Chapter Three
Date Unknown
When the little girl awoke for a second time, it was to that same crushing terror that had clasped around her so tightly before. She could feel the stickiness of the pillow under her neck, the clamminess of her hands by her sides. There was a pulsating pressure at the back of her head that made her nauseous and she moaned softly.
"Hush, child," a voice soothed. "You are safe now."
A hand brushed away the loose hairs from her damp forehead.
Vaguely, the girl remembered a much deeper voice – gruffer, like a bear – comforting her in much the same way some time in the past.
Or had that all been a part of the Horror World?
The girl trembled as images from her nightmares came to the surface. Fire and screaming and figures rising from shadows and a boy she couldn't find the name of. She feared closing her eyes. Feared losing herself in the Horror World forever. And the gruffer voice hadn't seemed dangerous, but – oh – nothing was making sense right now.
She took a deep breath, or, she tried to. Something wasn't right. Why couldn't she-?
The girl's eyes widened, panicked. The deep breath wouldn't come. Nothing was coming. Her little heart raced, battering at her rib cage in its frustration. But her throat constricted and there were black dots dancing across her vision and the world – what little of it she could see, white tile upon white tile upon white tile – began to spin.
A face came into view. A kind looking face, one with dark eyes framed either side by tiny wrinkles like claws and a mouth done in rouge. The Face didn't spin. The little girl liked that, she decided.
"Breathe, sweet girl," said the Face.
It seemed the Face wanted to show the girl how to do it, too, which made the child scowl. What a silly notion. Of course she knew how to breathe, the girl thought indignantly. Didn't the Face understand it was simply that she couldn't?
See, she wanted to say, I know what I'm meant to be doing. In, out. In, out. In, out. See?
And just like that, the spots faded away and her lungs flooded and the girl decided that the Face might think she was stupid but she wasn't so there.
The Face just smiled, then turned away a moment.
"Augusta, do make yourself useful and call us in a Healer, would you please?"
The little girl smiled – a small one, too watery and hesitant to really label it as such – when the Face's attention swung straight back to her. It's a lovely thing to have the attention of a Face so gentle and lovely as her's.
"You gave my husband quite a shock the other night, you know," the Face sighed. "And you've been through such an ordeal. But you're here now. You're safe."
They stayed still for a while, the girl and her Face, each focused on steady breathing and clear minds and studying the other's expressions. The little girl's eyebrows scrunched in by her nose as she tried to count the number of freckles on her Face.
Playful, the Face mimicked the girl, and the girl laughed a croaky sort of laugh that startled them both.
All that time, a hand never stopped caressing the hair on the girl's brow.
Finally, there came a cough at the door and the clacking of an extra pair of boots against the floor.
"Mrs Potter," someone greeted loudly. A funny feeling twisted the little girl's gut. "Mrs Longbottom tells me our charge is awake?"
The Face turned away and the mattress rattled slightly as its body made to stand.
Suddenly lonely, the little girl turned her attention to counting the chips in the ceiling tiles instead. One. Two. Three. A scratchy voice was asking if the charge had been responsive. Six. Seven. Was the wake natural? Thirteen. Fourteen.
What number came next, she wondered. Oh, oh! Fifteen! Fifteen chips.
Maybe there were more to count if she were to turn her head?
But then a man stood where her Face had been, looking not nearly as nice. His moustache obscured half his nose, full of prickly bristles more suited to a fox. It twitched unpleasantly when he spoke. Plus there was a smidge by his chin. She badly wanted her Face back.
He waved his wand over her wordlessly, avoiding her eyes, stopping every so often to note something on a piece of parchment in his pocket. Eventually – just as the girl became impatient and began to fidget – he straightened up to address her.
"I'm Healer Deverill," the man introduced himself. "And who might you be?"
The little girl opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. "I'm –" The answer died in her throat. "I'm –" she tried again.
What did he want her to say? She cast about her mind desperately for some clue; everyone knew who they were, after all. Why would she be different? It had to be somewhere...
But it wasn't. She couldn't find it, not anywhere, not even in the deepest recesses of her mind filled with locked doors and signs warning not to enter.
Her lip quivered. Her fist tightened. The candles on the walls flickered despite the still air; the table in the corner shook violently where it stood enough to almost topple the empty vase. The girl screwed her eyes shut tight, biting her lip.
"'er," she stuttered. "'er, meh-"
Shadows danced spitefully against the stark white walls as the flames grew larger. The table legs pounded into the floor harder still.
"Meh... meh-" but it was no use.
Shaking her head, the little girl gave in. There was no name. There wasn't, there wasn't anything. All she knew was the fear and the running and the green eyes that followed her through each nightmare. It was all she had; she didn't have a name.
She coughed, a hacking cough too large for her tiny body, and made to sit up.
Two arms wrapped around her, rubbed her back tenderly.
"It's okay, sweet girl," whispered a voice. Her Face. "It's okay. You just concentrate on getting better. We'll find your name. Or maybe a shiny new one, hmm? Now wouldn't that be lovely."
She prattled on, holding the little girl close to her chest so that all the child could smell was the jasmine and mint of her perfume and all she could see were soft woollen robes. By the door, Augusta was looking disapproving. The Healer, Merlin bless him, didn't seem to know what to do next.
When Mrs Potter was convinced the girl had fallen back into slumber, she asked, "How long until we can take her home?"
"Home?" said Deverill.
"Home," Mrs Potter repeated, tone perfectly business-like despite the sleeping child in her arms. "I assume now that you've collected her vitals that there's a protocol to follow to discharge her into my care?"
"Well, I-"
Mrs Potter continued, "She is, after all, only a child. And a child of Potter blood at that. It would be unseemly for her to have to stay in hospital away from family for any longer than necessary."
Deverill left the room, muttering about Pureblood proprieties and seeing what he could do.
As Mrs Potter tucked the sleeping girl under the starched white bed sheets, Augusta took her chance.
"Dorea..." she started, frowning.
"Don't 'Dorea' me, Auggie," said Mrs Potter. "You sound like my mother."
Augusta's expression softened. "Not as much as you did, chastising the poor Healer," she teased.
"Yes, well." Dorea had the grace to look sheepish. "Maybe I went a tad overboard."
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" asked Augusta.
Dorea smiled. "She had the ring, Auggie. A genuine Potter ring. Do you know how few-? And the wards! She's family, no other explanation."
Augusta didn't appear convinced.
"And what of Dumbledore's warning? War again on the continent; dark forces rising in Britain?"
"You think they'd send a six year old girl as, what, a trap?"
The older woman shrugged. "If Dumbledore says-"
"Dumbledore, my arse," scoffed Dorea. "This is Potter business and she is a Potter girl." She paused a moment to take another look at the child – all that hair; they'd have to do something about that. "She's my girl."
A/N Thank you for the response again to the last chapter, especially GeekMom13 for the review! You gave me something to think about I hadn't considered before so I'm having fun now seeing where I can work an extra detail into the plot. Everything's about to speed up a little bit so we can get to Hogwarts by around Chapter 7, don't worry.