Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I own the Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting or Neverwinter Nights 2. Those belong to JK Rowling and the geniuses at Wizards of the Coast and Obsidian Entertainment, respectively.
Yet, Never, in Extremity Down the Rabbit Hole
"Hope" is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm – I've heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of Me. - Emily Dickinson
It's the second time this has happened, she thinks as she listens to foreign voices babbling and tries not to squint at the sheer whiteness of the room, and twice is two times too many for her liking. The second time that she's found herself coming out of the black of unconsciousness in an unfamiliar location, unarmed and - for all intents and purposes - so horribly alone. These beings in the room don't count, nor did anything in Okku's barrow before Safiya arrived to free her from the binding circle what seems like a lifetime ago.
She bites her lip almost hard enough to draw blood, hard enough that she hopes the brief burst of pain will overpower the cold spike of utter loneliness and the need for her friends. To see Bevil, her father or Neeshka or Gann or Ammon Jerro or Safiya… Hells, she'd even settle for Torio right now, and it's common knowledge that there's very little love lost between them.
Bits and pieces of a frenzied conversation float to her ears, though it's all gibberish to her. Maybe slightly similar to Common, perhaps a few syllables like Elvish or Chondathan or Dwarvish or even Rashemi, but all of it just so much nonsense. One word, though, is crystalline clear.
Esmerelle.
She would know her mother's name anywhere. It's almost second nature to her, deprived of information for so many years, to sit up and take notice.
Sitting up is easier thought than done, apparently. Before she can completely raise her body, before she can even completely shift her arms to carry her weight, she is overcome by a bout of nausea that makes her drop back to the pillows and groan without intention to.
The three humans - at least, she thinks they're human - come scurrying to her bedside.
One, a healer or cleric of some god unfamiliar to her, is fretting over her, muttering the same gibberish but in a tone she's heard so many times before when Retta used to fret over some new injury of Bevil's… She quickly abandons that comparison. Somehow the healer understands that she wants to sit up, and it's with a smile on her slightly chubby face that the healer flicks a small wooden stick and summons the magic that gently props her up while pillows bundle themselves between her and the headboard as a sort of makeshift backrest.
The second is an old man; perhaps as old as Elminster is reputed to be if the silvery beard tucked into his belt is any indication. Koros Ironfist, she thinks as she tries to suppress a giggle at the sight of the old man's virulently yellow robes, would die of sheer beard-envy. Come to think of it, so would most of the male dwarves she knows and - if those rumors were true - Magda as well. The old man watches her as she observes him, twinkling blue eyes lending him an air of amiability. But she has been a fighter since she was old enough to hold sword and bow - almost any of her late townsfolk knew how to at least swing a club or a frying pan at a lizardman - and she can almost see the aura of power and suppressed deadliness surrounding him. No matter how amiable he might seem.
The last is another woman, tall and thin with graying dark hair tied in a bun tight enough to stretch the skin on her forehead and wearing square-ish glasses. Her eyes are dark-colored behind them, but it is the woman's expression that catches her attention. Somewhere between disbelief and hope, and all of it directed at her. The woman is quiet for a moment after the healer finishes, all of them are, but then there is another sentence from her lips.
She cannot understand it, but the last three words have a particular emphasis. The last word is, once again, her dead mother's name. She wants to ask them so many things - where is she, who are they, how does the woman who is not the healer know her mother's name, did she know Esmerelle? Common sense stills her tongue. If she cannot understand them, it's very likely that they can't understand her. Far better to wait for someone to summon a translator or even a mage with that particular spell in their books than to waste valuable energy trying to play at pantomimes.
The healer is at her side again, this time rolling a small plank of wood attached to a metal arm over her lap and setting a tray of food on top of it.
She, who can't quite remember when last she ate, dives into her meal with a passion.
Minerva cannot help but stare. The girl…the young woman, probably no more than twenty-one, looks like them in the way that children are supposed to be a blend of their parents. William's nose and wide shoulders and long limbs, but her sister-in-law's coloring and face shape, her ears and height and slim build and raven curls. In a certain light, her hair down and her face tilted just right…she could pass for 'Relle's sister.
