It was the weekend, but already Maeve's day had been quite eventful. For the former Slytherin Queen Bee who once refused to get out of bed before the sun rose (and would berate any poor younger year who dared wake her earlier), to not only be up but fully functioning and happy about it was quite a change for her.

She had spent the morning giving tours at the museum and then helping one of the Head Curators of the Pureblood Division work on an upcoming exhibit. So it had already been a busy morning before she hopped on the Hogwart's Express for the ride to Hogsmeade for a little meeting with one of her cousins.

If there was anyone who could rival Maeve in terms of favoritism among the adults in the family, it was Theo Whitman. Despite not descending from the optimal "first born son" line, Theo possessed all of the most treasured of Whitman traits. Not to mention a few extra thrown in there from the Ferrari side of the gene pool.

Given the preoccupation of Theo's parents with...themselves...Quite a bit of his childhood was spent in the company of Maeve and her younger sister, Carys. Three blonde haired, blue eyed angelic Whitman children exploring every inch of Ceinwen Plas; Theo was often mistaken for her brother (a twin to Carys even) and not cousin a branch removed. Thus, it was only natural that her family, particularly her father and grandparents, would become so fond of him.

In fact, Maeve's grandmother would have come on this particular visit to Hogsmeade if it hadn't been for previous social engagements. In addition to sending Maeve along with her regrets, she made sure that Maeve had enough money to go shopping with Theo to get whatever they might want, no matter the expense.

And now Maeve stood in front of Gladrags waiting for the dapper blonde cousin who she had not seen since earlier in the summer. She was eager to hear all about the start of his 6th year and how their beloved Slytherin House was faring in the wake of her absence.

When she saw him approaching through the crowd, she threw up her hand and waved, excitedly gushing, "Theo! Over here!"

At the sight of his cousin – and the sound of her call – Theo turned around. A broad, dazzling smile lit up his face when he spotted her, and it was still there when he loped towards her, his tall frame unhindered by the early afternoon crush. “Maeve!” a sharp, breathless bark of laughter escaped, and he gently gathered her into a brief - but affectionate - hug.

Out of all his cousins, Maeve was easily Theo’s favorite. As the girl herself could attest, those years spent at Ceinwen Plas had made him a veritable member of the family – something that both amused and pleased him –and despite the two years’ worth of difference between them, the boy was both fond of and respected curatorial aide to an extent that, barring a few notable exceptions, far surpassed what he felt for most of his more immediate relations; beneath that seemingly shallow façade his beautiful cousin was sharp, calculating, and vicious. She was far more cunning than most people ever realized. More often than not she brought to mind a delicate razor blade, artfully disguised under a veneer of silk.

Simply put, her reign as Queen Bee had been a work of art—particularly the way she had carefully handled her ‘subjects’, had kept them assured of her own power so that they focused on undermining each other instead. Those with even the slightest affiliation to the Monarchy had been pieces on her chessboard, even if they hadn’t actually been hers to play. Yes, certainly one for the history books, a fine example of - ahem - Whitman leadership.

And truly, during his time in her shadow, as her shadow… Theo had found it inspiring.

“Cousin,” he beamed down at her, as he pulled away just enough to loosely clasp her hands. “You look glorious.” As usual, as always—nothing less than a Whitman, to be sure. The boy himself had gone for a fine white button-down, tucked into the waist of carefully pressed slacks. To avoid a monochromatic effect, he had thrown on a brilliant red blazer that had been tailored just for his form. “Must you always raise the bar so high?”