until instead of her, they were the ones to sever it. Family. Every single memory.

She could never let go, could she?

She loved Lily, Remus, Marlene, Emmeline, even James and Harry, and Dorcas, Mary Carey, all those who shaped her, Sirius too, even Peter and Severus, though less than the rest. She couldn’t forget what had made her herself.

Mary Macdonald.

All that happiness, stuffed into her full name, the way everyone said it. The love and laughter in their voices.

— — —

January 1982

Happy birthday, Lils! Love, Mary

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

Wixen, Mary’s mind grumbled at her. What were they doing? Groups of them clustered together, whispering so loudly, bouncing on their feet, comments about magic right there on the street. Way to hide themselves from the real world. Excitedly boosting sparks from their wands, yes, Mary saw nothing, it was all undercover. Maybe they’d finally reveal themselves, reintegrate with modern society, move forward with real people instead of remaining in the past, stuck in the sixteen hundreds. One could only hope.

Otherwise, they were just idiots. Of course they lacked social awareness, school taught them nothing except ‘academic’ lessons that didn’t even involve maths, English, science. Where did they get proper education from — personal, social, health and basic economics?

They were dressed in their colourful cloaks, emerald and violet, navy and ruby, sweeping the street with their giggles, as if they’d drunk too much Firewhiskey. Mary grimaced at those days. Alcohol was nasty. Maybe that was an adult thing to think. To no longer feel attraction to things she was now allowed. Maybe the reason she was still attracted to girls was because she wasn’t allowed them—

She was married. Husband.

Why were the wixen up so early anyway? In the waxing light of dawn, this was Mary’s time to walk outside and clear her mind. The streets were lined with pumpkins from the celebrations last night, no one was up to collect them yet, the dull orange clouded by morning dew, yet for some reason, wixen roamed the streets, fully alive and alert and awake.

One of their gazes snagged on her face, seeming to note the expression that wasn’t one of overwhelming exuberance, as though Mary was the weird one for not grinning as if possessed. “Be happy, No-Maj! Even you’ve been saved, although you don’t know it! You-Know-Who has been defeated!”

Awkwardly, Mary smiled and nodded.

That name, You-Know-Who. She’d heard him referred to as that. Not a lot, because he wasn’t scary enough to her. She’d never encountered the power he wielded, never had to fear someone who couldn’t get to her. And her friends wouldn’t let him be more than he actually was. They called him Voldemort. Why act like saying his name would trigger destruction? Voldemort didn’t have that power. He had some power, but he didn’t have that, so why act like he did?

Apparently, he had no power now. Defeated.

War was over.

War was over! Her friends, her old friends! They’d won. They’d actually gone and won! Mary laughed, probably looking as possessed as the wixen, but now she knew that none of them could help it.

— — —

November 1981

Remus! You won, you won, you did it, the Order won! It’s over! You must be so happy. Everyone must be so happy. Remus! Write me back right this instant, Mary

* * *

November 1981

Hi Mary, Yeah, we won. Yeah, we’re all happy, thank you. There’s still a lot to do though, there were a few casualties, none of us, don’t worry. Also, there were werewolves on Voldemort’s side, you know how I was working to bring them onto ours? I managed to neutralise a few of them, but a lot of packs were still on his, and they’re suffering retribution for that. But it’s not their fault, the whole of society hates them, and all they wanted was the right to live like humans. Is that too much? So, I’m still assigned a task to monitor them, and I want to make sure they’re safe. I’m also trying to convince them to warm up to wixen, because it’s mainly blood supremacists who ostracise them, not us. I like living amongst them, they are humans too, obviously, and have ideas like anyone else. As well as a better sense of smell. The assignment’s over a year, though. So that means, well, I’m going to be away for a while. I won’t be able to write to you, I’m sorry. But know that I’m happy, and I’ll be fine. I wish you all the best, and I give you all my love. I mean: all of it. It’s yours, Mary, I love you. I’ll miss you. Goodbye, Remus

* * *

She loved Remus. Loved him so much. It hurt, but everyone she loved eventually left.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

April 1981

Happy birthday. Lily

* * *

It shook her heart in her ribcage. Although Lily hadn’t bothered to write Mary’s name on the letter, it was still written on the envelope, addressed to her.

There was once a time when Lily would call her, “Mary Macdonald.” Say it like she was in love.

Now Lily called her nothing.

This could be a fairy tale, once upon a time…

There was a brave girl called Lily Evans, who married the prince James Potter, and they lived happily ever after.

That was how all the happy endings went, but make it theirs and the story would take a dark and twisted turn at the hands of a Black girl, a villainous demon who betrayed Lily Evans by oozing the venom of a coward, and Lily would still be valiant in the face of it, still make an attempt at wishing the beast a good birthday, because Lily was virtuous, kind, always morally correct. No wonder the prince was also a knight in shining armour, who saved her from the darkness that would’ve consumed her in its cave.

Like primitives, Mary would make them troglodytes. In other life, back in time, you would be mine.

It was too late now. Mary didn’t reply.

