blake montague
Attention all those with a television and mobile device

Still Star Crossed is set to be cancelled after this season and though it looks hopeless, I’m still searching for a way to save it. The end of this article mentions how we could potentially save this show and I need everyone’s help. Not just fans of the show, but everyone. Those with a television, if you have scheduling capabilities on your tv, pls schedule it to tune into Still Star Crossed this Saturday for the next ep. If you have a cellphone, download the app amd stream live Saturday or watch the ep(s) the day after plssss!! We need the ratings on this and every episode after to be monumental. I wanna give up, but something within me will not, so pls do this!! Not just for me or the fans, but for the representation little boys and girls need! This show is so beautifully done and it was given none of the promotion it deserved. PLEASE TUNE IN!!


It’s not like she was captured by a group of Death Eaters. 


If that was the case, Mary would be dead. 

They don’t usually make a habit of messing around in the department of inconsequential beings. 

What she had happened upon was a terrified group of people who were hoping to trade her and a few others in for amnesty. So scared that reasoning with them by explaining that they were looking for protection, for fair play from a side that was fundamentally opposed to such concepts was useless. So scared that they allowed one man and his son be the guards of the group after having just lost a wife and mother over the fact that she was sheltering muggleborns without their knowledge. 

“I’ve always been too popular for my own good,” comes a muffled, pained but joking sigh from Mary to Blake later.

They recognized her. Blake hisses at her that she was wearing muggle clothes, something she shouldn’t do. 

Mary considers this for a moment before she shakes her head, “Nope.” She can’t smile, she can’t laugh because the kicks to her ribs have made breathing hard enough, she just wants to get the pained look out of Blake’s crystal blue eyes, “Definitely because I am too popular." 

They were angry at muggleborns for taking the woman that meant the most to them away. They were keen on doing what they could to please You-Know-Who to protect themselves. The rest just wanted to hold on to a semblance of hope and since the Ministry was waning in it’s authority they went to what seemed to be the highest power - 

"You’re making excuses,” Blake tells her. She pulls at something, something lodged in a cut by Mary’s eye. The blonde whimpers and exhales. “They did this to you because they are cruel." 

Her own gray-blue eyes look towards the mirror, see the handiwork of those terrified two. 

Blake dampens a rag with a potion that should make the swelling go down, Mary squirms and whines against the stinging sensation. 

It goes on. Blake prepares another potion, Mary drinks it. Mary spits out more blood, Blake makes her drink another. Mary stops making excuses as Blake heals her hands which are bruised and cut from attempts to get them off of her, get away. Instead she watches her friend as red eyebrows knit together against pale skin, observes the pained expression as Blake presses clean fingers near every wound. Blake isn’t always the easiest to read, but Mary can see it in her face now even through swollen eyes. 

Blake Montague is worried about Mary. 

Worried she won’t survive the war. Mary thinks she might be on to something.

Worried there is internal bleeding. But the next potion she shoves down her friend’s throat solves that.

Worried that people want to hurt Mary. 

That explains the outburst of anger when the aurors burst into the room. Blake found Mary straight away, Blake touched her face and whispered hurried words demanding who and how long, but never why. Other than the muggle clothes it seems to Mary that Blake doesn’t think there should be a why or there will never be a decent explanation.  

Being angry at the world or thinking it is cruel for no reason is not a way to live. So, once sleep heals the exhaustion that is seeping onto her bones the girl makes the resolve to take her auror friend out into the muggle world. It is safer there, and she can show her a favorite field or they can go swimming and laugh and play. 

But for now all these tired bones can do is wrap her fingers around the wrists that are caring for her. Still the movement and still Blake’s angry thoughts. "Hey, Romes,” she murmurs a teasing nickname for a Shakesperean surname. “I love you." 

Thanks for saving me, she would say. But Mary doesn’t want this moment to hang over a time when she can’t.

They brew the potion in August.

“Well,” Rosmerta says after a string of curse words leaves her red head friend and fills the air of the nearly deserted pub, “At least it will be a girl." 

A girl is someone who she can teach lessons, she thinks. A girl is something familiar, something they have a blueprint of what not to do. Men, who started this war and who extended it, boys who played soldiers in the embers of what once stood a home. A girl is manageable. How much could they really fuck a girl up?


The war ends. Blake expands. Rosmerta nurses a broken heart and an aching loneliness with tentative hands placed on her friend’s stomach and little outfits bought. She bites her lip and suppresses the urge to tell the mediwitch that neither of them are prepared for this responsibility when it comes time for Blake to push, she watches with wide eyes as she holds the little bundle for the first time.

Long, spidery fingers, pink skin, dark eyes, and a tuft of red hair.

"Marilyn,” Blake calls the little alien. 

“Okay, kid,” Rosmerta manages out through inexplicable tears. 

She promises she will do her best for both Blake and this tiny pink alien as the sated new mother falls asleep. 


Marilyn grows up. She looks less like an alien by the three month mark. Rosmerta gets over the fear of holding her for fear that she will drop and shatter her like a mug around this time too, so this is when she really lives up to her christened name of Aunt Rosie. 