She can't help but wonder. What's her name, how did she grow up, where did she grow up, how is Esmerelle…so many questions that won't have an answer until the appropriate translation charm is cast.
She does not let herself consider the possibility that she could be wrong about who the young woman is.
It seems to take an eternity, but finally the young woman finishes her meal and looks back up at them with an expression that screams of curiosity. There is no fear in it, though, and Minerva finds that a little unusual for the young woman's situation. Perhaps she knows Minerva somehow? Or could it be that she is confident enough in her abilities that she sees no need for fear? If Minerva's right, if this is her niece, perhaps she was what Esmerelle called an "adventurer"?
Albus needs no prompting to cast the charm, and Minerva notes that the expression on the young woman's face is still more curiosity than fear, though she rubs almost absently at a spot on her chest when Albus casts the spell.
Her mentor is smiling at the young woman, the smile that screams "I am harmless, you can trust me". "How are you feeling, dear girl?"
The young woman looks a little shocked for a second. "I…Well, I feel better than I have any right to, I suppose. Where am I?"
"You're at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My name is Albus Dumbledore, and these lovely ladies are Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey."
The young woman inclines her head politely at each of them. "Like the Academies…Safiya would simply die…" Minerva hears her muttering almost under her breath. "I am Elyssia Kendrick."
Kendrick. The name is so familiar to her, and Minerva cannot clap her hands to her mouth quickly enough to prevent a shocked and almost joyful gasp from escaping. This is her niece.
Albus notices and smiles a little, shooing Poppy out ahead of him with some half-muttered excuses that Minerva knows are about as real as Xenophilius Lovegood's Crumple-Horned Snorkack. That leaves Minerva staring at Elyssia – a variant of Elizabeth or Eliza or Alyssa, perhaps? Esmerelle and William had both loved the names, she recalls - and her niece looking at her with her head tilted in the manner of a curious cat.
"Mistress McGonagall?" she says after a long moment. "I…forgive me for eavesdropping earlier, but…I thought that I heard you speak the name Esmerelle…did you know her?"
Minerva transfigures the little wooden chair by Elyssia's bed into a comfortable armchair and takes a seat. "I did. Very well. How is she?"
Elyssia turns her face away slightly, a hand returning to that spot on her chest. "Esmerelle…my mother…she died when I was very young."
"I'm sorry. She was a good woman."
"Thank you. If you don't mind, Mistress, how did you know her?"
She pulls the long chain of a necklace from her robes and over her head, releasing the catch on an oval-shaped locket and handing it to Elyssia. Her finger taps gently against one side, a Muggle photograph of William and Esmerelle encased in the little frame. "She was my sister-in-law. That's her and your father on their wedding day."
Elyssia's face is decorated with a look of sheer awe, eyes the color of a summer sky sparkling. "My…this is my blood father? And…my mother…"
"Aye. Your father was my younger brother, William. You didn't know?"
"No…Mother never spoke of him to my foster father."
And they talk. Elyssia tells her of West Harbor, of the Farlong brothers and her adventures in Neverwinter and Rashemen and all of her friends, of a shattered and twice-remade sword - "…currently in the Headmaster's keeping, Elyssia, no need to worry…" - and a broken mask. Minerva tells her of William and Esmerelle, of how her younger brother was smitten with the young half-elf enchantress who literally fell into his lap after his last NEWT and of the plucky and brilliant young woman who was equally smitten with him.
By the time Poppy muscles her way back in, they have accepted each other as family (Elyssia comments about the novelty of an aunt) and Elyssia has been told of the fact that she is most likely a witch. The glass that bursts when the young woman speaks of the destruction of West Harbor and the deaths of her friends proves it.
It takes very little to convince Elyssia that she needs to learn to control these powers, less to convince Albus that Elyssia should stay at Hogwarts until they can find a way to return her to Faerûn. It takes a little more work to convince Horace to give up that "experimental" de-aging potion for The Cause, but Minerva is nothing if not resourceful.
And very, very stubborn.
And the first time that Elyssia calls her "Auntie Min", Minerva very nearly weeps for joy.