Like every antagonist, she wanted the upper hand. Lily would keep talking to her, and Mary would pretend that her heart no longer existed. Or it did exist, just not with her, just in the hands of a Black man, where it belonged.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

a/n: listen to 21 by Gracie Abrams, maximum angst, marylily-coded like everything in my entire life, stuck in my head 24/7, screaming sobbing etc.

January 1981

Dear Lily, Hi, Lily! Happy birthday, Lily! Twenty-first, baby! Happy birthday, Lily Evans! Potter? Happy birthday, love!

* * *

There were so many scrunched up balls of paper surrounding her. Her sister wouldn’t be proud.

In the early hours of Lily’s birthday, Mary was up past midnight, contemplating how to do this. Birthdays were a sacred thing. She needed to thank the world for Lily’s birth. It was duty. Everyone should be eternally grateful. They hadn’t talked in months, but still Mary could do this.

Make it perfect. Worm back into Lily’s life as if it were an apple, leaving rot in her wake. That was all she wanted, really. A placeholder. She’d give everything to be there, but to be there, she had to sound overjoyed, enthusiastic, and she was so tired. All the words sounded wrong. Impassive, meaningless. They hadn’t been friends in so long.

How to break ice with a bang? It only cracked. Mary wanted sparks flying, celebration, she wanted loud vibrancy and vibrant noise, but she was the one who’d killed that brightness in the first place, snuffed out the light. Buried their friendship underground where all was black, dark, silent. Ominous gloom, but not ominous, because they knew exactly how it ended. It was the end, and Mary was awake digging. Would she dig up dead bodies and make skeletons dance? Bones creaking, old and worn and too tired for this.

Why should she thank the world for Lily’s birth when Lily had a whole family to do that? Not like she needed Mary, anyway. I’d be fine if I wasn’t expected to hang out with my friends.

She got the point.

Lily was happy without her, celebrating with James and Harry, laughing, impressing each other with their stupidity. There’d be Marlene and Emmeline, whom Mary had written to a few times before also losing touch with, they’d shower Lily with perfect presents, and all Mary had was a sodding letter she’d spent hours on, planning out in her head how this would go down. But it wouldn’t make Lily smile, it’d make her frown in question, Why do you still care when I don’t?

She didn’t care, she didn’t, and Mary also would not.

They couldn’t slide, glide, glaze over their problems. Mary had carved them into crumbling foundations. It was over, she’d ensured it, and of course Lily blamed her, but why would Lily keep blaming when she didn’t care anymore?

Mary sent nothing.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

December 1980

Mary,

There’s a suspected spy in the Order. As in, someone’s selling our secrets to Voldemort, and now he’s got an advantage over us. But that’s not my main problem. I know it should be. I know and I know, but for some reason Sirius thinks that it’s me who’s the spy. And actually, it’s not for some reason, because I’ve kind of accidentally been giving them reasons. It’s so hard, Mary. I love him, and he’s married, with a kid. So, the love of my life has a wife, and they’re in love, and I… can’t bear it. They’re for life, they’re definite and infinite because they’ve sealed it with a kid, and Harry’s lovely but I just can’t look at him. I can’t, and I’m sorry, but I can’t be close to them like they want me to be, because if I go any closer, then I’ll be hopeless and miserable, more miserable than I am now. I can’t be close to James, and I can’t be there for Harry, and Sirius thinks I’m the spy. I’m not even Harry’s Godfather. I’m not obliged to do anything for him, I could just disappear from their lives, but they won’t let me, but then they’ll also accuse me. I don’t want to see James in love with someone else. He already has everything he needs. Sirius says James feels betrayed by me, but I don’t know if that’s true because I can’t check with him. I can’t talk to him. He doesn’t need me! And for some reason, Sirius is pissed at me, because apparently I’m tearing our group apart. James isn’t hanging out with him as much anymore, and according to Sirius, it’s because he’s upset about me, so now Sirius is taking it out on me, but really, he can’t get over the fact that his best mate’s married and now has other priorities, ones that don’t include friends. I’m fine. I’d be more fine if I wasn’t expected to hang out with them. Which sounds so bad, but please tell me you get the point. I think Sirius might want to kill me for it. Being the supposed spy. But James and Lily are stopping him. So even though I’m totally acting like one, they still don’t believe I’m the traitor. Small mercies? See, everything’s fine. Yours, Remus