They grow together, intertwine. She is there for every first. She is there to laugh at the scrapes Blake cleans after she gets in first tussle with another year old over the toy she was playing with. They took comfort in her being a girl before she even entered the world, this is the time when they really shine. Teaching her all the lessons they picked up along the way.


Clean your cuts after you get them, don’t pick at the scabs after the fact.

Blake tuts in what Rosmerta teases is much too motherly way as Marilyn hisses against the healing, yet still clutches to her prize from the fight.

“I am in trouble.”

“You were in trouble when she wouldn’t stop screaming for the first nine months,” Rosie says, “This is just the pay off. Everyone else is in trouble now too.”

Marilyn holds out the toy for Rosie to play with, which she happily accepts as proof of her niece’s agreement. 


Your voice might be small but the most important people will always listen.

She learns how to talk and just as she exercised her screams, she babbles. Nonsense words, incoherent sentences. It isn’t unlike the drunk rambles of men, so Rosmerta gives her full attention. Marilyn sits in her chair behind the bar and throws in the occasional “Ah-Roro,” to ensure the brunette is indeed listening. 

“Rororo,” she hollers excitedly when brown eyes meet the much younger blue.

“I’ve been waiting for ten minutes,” a very posh looking man huffs after he slaps the bar.

And then his chin smacks it as his chair flies from under him.

“I’m sorry, but you will have to wait until my niece is done her story,” Rosie snaps, tucking away her wand once more. 

Marilyn claps her hands and laughs with delight.


Be polite. Until someone gives you a reason not to be.

They are walking away from a playground, Marilyn clutches onto Rosmerta and Blake fumes. 

“The nerve of that kid.”

“Monroe here gave him a piece of it,” Rosie laughs as she holds the toddler above her head with a laugh, "Of his ear. Back to him.“

"That’s what happens when a hussy tries to raise a child,” a mother calls after them loudly, rudely, disapprovingly. 

Blake has matured in motherhood, but she takes Marilyn from Rosmerta with an understanding all the same. “At least take off the rings,” she says. 

Rosie hands over them as well before spinning on her heel to teach Marilyn that you have to be sure to protect your thumb when you throw a punch. The point is to optimize pain on them and limit the shock to your wrist.


Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and pull yourself together.

Four years old and equipped with a boyfriend.

That is, until his family need to move to France.

Rosmerta pours chocolate milk into a small cup with a sympathetic smile. 

“I-I m-miss boyfriend,” the toddler sniffles.

“What was his name again, kid?” Rosie asks, a knowing grin already playing on her features.

“My boyfriend.”

Rosmerta nods and crouches down. A runny nose and watery eyes tilt up at her, prepared for the application of the ruby red lipstick. “I’ll take you to see him and play,” Rosie promises. Because aunts are supposed to make things better, she has learned. As an aunt you are even supposed to allow little girls to wipe their noses against your forearm.

She runs the stick along her own lips and takes a sip from her mead.

“Aunt Rosie,” Marilyn asks after they mirror each other, rolling lips together and swiping the excess from the corners of their mouth, “Who hurted it?" 

Rosmerta blinks for a moment, confused until the little girl follows up by placing a small palm to her chest. She rests it above Rosie’s definitely beating heart (she’s checked enough), a bigger hand wraps around the tiny wrist.

She is fine with teaching Marilyn how to avoid hurting yourself when in a fight but telling her that heartache can be self-inflicted seems wrong. 

"He moved away,” Rosie says softly with a sad smile, “Went to the stars, I think." 

She straightens back up as Marilyn takes a long drink of chocolate milk.

It is when she hears a little voice say, "Can we see him and play too?” That Rosie realizes that Blake isn’t all that mature because of biological effects that motherhood brings about.

They have just as much to teach, apparently.

Dreama & Blake

Ms. Blake Montague entered the Great Hall and every eye, both male and female, was turned towards her. Except Dreama’s, hers were performing a blunt eye roll. Many would say that Dreama was jealous of the Slytherin girl. She always looked so put together, was rather beautiful, and never said the wrong thing. Dream, on the other hand, was always saying the wrong thing to both friend and not friends. It’s not like she meant to but Dreama detested being told what to do and hated being wrong.

Grabbing a sandwich, she quickly exited the Great Hall. “She’s not even that pretty,” she mumbled to herself as she picked at the sandwich. 

Twenty minutes later…

Realizing that she had wandered to the depths of Slytherin territory, she quickly made  an about turn and walked back towards the main part of the castle.  Then she heard it. The clicking of heels on the stone floor along with a male and female voice chatting. Ducking into a nearby classroom, she waited as the pair moved past her door. The young man, who she realized was a Ravenclaw, was doing all the talking while the girl who was Blake barely uttered a reply. Dreama realized that he was trying to flirt with the pretty snake but having a hard time. Stifling a laugh as he reached for Blake’s hand, which Blake moved rather quickly to adjust her sweater. Watching as the young man dropped Blake off at the entrance to her common room, he swept in for a kiss… with air as Blake hadn’t even turned around to say goodbye before climbing through the opening.  Poor sap. Never had a chance with Slytherin’s chameleon. Dreama may not be Blake’s fan but at least she wasn’t having to deal with awkward boys and their advances.