* * *

December 1980

Remus, Are you okay? You’re not in danger? And Lily, Harry, James? They’re safe, right? The baby has to be safe. Please don’t let anyone die. I’m not asking you that specifically, I’m just praying that no one dies. This is terrifying, love, you must be so scared. I’m so sorry, I wish I could hug you. And I understand it not being your main problem, because if you’re the suspect, then your life’s all the more at risk. You’ve got distrust coming from the side you’re actually on, and then you’re being attacked by the side you’re not on. So now you’re in the middle of both sides, and that’s all the more dangerous. I don’t mean to scare you by pointing that out, I just want you to know that I get where you’re coming from. For what it’s worth, I know you’d never be a traitor. You literally plastered those rape awareness posters with me onto the walls of Hogwarts, remember that? You’re good to your core. You have no bad bone in your body. (You also have no backbone in your body, but that’s another matter.) (Sorry. Thought you could use a friend. It’s called banter.) And of course you’re accidentally giving them reasons, you’re an angsty, repressed, closed off werewolf. By trying to protect people, you always end up with the target on your back. (Remus. Is that purposeful?) I can’t be close to Lily either. You know we’re not writing, right? It’s my fault, too, because I don’t know how to act around her. Though I am married to someone else, actually, so I’m in love with him, but I was told that you never truly stop loving anyone, so I think… Yeah, it hurts. It’ll always hurt. Maybe I’ve got to move on whilst knowing that. Accepting it? It’s okay, Remus. Please put yourself first. People do need you, but remember that you also need yourself. I think James misses you as a friend, but it’s okay if you can’t be that for him. Friendship’s a mutual thing, and if it’s causing you pain, then you’ve got to leave. Missing people is normal, I think. I’m not the best at advice for this, but I love you and I want you to be happy. And don’t die. You’ll be happy, I’ll pray for that. All my love, Mary

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

July 1980

Head’s up, Mary. Lily’s given birth. Remus

* * *

July 1980

Thanks, Remus. Are you okay about it? I don’t think I am. Mary

* * *

July 1980

Dear Mary, Hi, so I mentioned I was pregnant, right? Well, now I’ve given birth! He’s called Harry, and he’s the most gorgeous baby alive. To have ever been alive. I love him. I love the way my eyes make his look green too. I want to take a picture of him every second, frame them all, every time he blinks, I need to keep it all on record and see him grow, I already think he’s growing so fast. He’s such a polite baby too, always smiling, like he doesn’t even know what crying is. We’ve been blessed. He is the most incredible blessing. I’ve never been more grateful than I am for his existence. I’m holding him as I write this letter, I physically can’t let him go. I am attached, this is attachment at its finest, I never want to be apart from him. It’s almost scary how I’d do anything for him. I mean everything. All my love, Lily

* * *

Since Lily’s birthday, Mary had been… engaging in correspondence more regularly. She didn’t want to say that she was better at correspondence, because she wasn’t sure if their interaction was a good thing, and she wasn’t keeping up with correspondence, because she was drowning in it.

But if they were gliding over issues and faults as if those were buried under very thick ice that definitely wouldn’t crack? Mary could do that.

* * *

July 1980

Dear Lily, You sound like a brilliant mother. Pretty sure it’s nature’s thing, to instinctively bond a mother to her child. Especially with newborns. You describe the feeling beautifully. You make me love Harry too. I bet I’d be enamoured by his eyes. Say hi to him for me, as you hold him while you read this! Also, very importantly, congratulations on giving birth! That whole process must be so difficult, and you managed it incredibly. You make a stressful procedure sound worth it. And it is worth it, to you. I love you as a mother. All my love, to you and to Harry and James, Mary

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

The habit of biting your nails wasn’t a good one, but Mary still got the feeling. Sometimes she’d press her thumb to her lip just to soothe it. She’d been dwelling on it, and she concluded that she’d massively overreacted about the whole thing. The distance made her act more distant. And she wanted Lily to still love her.

A selfish want, but she wasn’t moving on. Just because she loved Lily didn’t mean they weren’t best friends.

She was going in circles. She wanted to be invited into Lily’s life. Have that placeholder. So greedy. She just couldn’t quit it, no matter how hard she tried. Relapsing.

It had been months since she’d last taken the hit. Last year, actually. She’d said sorry, and Lily hadn’t forgiven her. She’d tried to push it aside, and Lily had gotten pregnant, and that wasn’t to spite Mary in the slightest, no one was that petty, but it haunted her all the time, always thinking the worst of her.

Lily did not get pregnant because you’re unforgivable.

Those two items had no correlation whatsoever. As Remus had said, and as she’d agreed, the baby was there because Lily and James were destined to be parents. It was in their blood, they existed like that. War couldn’t affect it. Neither could Mary.

But in Mary’s blood, there was also necessity. Obligation. Desire.

* * *

January 1980

Dear Lily, Happy birthday. Mary

* * *

She was sweating with nerves after sending that. Blaming it on the heat. There was something wrong with her. This was just glazing over their problems. When had Mary and Lily ever not communicated?

She had written it all wrong.

* * *

January 1980

Hi Mary, Thank you! Love, Lily

* * *

Love.

It said love.

Mary could cry.

She imagined it playing out like a movie scene, she’d hold the letter to where her heart was, look up to the sky, tilting her chin as tears of pure relief rolled down, splashing the parchment, and she’d fall onto her knees and smile, thanking anyone and everyone.

Instead, she tucked away the letter in the same way she kept her smile tucked.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

November 1979

Hi, Mare… I don’t know if you want to know, but Lily’s pregnant. James’s kid too, obviously. Yeah. It’s all good. Probably. For them, definitely. They’re happy. It’s good. I’m happy for them. If I love him, then him being happy should make me happy too. Right? Remus

* * *

Lily. Lily didn’t even think to tell her she was pregnant herself. And then Mary backpedalled, because that was the point, she and Lily weren’t supposed to be talking. That was exactly why she’d cut off connection, hadn’t gone to the wedding, all for this. She’d done it.

And then she’d panicked, apologised, and Lily hadn’t replied, and Mary had succeeded. That was what she’d wanted. To move on. But she hadn’t moved on, she’d just pushed it to the back of her mind and pretended it wasn’t there. And now it was flooding back, water clogging up her insides as it infested with dirt like in drain pipes. It was fungi making her ill. Poisonous mushrooms sprouted on the walls of her veins, and now they were being trampled on by the stampede of a broken dam’s feet. They burst into her bloodstream and curled around her heart, squeezing it like a pump to make her throw up.

She’d said sorry. That was it. Without forgiving her, Lily had moved on. Mary wanted to, so desperately. To move in the other direction.

Lily had moved on so much that she’d gone and gotten pregnant. During a war. Mary could snap something. (Because Lily could get pregnant but still couldn’t find it within herself to forgive Mary. She did everything else, but when Mary said sorry, Lily said nothing.)

* * *

November 1979

What the fuck? Are they insane? Remus, that’s not okay. And it makes sense if you’re not happy, not just because you’re in love with one of them, but also, they are bringing a child into a war zone. They work in a war zone. For the Order. They’ll risk their own child’s life. I can’t believe them. Was it on purpose? Did they plan to have a baby? If it was an accident, then that’s better at least. I can’t believe they weren’t more foresighted than this. I’m not happy, actually. They’re risking family. Mary

* * *

November 1979

Mary, I get that family’s the most important thing to you. I’m not going to argue that, I just want to speak in their defence, alright? Family’s also so important to them, Mare, just like it is to you. They’ll do anything for that kid, I swear. They’re not doing anything wrong by living their dreams, you know. They love with their whole beings, they’ll give that baby everything they have. You have to understand that. They would even run like you did if it comes down to it. They’re not going to risk their child’s life. You know they didn’t even rush into marriage, right? Lily got pregnant after that, and they were overjoyed, because they are Lily and James. They’re these soulmates, the most loving parents. They’re genuinely powerful together. And they’re both financially stable and well-educated — they didn’t need to marry for anything, they could’ve just lived together and that was that, but they chose to marry because they want to spend the rest of their lives together, and they chose to have a kid because they want to bring beauty into the world together. Honestly, they’re not going to die during this war, because they’d hide themselves away before it reaches that. They would follow in your footsteps. You’re so brave for giving it all to protect your family. I know Lily wanted to fight, but she and James are much more thrilled to be together with their expected child now. They’re getting more wary of Order business anyway, which makes sense, because Voldemort himself is threatening our lives, but. They’d hide, I can see it, their expressions are like yours when you spoke about your family. Please don’t be angry with them. Remus

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

It had been a month since Lily’s wedding. Who’d been the maid of honour? Not Mary. She hadn’t even responded to Lily’s invitation, had neither accepted nor declined, simply left her hanging like a vine that needed pruning.

What was this thing in the pit of her stomach, writhing like a snake, gnawing at her sanity? Making her so hungry, she could gnaw at anything too, just eat and eat and eat and it still wouldn’t be enough, but even if she were starving, she’d be throwing it all up. She was the vine that needed pruning. Hung, drawn, quartered, that was what needed to be done, a lobotomy on her brain because every night she dreamt of Lily’s wedding.

Who was the maid of honour? Not her. But who? She needed to visualise, who was it? She didn’t want to visualise, who was it? Why had Lily even asked her? She hadn’t sent anything since April, yet Lily still considered them best friends in July, and Mary thought they’d been over long ago, but she was still clinging. Remus was wrong, she did cling. She hung on so much that she twisted the end of the wire into a hook and clipped it to her navel, and now she’d been eviscerated, gutted and skinned, feeling hollow and pulled. She was air in a pipe. A long, thin pipe that made her ears ring.

How to let go? How to clear her conscience? It was screeching at her, tuneless fingers of skeletons bashing at a piano and pressing keys that made Mary feel, triggering impulses, electric signals flying sporadically, on the verge of breakdown.

When she said she wanted to eat, she wanted to chew plain air. Gulp it down, swallow her tongue, bite it into two. Give the other half to Lily, and maybe then she could let go.

* * *

September 1979

Lily, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Mary

* * *

There was no response.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

PART TWO Mary 💙

[mountainrusing]

July 1979

Hiya Mary, It’s been a while. I’m not sure if you got my last letter, and I presume you’ve been busy settling down in your new home. Anyway, I just wanted to say again that I completely understand where you’re coming from and whole-heartedly support your decision. (As in, I love it with my whole heart when you do what you want to.) Also, I’d like to invite you to my, well, wedding. (Mary, I’m getting married. Married.) That’ll happen, and I feel so, I don’t know… strange and happy and scared and excited, and writing to you is grounding me, so I’m calmer now, but still! Marriage! It wasn’t even either of us who proposed! In all honesty, we don’t really need to get married. We already trust each other and live together, and that deal just doesn’t need sealing? Our love already exists without us declaring it? You’re probably confused, it was Sirius who proposed. For us, to each of us. He booked us this fancy over-the-top restaurant, paid them to clear everyone else out so it was just us, and then decided to hire himself as a waiter and go on serving us. Starters were alright, but then he opened the main dish just for it to burst into song and start shrieking, “You will marry each other, and buy your own house so I don’t have to hear you shagging through the wall!” So it struck us, this idea that we could get married. Not out of necessity, but because it fits for us. We deserve that happiness. (Sirius also served us the most beautiful rings. I want to hate him for being loaded, but he’s got exquisite taste.) I’ve attached the standard wedding invite to this letter, you know how, but I wanted to address you personally, will you be my maid of honour? (Now that was a real proposal, a formal question rather than a screeching order.) I’d love it if you were there next to me. I love you, so of course I’d love it. I hope you can. James may be my almost-husband, but you’re my best friend. I need you just as much as him. Probably more, if I’m honest, because I don’t think he could organise the decor and makeup and dresses as well as you. Maybe I’m biased, but no one can do anything as well as you do. All my love, Lily

* * *

Desperately, Mary could scrunch this letter into a ball, and curl her own self into a ball, and never see Lily nor the light of day again.

The wedding invite, Mary knew how, was concealed under several charms, disguising the location and private details. She removed them to reveal cursive scroll, dainty gold letters joined to spell Lily Evans & James Potter. That was the title, in the middle. Above it: The Wedding Of, and below it: Invite you to celebrate love and joy on this special occasion.

It was at the Potters’ grand mansion, a garden wedding, with flowers doodled prettily along the sides, rose gold.

They hadn’t needed to hide that information at all. It was common knowledge where the Potters lived. Even the date was predictable, first of August.

She’d received another letter, her address scrawled across the front by Remus. Because as promised, she’d been writing to him regularly. (She could keep promises. She could.)

* * *

July 1979

Mary, You’re coming to their wedding. Please? If not for them, then for me? I know it’s shitty. (You were right, I do swear more in letters. There’s definitely something cathartic in it. It’s like my mouth has a filter but my hand has no control.) You use me for your catharsis. I hate James and I’m in love with him and he’s getting married to his fiancée. Shit, I just wrote that. I’ve never… It hurts, and I get a front row seat. I’m glad Sirius is the best man. You’re the maid of honour. Say yes. Lily needs you. I need you. I’m so bad at writing, forgive me, it’s all over the place. Just be there. I know you don’t want to. I don’t want to. Yours, Remus

* * *

July 1979

Hi, Rem, I’m really sorry, but I can’t. I can’t. My family’s here. It’d endanger them if I keep travelling between countries. I’m settled. I don’t wanna be tracked. That’s the logical excuse. And fine, I’ll confess the other one. You did. So, I hate Lily and I’m in love with her and she’s getting married to someone else. I can’t watch that. I’m not even in that country, I’ve left, we’re growing apart and we should let that happen. I want to move on. Because I had her, but I let her go, and I don’t deserve her back. She’s in love with someone else now. That’s good for her. Remus, I can’t. I’m sorry. You’re brave, you know. Even if you’ve never said it out loud, you wrote it down. And you’re brave for going. Being there for them even when it’s breaking your heart. But me? I’m not that close to them. I broke it, Remus, I’m not doing it anymore. It’s broken beyond repair now. Please don’t make me go. I’m sorry. I love you, Mary

* * *

July 1979

Okay. Sorry, I won’t try to convince you otherwise. You confessed too. That’s brave, Mary. You are brave. You’re always putting your family first. And you do everything to protect them. You know how to let go. I’m just clinging on hopelessly. You never let yourself get hurt, not if you can help it. It is admirable. I admire you for keeping yourself safe. You’re good, you know, because you’re not… self-destructive. Don’t talk to me about self-destruction, I’m… yeah. Probably. I understand. Actually, I wish I could be more like you. Love you too, Remus

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

She and Lily had been writing. Letters on the daily, and by the daily, it was becoming increasingly risky.

They kept in contact, but since Diagon Alley, they hadn’t met up face to face. People rarely left their houses, and Mary tried to minimise the amount her parents went out, but they still had jobs in the real world. The real world, slowly infected by wixen war.

Here and there, Lily mentioned the Order’s effort, but mostly kept it hidden for fear of interception. Mary didn’t like living in constant terror. Call her a coward for wanting to eradicate that. In the fastest way possible. For the people she cared about above all.

* * *

April 1979

Dear Lily, I’m relocating my family to Jamaica. I won’t disclose the location, you know why, but we’re going to be safe, I promise. We’re going home. I’ll miss you, but know that no matter how far we are, I’ll always remember you, and I’ll always be sending you love. You know why. They’ve been so many deaths, Lily, and I don’t want that to be my family. I don’t want that to be anyone. I wish fighting didn’t exist, like you could snap your fingers and just like that people wouldn’t kill, but I know that’s not the case. I know a group has to resist, so, thank you. It’s not your responsibility at all, so thank you even more. I don’t want to say goodbye. When war’s over, we’re saying hello again. I’ll come back, or you’ll visit us, on your holidays. I’m dragging this on. It’s weird how dramatic I am about goodbyes. Like in Diagon Alley, when we hugged like it was the last time, and I’ve never… I don’t know, all I know is that I love you. I love you, but we’re just supposed to love each other while we move on with our own lives, I think. That’s what happens when we have different goals. And I love you for your goals, but they’ll never be mine. What I’m trying to say is, protecting my family is my highest priority, and I don’t… know why I feel sorry for that, but I do. For some reason, I want to explain myself to you, or actually, I just want to tell you everything. Overload you with my life and all my thoughts because I think I feel like, well, who else should hear my thoughts? People have been disappearing all over the place, and they’ve been calling it gas leaks and electric shocks, live wires and power cuts and bad plumbing. I’ll have them know, I’d sit them down and glare at them in place, say how my house is plumbed to perfection, how their excuses won’t work. It’s so evil, it’s blatant lying, hundreds are dying and it’s all waved off like, ‘Blame the electricians! The firefighters!’ Good people with real jobs who are doing their best, with no clue about the war around them, just caught over and over in the crossfires. Do you see? We could try to say we’re equal, but wixen brush off our deaths like nothing. And they won’t tell us the truth. All’s fair in love and war, and you once said, I think, that the reason everything’s fair is because nothing’s fair. But I think loving you is very fair, because you give people so many reasons to love you. And loving my family is fair. That’s unconditional. So, goodbye, Lils, but it’s not goodbye, because please let this war finish as soon as possible, preferably now, Mary

* * *

April 1979

Dear Mary, I understand. That sounded so brief. I mean, I understand all of it. And I know what you mean, it’s your home. Of course you’re going home. That’s the destination of life, yeah? I’m always missing you, Mary. Bet I’ll miss you more. Literally touch this letter and feel my love for you, it’s poignant. I know, I know, and I’m so sorry. I hoped it would be over now. We’re trying so hard, I promise you. As long as I’m around, I won’t let anyone hurt you or your family. And I get why you’re thanking me, I do, but also, I’m just… doing what I want to, you know? This is my way of caring. Should I thank you for yours? Thank you, Mary, for leaving the country and loving your family. So do we really need to thank people for loving? Don’t thank me for loving you and what you love. We will say hello again! And I’d love, love, love to see you in Jamaica! You can show me everything, I mean: everything. And explain all the culture, please and thank you. I was just as dramatic as you. I look back and cringe and blame it on the alcohol, but then I remember how I loved it and still do, and how it was as real as anything. And so far, it’s still been the last time, so really, we’re just wise. I think it’s good to love to the fullest instead of minimising it, you know? Don’t be sorry for loving, Mary! I get it, truly, you can love me and love your family more, you can love me and not stay with me, that’s fine. I know you love me, and that’s enough, you don’t need to explain it. It makes sense that you won’t choose me — your family’s amazing. I’m not offended in the slightest. (Of course we want to tell each other everything, that’s how we’re best friends. It’s a mutual overload of information, actually.) Mary, I don’t know what to say except sorry. So, I’m sorry for the way the Order and wixen society in general have been handling the murders. I’ll try to change that if I can. There’s rules against it though, breaking the statute. I’m sorry, I’ll try but I don’t think it’ll work. It’s not fair, you’re right. I’m sorry. Mary Macdonald, I love everything about you. See you soon, Lily

* * *

Everything was perfect.

At home, at least. Back in Britain, Mary’s problem was Lily. Not Lily, but the way she couldn’t reply to Lily’s latest letter.

That was sent months ago. April, it said, and now it was July.

It was fine. It wasn’t here. It was back there, where there was a clash. Lily had written that she understood, but then why wouldn’t she accept Mary’s thanks? That meant she did in fact think it was her duty to fight, an obligation, just basic human decency that everyone should do. Engage in bloody war.

Blame it on the alcohol.

Mary loved Lily, but not enough to stay.

Was that the message? Was that a jab? It made sense that she wouldn’t choose Lily. When did she ever have a choice? Could she love someone and just leave? It wasn’t really love then. Did Lily sound offended? She wasn’t. She could be. Mary felt peeled open.

Peeled open, like the seal on a milk carton, crinkling tin foil, making a din. And then pouring milk. A cuppa. For a waiter. Who was waiting. For what? Could she spill into Lily’s hands, hot and warm, and make a mess of it? But could it get past her bottled neck, the neck of the bottle, squeezed and compressed, too tight of a funnel? She could keep it inside. She wanted to tell Lily everything.

All they could be was sorry.

They couldn’t change. Couldn’t and wouldn’t became the same thing, eventually. Was it wouldn’t first, or couldn’t first?

Mary couldn’t write back. Mary wouldn’t write back.

Shouldn’t?

It was so far away, it was below the horizon. Invisible. It blurred into the background, a ghost. Lily wasn’t near, and she wasn’t going to be near. Mary loved Lily more than Lily loved her, and still that wasn’t enough for Mary to stay, so obviously, Lily loved her less than that, which meant did Lily really love her at all?

She could survive missing Lily. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t have anything to say. Wanted to say everything, but couldn’t articulate it. Or wouldn’t?

Everything should be perfect.

She and Lily weren’t perfect.

They didn’t work, they were trying, and still Mary felt like she was dying. There was a boulder on her chest, compressing it and breaking her rib as if she needed resuscitation. Lily could press their mouths together and Mary would regain consciousness. She was already conscious. Imagining anything with Lily was a fantasy of illicit exploitation. Manipulating her dreams to manufacture make-belief. She and Lily were not real.

This was the real world, and anything she’d ever had with Lily wasn’t in it. It was only holding her back, tying her down, making her dread everything that she felt in her chest when she sat down at her desk to attempt a letter of response.

No.

Even if she wanted to, the prospect of telling Lily everything was terrifying. She should stop imagining something that would never happen. She should stop feeding into delusions, stop writing letters to someone who she’d never have. Stop.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

Mary’s dad, Nairobi, and his kids called him Fada. Her mum, Olabisi, better known as Mammi. Asha, the outspoken environmentalist, who hugged trees when she was younger, and still held them like they were precious sometimes, when she thought people weren’t looking. Ikem, with a passion for acting and dressing up, makeup and costumes that emphasised his role in typically portraying villains of kohl rimmed eyes and darkness. (Apparently to get into the movies, you just had to go with the racist stereotypes, else no one would hire because no one would watch.)

Ladi, whose hair Mary would tie with bows, who liked to play around with the makeup on shelves and spill it on her skin, and who used those same clumsy hands to score three-pointers. Workneh, whose favourite colour of sparkly gold bordered on extreme, making all sorts of demands just to have everything: gold. Even the basketball he and Ladi played with: gold. David, who was small and short, yet could sprint faster than anything on the courts.

Kibo, with a developing addiction to the television screen, Sisi, with a full-fledged addiction to books, and Zola, with a full-time job of annoying Kibo and Sisi whilst they were trying to exacerbate their addictions.

Jioke, who hated when the white folks mispronounced his name as Joke, but ironically, was exceptionally good at wisecracking. Feyisa, who liked army action figures and camouflage, swiping mud across her face, and Mary specifically told everyone not to mention the fact that Fey was already brown. And finally, last but not least, even though there were now a lot of energetic kids and it really was reaching the point of please be final, there was Elijah, the four-year-old baby of the family.

He was clinging to Mary’s calf, and she walked into their cramped flat with a welcome weight on her foot.

“Weh yuh ah seh?!” she greeted, weaving even more noise through the clamorous canvas of their home, slipping into their natural Jamaican Patois with ease. It was sacred, the way only they could see this part of her. Sure, she could speak English, received pronunciation, but this was her. This was what it meant to open up. Pull out the stopper on the bottle of words in her brain, mix them up with English again, butcher it, whatever, but this was her normal accent, and how could it be butchered when it was born?

Cultivated, cultured, a symbol of heritage, a deep, heavy, slow accent like the roots of their history, fought for and hard-won, long and now free. This was how she freely spoke. “Yow, wah gwaan?!” Mary laughed as Sisi wrapped her fingers around her hand to tug her somewhere, and it was flipping a switch back on, turning on the light to shine over everything Black, it was letting everything she’d shoved down because no one would understand bubble back up.

No one but her family would understand.

It was everything she’d repressed, the accent she’d neutralised for Britain’s benefit, the way she’d pretended to speak eloquent English slang when really, her mind was thinking, A hol’ a meds! It was her subconscious coming back to life, revival, remembering vocabulary she’d locked away in treasure chests underwater in order to walk the narrow-minded surface where people couldn’t see past their noses. Finally, she didn’t have to act white. She could think about her family and talk to her family, in their familial language.

— — —

“Mary, dawta, luk afta di pickney!”

That was her favourite job, looking after her siblings.

Bed jumping, cleaning, cooking, they took up their chores and made them fun, sang songs of the Caribbean, reggae and dub and dancehall and R&B, they played hide-and-seek on the streets where no one ever walked, the deserted courts and run-down fences.

They’d all sit on the bed, eager-eyed for a story, and Mary would regale them with fictional fabrication, weaving threads of historic mythology and bringing it to life to inspire their real worlds.

She’d open up her makeup drawer and show them her latest discoveries, and Asha would comment on how to make it eco-friendly.

When it was their turn to tell a story, to share a passion, her siblings would explode into lively hand gestures and jump on the balls of their feet, kneeling on the bed and bouncing like springs, and the others’ hands would clap their calves as they waited in impatient patience for their turns, too.

There was no longer any travelling out of their dead-end street to go to the shops, none of that, because of the war.

But there was this: them.

There was them.

— — —

“Ow work, Mammi?” Mary asked her mum after she’d gotten back from the factory.

Olabisi hummed, leaning forward as she unrolled her colourful headwrap. “Gud, but…”

She said that they were repeatedly having more concerning incidents, faulty produce, dysfunctional electrics. They’d had to work with more coal and gas, pollutive fumes, and because she was Black, she was being assigned to the more dangerous jobs, the ones where no one wanted their hands dirty.

On the days that her mum stayed at home while her dad had some construction work, Mary asked him the same question, each evening when he returned, and Nairobi frowned.

He said that lately, things seemed to be breaking more often, with neither warning nor reason. A random brick falling, or the spinning drum creaking and stopping abruptly. Ominous warnings, it felt like. Darkness creeping in. His brow was always sweatier when he wiped the back of his hand against it, like his body could sense the danger even when his mind couldn’t. Breaking out into a sweat of nerves and adrenaline.

Preparing to run. Bloodstream rushing faster.

It wasn’t them who were dirty. Mary knew exactly who it was. The dirty games were being played by blood supremacists. Racists. Sexists.

Voldemort and those Death Eaters.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[mountainrusing]

ok i feel like the wording of this is gonna be so bad bcs i'm currently walking whilst writing this post & i've also only had one coffee but. (oh & also i should clarify that i am white)

i'm all for hc'ing a characters race and/or ethnicity, i mean i do it myself all the time, but it feels very empty to do so blindly & just sorta seems similar to the kinda ppl that 'don't see race'. by this i just mean like something very common i see in this fandom. hc'ing a white character to be a different race -> proceeding to seemingly not think/talk about how that would then impact the character, their relations with others, & generally in the story & rather just hc'ing it & proceeding to then only rlly talk about it through blatant stereotypes (this also is common in this fandom for hcs for ethnicity, sexuality, etc). if someone is a certain race, they will experience life differently to someone of a different race. i'm not just saying here like "oh if you hc james as indian then he'd be the one getting bullied in 70s england" or something. like, that's not what i'm saying, its that im aware there's a lot more nuance to that. im saying race impacts people's lives and ignoring how you're changing this character is, in my opinion, ignorant. i'm not saying 'keep all the white characters white', ofc not, just if you are hc'ing a character to be a diff race then maybe put more thought behind why you hc it & how this would impact them. and that applies to not just hcs for race but many things. otherwise you are very likely doomed to repeat harmful stereotypes

[mountainrusing]

Mary shook her head sadly, “We need to go home, Lil.”

“Yeah…”

Inexplicably, Mary had the urge to demand, Am I your home? Are you my home?

Of course, she didn’t.

From the pot on the mantle, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder, one hand still around Lily, pressed into the small of her back. Any moment now, and they’d be miles apart, and her touch on Lily would be phantom.

Irrationally, but Mary knew exactly what the reason was, she wanted to pull Lily closer and snog her senseless. Tug their bodies flush together until they were soldered into one being, all hot heat and blooming flowers, sticky ice cream, sticky t-shirts, just slam their mouths together like closing a book and living happily ever after, a bang to signify the end, the big bang to create the beginning, and a rolling rugby ball, rugby ball? And caves, open the caves! Push the rock back and seal themselves inside and clink her teeth against Lily’s because they’d be rocks in each other’s lives, please, please, all she wanted was Lily to pour into her like sand, time wasn’t ticking, it had finished, and they were together, forever. She’d go back to the old days of cave dwellers, she’d be a troglodyte again, wear Lily like the only clothes she had, they’d make fires to keep warm, huddled in a hug, kindled in a kiss. She remembered, and she wanted.

She was leaning, she was trying to close the book and open the cave, their lips were bare millimetres apart. She wanted, but she did not need. She couldn’t. Quickly, she turned her head and coughed bizarrely, a rat scratching up her throat, squeaking and screeching. Guiltily, she removed her hand from Lily, and clumsily patted her shoulder. She tried to move forward, and caught her in an awkward half-hug, where Lily looked out of place and confused, and Mary was smiling like she had a clue, painfully forced because she did not have a clue.

Now it was time to go.

But shaking her head, Lily grabbed her, pulled her forwards, and Mary’s eyes blew wide, her hand clenched around the Floo powder as her other fisted into Lily’s top. Lily buried her head in her shoulder, and Mary buried hers in Lily’s, inhaling deeply. For the longest time, they stood stock still, locked in embrace, squeezing so tight that Mary’s airways were constricted, but this was the best she’d ever breathed in her entire life. Just breathing, filling her lungs so completely, pushing all her organs aside to make room for Lily in the pocket of her heart. It was flowing through her bloodstream, healthy, not too fast or too slow, as if every part of her was aware that this was real, in time, present and current, something that shouldn’t speed up, something they couldn’t prolong.

Lily let her go with an open-mouthed kiss to her cheek, and Mary’s heart was in her throat. She felt angry, not at Lily, but at everyone who wasn’t Lily, so she spat it out to spite them, “I love you.” She choked it out, actually.

“I know,” Lily smiled fleetingly. “Bye, Mary Macdonald. I love you too.”

“Bye, Lily Evans.” She turned, and she Flooed.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful