Saturday, 31 July 1993, Morning
Urquhart Mansion
The day of Mary's thirteenth birthday dawned clear and bright. It was a Saturday, so she could lounge around with Catherine in the morning, practicing her French, and then go flying in the afternoon. Catherine had promised that there would be a cake for her after dinner, and there was a small stack of gifts waiting for her at the end of her bed when she woke up. For about an hour, as she showered and dressed in her favorite robes, anticipating the birthday and Lammas rituals to come, she was certain it was going to be a perfect day.
Things started to go downhill when she reached the letter Lilian sent with her gift (a little bracelet with a silver snake charm, which Lilian insisted was going to be the next big thing in Slytherin). It seemed that instead of coming to visit on Monday, the bold Slytherin would be accompanying her father and sister to Spain. Some idiot (according to Lilian) had summoned a Skriker, which was a kind of demonic dog-creature, and flubbed the circle. It had killed him before taking off across the countryside. The Spanish Aurors – los Guardadores – sent an urgent request to the British Aurors, because out of all the European magical communities, Britain had the most experience with dealing with Spectral Hounds. The Aurors had contacted Tim Moon because the Moons were the foremost specialists on summoning, training, and controlling all kinds of Black Dogs, including the demonic ones. The girls were allowed to go and observe the hunt because their father felt that it was time they expanded their training to dealing with the infernal breeds, rather than the relatively harmless tangible and mundane dogs they were already familiar with. All this Mary gathered from reading between the lines of the hastily-scribbled letter. It ended with "I've got to go, Aer's done packing. Happy birthday, I'll write when we're back!"
Even Hermione's reminder (sent along with a French novel, Le Petit Prince, and an admonishment to practice the language more) that the Grangers would be back from France by Wednesday, and that they would see her soon, at the Muggleborn Shopping Excursion on the fourteenth (Professor McGonagall had agreed to allow them to attend without much objection, either because it would make her job easier, or because she was trying to make amends to Emma for failing to notify her of the Basilisk situation) did not entirely make up for the loss of Lilian's visit.
On the other hand the Weasley twins' gift, a basket of cantrips – little enchanted slips of paper and twigs that released their magic to amusing effect when they were broken or torn – did make her smile.
She was of two minds about accepting the present. On the one hand, it might have been their way of trying to apologize. On the other, it wasn't very explicit, and even if it was an apology, she wasn't ready to forgive them. She had been ignoring them for months, much as she had Hagrid when she decided not to be his friend anymore, but unlike the dangerously stupid giant, the red-headed boys didn't seem to be taking the hint. They were still acting like they were friends, sending her the occasional letter, even though she only ever replied to Ginny, and now a birthday gift as well.
The boys had outright apologized for taking off to Egypt with no notice. Their explanation was that their mother had monopolized the family owl (a ragged, decrepit mop of feathers called Errol) until the day they left, and then they decided it might as well be a surprise. At least that solved the mystery of why Ginny hadn't told her they were leaving. The younger girl had included a gift as well – a blue-green ring carved in the shape of a snake that she claimed to have found in an ancient tomb, and Bill assured her was no longer cursed.
Eventually Mary decided that just because she was angry at them didn't mean she couldn't still take whatever the twins were trying to bribe her with, and still refuse to speak to them. She found a cantrip that turned her hair Weasley-red, and decided to use it right before breakfast, just to see Catherine's scandalized look.
Remus had sent her a Gulbrathian-enchanted candle, which could only be put out by the person who lit it, along with a short note wishing her a happy thirteenth birthday.
An anonymous someone (though she was certain it was Snape) sent her a new potions knife, much finer than the one she had bought for class. The blade was tiny, like a scalpel, but the note said it was edged with goblin-forged electrum and enchanted to be ever-sharp, which would make it ideal for dealing with some of the more delicate magiflora and magical creature ingredients. This did not help with the conundrum of how to deal with Snape in the least, but thankfully the lack of a signature suggested that she needn't attempt to write a thank-you note.
Good spirits more or less restored (aside from the ever-present Snape-related confusion), Mary changed her hair color and made her way to breakfast. Mr. Stephen did a double-take and dropped his fork when she walked into the dining room, while everyone else just laughed. He explained that he had been at Hogwarts with Lily Evans (though several years behind) and even though the Weasley hair wasn't quite the same shade of red, it was close enough that the resemblance was shocking. Aunt Minnie's reaction, when she arrived at the end of the meal, was a bit more extreme. Mary had whisked her hair up into a ponytail and forgotten about it, until she was crushed into a hug by the normally-severe woman, who explained, tears in her eyes, that "you look just like your mother, you know."
They had been planning to do the birthday ritual right after breakfast, before retiring to mediate on and discuss their expectations for the coming year, but that plan was derailed by the professor, who had terrible news.
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"Have any of you seen the Prophet this mornin'?" Professor McGonagall asked, her Scots accent far more pronounced than usual.
There was a murmur of negative responses from the Urquharts. It had been overlooked in the excitement over Mary's hair and plans for the holiday.
"Here," she said, brandishing her copy at Lord Urquhart. "It's 'orrible!"
The front page was covered by a silent photo of a man, his hair and beard tangled, staring resentfully at them all as Lord Urquhart turned to the article on the next page. His face was emaciated and sunken, his eyes shadowed and dull. The only movement was the occasional blink.
"I canna believe they didna' have the presence of mind t' give us some sort've warnin', the bleeding imbeciles!"
"Minerva!" Madam Urquhart snapped, "Get ahold of yourself, girl! What, by Merlin's beard, has happened?"
It was Lord Urquhart who answered, the paper falling to the table as he reported in a shocked tone, "Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban!"
"WHAT?!" Mary's appalled exclamation was drowned out by the simultaneous eruption of sound from everyone else at the table. Even the children were demanding to know who Sirius Black was, and Bryce started crying at the noise. The adults, in contrast, were vehemently denying that it was possible to escape from Azkaban. "But what about the dementors?" Ms. Nanette asked, over and over.
"SHUT UP!" Lord Urquhart shouted, and as the din slowly quieted, he began to read.
"The Ministry saw fit to inform the Prophet this morning of the escape of the notorious mass-murderer Sirius Black from Azkaban prison, late in the evening of Thursday the 29th or in the early hours of Friday the 30th. Black, former Auror and disgraced Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House, claimed by Severus Snape, former Death Eater, to have been the right hand of He Who Must Not Be Named, was remanded to Azkaban in November of 1981, just days after the fall of You Know Who. For more on the Snape Scandal of 1981, see page three.
"Black was captured at the scene of his last crime, a street blown to bits, with twelve muggles killed as collateral damage. The target of this devastating curse is said to have been Peter Pettigrew, Order of Merlin First Class, who once counted Black among his friends. The remains of Mr. Pettigrew were never recovered. He was identified by a finger found at the scene and pre-obliviation muggle witness reports.
"Mr. Pettigrew reportedly called out immediately before his death, accusing Black of betraying the Potter family to He Who Must Not Be Named, resulting in the deaths of Lord James Potter and his young wife Lily, formerly Evans. They were survived, of course, by their daughter Mary Potter, the Girl Who Lived. For more on Mary Potter, see pages three and four. When Aurors arrived on the scene, Black was reportedly laughing and muttering to himself, taking full credit for his crimes.
"When questioned regarding how the escape occurred and why the guards could not be more specific as to the timing of Black's disappearance, despite ranking as one of the most heavily guarded prisoners on the island, a high-ranking ministry official, who has requested anonymity, said, 'Well, it's not exactly like they have eyes, do they? He disappeared from his cell between dinner on Thursday and breakfast Friday. Now get lost, we've got an investigation to get under way!' For a discussion of the Auror Office's response see page five.
"As our readers are undoubtedly aware, the only prison in Magical Britain is Azkaban. It has been used for that purpose since 1843, and in that time there have been zero confirmed escapes. Despite this, there is legal provision for escapees: According to a 1957 ministry decree, any wizard who escapes imprisonment in Azkaban shall be executed by means of the Killing Curse or the Dementors' Kiss immediately upon capture, having proven himself dangerous and unable to be held, even by our highest security efforts. See Editorials for debate on humane conditions for prisoners.
"The dementors, which guard the island and the prisoners, are reported to be incensed. Rumor in the ministry has it that the Wizengamot will vote this evening in an emergency session regarding whether this crisis will be considered a breach of National Security and whether it therefore will result in the activation of Emergency Powers on the part of the Minister. For further discussion of Minister Fudge and relevant Ministry policies, see page six.
"The investigators do not believe that Black has a wand at this time, but we remind our readers not to engage should they come into contact with him. There is no way to guarantee that he has not acquired a wand, and anyone who can escape an island full of dementors must be considered highly dangerous even without one. Likewise the fact that he has managed to escape suggests that he has some control of his faculties, even after prolonged exposure, possibly because, as his reaction on capture indicates, he was already quite mad before he was taken into custody. Furthermore, Black was once an Auror, and would therefore have had some knowledge of muggle combat which he may use in the absence of a wand.
"As of press time, there have been no reported sightings, but a floo-line has been designated by the Auror office to take tips, and all leads will be investigated. If you spot him, contact the Auror Office or the DMLE at once.
"And then the rest of the page is about his victims, Pettigrew and the Potters. They've even scraped up a horrific bit on how Pettigrew, Potter, and Black were all friends at school, along with a boy called Lupin, and are calling on the public to ask 'Where is Lupin now?' as though he could have had anything to do with it." Lord Urquhart passed the paper to his mother with a huff.
Mary, who had been sitting, frozen, shocked still, since the first line of the article, stood robotically and placed her napkin on her plate. "Excuse me," she announced, and turned to go without waiting for a response. This was undoubtedly rude, but she couldn't stay another moment. She just couldn't.
She ignored the indistinct babble of concerned voices behind her as she fled the house, brushing past Aunt Minnie, running straight to the broom shed and from there, to her favorite spot on the Mansion grounds – a tiny, open platform where two peaks of the roof came together. She had discovered it not two weeks before, and it appeared to have no easy access from the inside of the house. It had a lovely view of the nearby forest, and you couldn't see it at all from anywhere on the ground. Since William had begun to tag along whenever he spotted her flying in the gardens, she had started coming here to be alone.
She set her broom aside carefully, using a weak Sticking Charm to make sure it wouldn't slide off the roof. The last thing she needed today was to get trapped up here, where no one knew where she was. And then she curled herself into a ball, hugging her knees tightly to her chest, resting her forehead on them. She didn't know why it was so awful. She had always known, almost since the first day she found out about magic, that Sirius Black was a horrible traitor who had betrayed her parents and led to their deaths. Even Remus, who admitted to missing the boy Black once was, would hardly speak of him.
She had asked Remus about Azkaban in one of their letters, and she had thought that Black was getting what he deserved, locked up with the dementors, unable, or so Remus said, to think even a single happy thought, trapped in all his worst memories. Dementors, she had decided after that letter, sounded like the stuff of nightmares. She hoped she would never have to meet one.
Maybe just it was worse now because she knew what a godfather was supposed to do. He should have loved her like his own daughter! Catherine said that being a godparent was almost as big a commitment as getting married. He never should have done it, if he could so-easily turn on his compatres, his former friends. Hadn't she been thinking just a week ago, that it was good he was in Azkaban? The last thing she wanted in her life was a father-figure who had betrayed her before she even knew him. It was worse than finding out that he was her grandfather – at least that was biological and unavoidable. Black had volunteered, had been chosen as her godfather, and had still betrayed that bond.
Hot tears dripped down her face as she blamed her parents for choosing him. Why hadn't they known? How could they have trusted him with their lives? With her life? The stupid prophecy was no excuse. If nothing else, it should have meant they were even more cautious.
She immediately felt guilty for her own traitorous thoughts. She hardly ever thought of her parents, and it was, she felt, rather poor form to do so, only to blame them for what had to have been an honest mistake. They wouldn't have put all their lives in the hands of anyone they didn't trust absolutely. They wouldn't have made him her godfather, either. He must have fooled them both. He must have fooled everyone.
But that didn't make it better! She was just so angry! At the madman, escaped and on the run, with the Mad Power only knew what goals in mind. At her parents, for falling for his tricks. At whoever was in charge of the investigation, for not sending someone to tell her in person – she shouldn't have had to find out like this, from the morning paper, on her birthday, when it seemed nothing was going right. At herself, because even though it wasn't really their fault, she couldn't help wishing that her parents had trusted Remus instead of Black. He had explained in one of his letters that they had reasons to mistrust him – that he had been undercover and acting suspiciously at the end of the war – but she still wished that they had somehow been able to see through his act, and had trusted him anyway. He was clearly the better man.
She hardly noticed the wind whipping around her as her magic lashed the air in frustration.
She wished that there was something she could do. She knew that Black deserved to die for his treachery, and suspected that if she were a few years older, pureblood laws would have some recourse for her to declare him an enemy of her family or the like, and hunt him down herself. Not that she would stand a chance, really, against the sort of spells that could blow up a whole street, but it was the principle of the thing. He had taken so much from her, and she had every right to take something from him in return.
Then again, she had no idea where he was, and she didn't know if she could actually kill him if she did find him. If the basilisk were still alive (and willing to listen to her) she might have sent it after the man. But she supposed the absolute best she could possibly do, seeing as she was barely thirteen years old and had no secret weapons at her disposal, would be to track the man down and alert the Ministry.
There was no hope of that happening, either. She wouldn't know where to start, and Aunt Minnie and Catherine were hardly about to let her run off to try to track down a mass murderer, anyway.
She wanted to scream. She was sure there had been times in her life when she had felt helpless before – more helpless than this. Certainly being kidnapped by the Weasleys and then trapped in the Chamber was worse. Getting involved in the duel between Snape and Quirrellmort, and then nearly being possessed was worse. Even being thrown into her cupboard, or denied food for days with the Dursleys, or being held down by Piers as Dudley clumsily whaled on her might have been worse. But then, in all of those cases, she had been overwhelmed. None of those things were anything like being free and able to act, and yet entirely incapable of doing something you knew needed to be done.
She wanted to lash out with her magic. She wanted to break things. She wanted to fly as high as her broom could take her, and dive straight back to earth, defying gravity and death and any sort of reasonable fear for her own safety.
She did none of those things, because a tentative voice spoke from behind her: "Miss Mary?"
She sniffled. Great. Now she was going to have to find another hideout, too. "What is it, William?"
The little boy tried to lay his broom next to Mary's but without a sticking spell, it immediately rolled to a lower tier of the roof, and then off the side of the building. "Oops," he said, taking a seat next to her and clinging to her arm. He was clearly a bit frightened to be up so high without a broom to hand.
She didn't have the heart to make him let go, but she did repeat herself rather sharply. "What is it, William?"
"The aunties are lookin' for you," he said simply. "Aunt Minnie said it's your birthday, and Aunt Cathy said she hoped you were okay."
"'m fine," she mumbled, regretting that she couldn't send him back alone, since they only had the one broom, now.
"You're sad," he said bluntly. She snorted. At this rate, he was bound to be a Hufflepuff, or maybe a Gryffindor, with his bluntness. "Who's Sirius Black?"
"He's my godfather," she said, trying not to sniffle. "And he's a very bad man."
"And he's escaped from prison?"
Mary nodded.
"Guess that's a pretty bad birthday present, huh?" the boy said. Mary couldn't help but smile a little at the understatement.
"Yeah, you could say that. How'd you find me, anyway?"
"You always come here when you don't wanna fly with me," William said with a shrug.
Mary groaned. She had thought she was being sneaky. The boy just gave her a clever grin. "So why'd you come up here, if you knew I wanted to be alone?"
"'Cos it's your birthday," he said, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. "And the aunties were worried about you. And because mum told me to go do something useful, instead of hanging around asking questions."
"So you thought you'd come fetch me and save them the worry, is that it?" Mary sighed.
William nodded happily. "And Aunt Minnie said that when you came back, we could do your birthday ritual!"
"I didn't think I'd ever say this, but I don't know if I'm really in the mood, William," she protested, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.
"Don't be daft," the boy responded at once, mimicking his sister's favorite phrase. "You don't need to be in any pacific mood. Y' just have to sit there, and the magic and the grown-ups will do everything."
"Specific," Mary corrected idly. "All right then, let's go." She stood, and hauled the little boy to his feet as well, helping him mount the broom in front of her. It was a bit trickier to balance with two of them on board, but she fancied she was a good enough flier to manage, anyway. She had gotten aloft with Hermione riding double their first year, and William was a much better flier than her Ravenclaw friend.
Sure enough, they did make it to the ground safely, where Ms. Primrose was waiting anxiously for her son to return, and Mr. Stephen and Mr. Conrad were telling her not to worry so much. After William was returned to his parents, Aunt Minnie and Catherine swept Mary off to talk privately. They reassured her that she could come talk to them at any time, and that they were there for her. It might have been more comforting if she had wanted someone to cry with. But she definitely preferred to do that in private. What she really wanted was a good place to practice blowing things up. Maybe things that were glamoured to look like Sirius Black's face. That, she thought, might actually make her feel better.
She knew that would be considered unbecoming behavior, though, so she nodded quietly, and asked to be excused from the pureblood tea party she knew was being hosted by the Brown family the following day. She truly didn't know if she could sit through an entire afternoon with the society girls at the moment. Certainly not without losing her mind over something entirely inconsequential. Aunt Minnie had patted her hand reassuringly and said of course she didn't have to go if she didn't feel up to it, and Catherine volunteered to make her excuses for her.
Saturday, 31 July 1993, Afternoon/Early Evening
Urquhart Mansion
After that, apparently feeling that Mary had been consoled enough, or perhaps suspecting that the best way to deal with this latest traumatic revelation was simply to keep her busy, Catherine led her deep into the Mansion, to a room she had never entered before.
"This," Catherine announced proudly, "is the Ritual Room."
If she had not spent two years at Hogwarts already, Mary would have called the Ritual Room plain. As it was, she had enough experience now with magic to recognize its simplicity for age and to feel the strength of magic within it.
The stones of the walls were large and heavy, much like those in the dungeons at Hogwarts. They were hung with tapestries. The Urquhart family's lineage tapestry was most prominent, spanning the wall directly across from the door, but she spotted the crests of Prince and Rowle, Fawley, Flint, and Mortis as well: birth houses of the Urquhart ladies. Even House McGonagall had a crest, for all Mary knew Aunt Minnie and Elphinstone Urquhart had only been married for a couple of years, and never had children. The stones almost glowed with strength and solidity and history.
The ceiling was vaulted, rather like a cathedral, but not so very high. If it had been, Mary thought this would have been a terrible, alien space, built on the scale of a god, like the Chamber of Secrets. As it was, it was… homey. Earthy. Human. The lights suspended between the arches were soft and warm.
The floor was packed dirt, with a platform at the center of it which filled nearly the entire room – smooth, dark wood, like a round table, only a foot high. Mary could see no joints – it was as though it had just grown that way, or perhaps, she thought, noting the grain, as though someone had felled an enormous tree, two dozen feet across, and taken a slice of it to shape for their purpose. There was a sense of raw, living power here that she had never felt anywhere else.
She entered the room cautiously, the leftover magic of a thousand rituals pressing against her on all sides, emanating from the walls and the wooden circle, quite unlike the magic called and directed at the holidays. It was similar in a way to the magic that had flooded the Chamber when the Basilisk died, but not nearly as wild or dangerous-feeling. It buoyed her in a way she had never expected, the air positively fizzing around her. She wondered if this was what William had meant when he said that the magic would do the rest.
Catherine urged her to take off her shoes, then led her to the center of the platform and bid her to sit.
"This is the true heart of the Urquhart family," she explained, her voice soft and reverent. "For six-hundred years and more, we have brought our children before magic in this room. We marry here. We mourn here. This room has seen darkness and light, joy and sorrow, always in balance. The Powers have graced us with their presence in this room. For our family, it is a magic eternal and timeless, grown from the worship of ages. It will last, they say, until the last true Urquhart is gone, and then, like all magic, fade away to reappear in another form.
"To use this space, to be welcomed into it, is a gift all its own, and as such must be repaid. We make no offerings to the powers today, or to magic itself, but to history, tradition, and continuity."
"What do we need to do?" Mary whispered, her voice sounding too-loud, even so, in the sacred space.
Catherine grinned. "We're going to sand the altar."
"We're what?"
"We're showing our respect by caring for the space and taking care of it properly. The altar must be purified before and after every ritual, and we do that by sanding it. And we do it by hand. This isn't the sort of thing you can cheat at with an Elsen charm. It's an act of respect and… sacrifice. It should be taken seriously."
"Alright. I just… wasn't expecting that," Mary said, slightly defensive. She didn't mind, honestly. She understood, on a deeply fundamental level, that it was important to show that she respected the power of this magic, and if that was how, then that was what she would do.
Catherine smiled again, and left the platform (the altar, Mary corrected herself), slipping through a door half-hidden by the Mortis tapestry. She returned moments later with what seemed to be two blocks of actual sandstone, carved on one side with handles.
"Like this," she said, demonstrating by moving one of the blocks in slow circles across the wooden surface, raising faint dust in its wake. "Start here, and move clockwise around the circle, working your way in. I'll start on the other side and we'll spiral around each other and meet in the middle." The older girl suited word to deed, still talking. "When it's done, we wash the dust away, and then take a purification bath. Then we can come back and mark out the circle."
"Who all is going to be there? For the ritual, I mean." Mary asked, more than a little curious, taking over with her own sanding-block. It was lighter than she expected, and she wondered if it hadn't been enchanted, and whether that didn't count as cheating, too.
"Well, Aunt Minnie, of course, and she figured that since we'd only have eleven if we included the gents, we'd best keep it to seven, so it will be all the ladies: Madam Morgana, Lady Dahlia, Mother, and then Prim, Nan, and me."
Mary nodded, then realized that Catherine probably wasn't looking at her. "Okay."
"The gents and the kiddies will watch, of course, and I think Uncle Aeron and Aunt Percy might be here by then, and the cousins. Aunt Cleo and Uncle Bernie will likely be along around dinner, so they'll probably miss it."
"Who are they?" Mary knew about Aeron and Persephone Urquhart – they were on the Urquhart family tree. But she didn't recall a Cleo or a Bernie.
"The Millers. Cleo is father's sister, five years younger than him. There was a bit of a scandal, oh, probably about twenty years ago, now. She refused the marriage her grandfather arranged for her, and got herself disinherited over it. Not disowned, mind, but it was enough that she ran off and refused to speak to the family until he passed away and grandfather took over as Lord Urquhart. He re-inherited her, even though she had married a muggleborn wizard, Bernard Miller, in the meanwhile. He told Madam Morgana to bugger off, I guess, because Cleo's kids are nowhere near the line of succession, and he didn't want his only daughter to be estranged. But since Bernie's a muggleborn, they don't have any family traditions of their own, so they come back here, even though they're not part of the Urquhart clan by name and it's always hideously awkward with Madam Morgana. Father stood as compater for Leon and Chelsea, though, so she can't complain about them, at least. They have as much right to be there as anyone."
Mary studiously ignored the reminder about godfatherhood. "Leon and Chelsea? Would I know them from Hogwarts?" This was really much harder than Mary had thought at first. She was starting to work up a sweat.
"Probably not. Leon's just finished his OWLs, and he's a Gryffindor. Chelsea's a year ahead of you in Hufflepuff."
"Was she at that tea party last week?"
"No, she wouldn't have been. Miller's only a second-generation family. The Abbotts might have invited some half-bloods, but they'd be from established families, plus the purebloods from light and neutral families, and even then, only the ones who have a certain degree of class. I'm sure, for instance, that they didn't invite Ginevra Weasley, or, oh what is her name? Sage-Willow's daughter. Something Lovegood?"
Mary had been about to ask why it should matter if Chelsea's father was muggleborn, since the Urquharts were as established as anyone, but the question distracted her. "Luna? Why wouldn't she be invited?"
"Yes! I knew it started with an 'L'. Luna Lovegood. Well, all the Lovegoods are considered odd company, anyway, but her mum, Pandora Sage-Willow, was an Irish druid. Her blood's probably as pure as mine, but druids aren't well-thought of in most circles. They have different practices, different naming conventions, and just an odd outlook on life in general. I wouldn't imagine she was raised as the tea party sort, even before the incident."
Mary ignored the allusion to Pandora Lovegood's death, focusing on the description of Luna as 'not the tea party sort.' That might be a bit of an understatement. "No, she wasn't there, nor Ginevra. Either one of them would have been better company than the girls I was seated with, though."
It appeared that Catherine had nothing to say to that. They sanded in silence for a few minutes before Mary asked, "What are you meditating on, today?" her earlier question forgotten.
She had almost forgotten her preoccupation with the upcoming Lammas ritual in the excitement over Black's escape, but she still didn't know what 'decision' she should be hoping to see.
"The same thing as last year, and the year before that," Catherine said quietly. "Whether it's time to move on, go to Italy, or start looking for a husband. I'm twenty-two, now, which isn't exactly old-maid material, but many of my friends are settling down to start their families, or else they're nearly done with masteries. I've enjoyed being here for the little ones, and I like to think I'm a good teacher, but it's not my calling, and I want to do more with my life. Still, I'm not sure if it's the right time.
"Last year… last year I had the impression that, well, if I stayed here, I would do more, in the end, than if I left. I would be… instrumental, you could say, in the way our society develops in the next few years. But there's a much greater chance that I'll die young. If I were to leave Britain, go to Italy or France or Spain for the next five years or so, I would have a much greater chance of living to a ripe old age, but it would be a quiet, unassuming, unfulfilling life. Not unlike my current dissatisfaction."
"So you decided to stay?" Mary was astonished. Catherine had never struck her as being that daring, to risk death for – what? Political power and influence?
"No. It's one of those decisions where you have to keep deciding. I could still leave. But nothing has really changed since last year, so I don't think the time has come, yet, when things get… riskier."
"What do you think is going to happen?"
Catherine was silent for a long time, and when she spoke again, she sounded very close. Mary looked up to see that they were nearly done, surrounded on all sides by a sea of sawdust. "I don't know," the older girl said, catching her eye very seriously. "Dumbledore has always said the Dark Lord would return. It could be that. For all I know, it could be some idiot selling his soul to the Infernal Power and bringing a Greater Demon into our dimension. It could be someone finally breaks the Statute of Secrecy, and the muggles come hunt us down." She appeared to think about that for a moment, then added, "Well, maybe not that last one – that probably wouldn't be limited to Britain. All I really know is that I have a better chance of living if I leave, and a better chance of doing something important with my life if I stay."
Mary shivered. She had been close to death two years in a row, now, and more than once. But she couldn't imagine having to choose over and over again to go or stay like that. It must be nearly as bad as living under a prophecy for real. Fortunately, the altar was done, so she could change the subject without being too awkward about it. She stood up and cracked her back, admiring their handiwork. "What now?"
"Now we do the fun part," the older girl said, apparently as willing to change the subject as Mary. She padded away across the platform, leaving footprints in the dust. Mary followed, curious, through the door behind the Mortis tapestry, and found herself in what amounted to a store-room. The girls returned their sanding blocks to a rack and Catherine turned on a tap, filling three large buckets. She took two, leaving the last for Mary, and led the way back to the floor.
"Ready?" she asked, eyes gleaming.
Mary nodded, and without further ado, the older girl threw her first bucket across the platform, washing the dust away.
Catherine led the way to a point nearly halfway around the circle and announced, "Your turn!"
Mary's throw was somewhat less successful than the older girl's, but it hardly mattered. Most of the dust was already gone, wiped away in the first flood. Catherine threw the last bucket from a third point, and, when she was satisfied that they had gotten all the dust, they returned the buckets to the store-room.
Catherine then opened another door, behind the Flint and Fawley tapestries, on the other side of the Ritual Room. This one was filled with individual bathtubs, and had racks of undyed robes and undergarments lining the walls. The older girl filled two tubs and fetched a stack of towels from a cupboard before ordering Mary to undress. The look on her face brooked no argument, so Mary, very reluctantly, disrobed, trying to keep herself covered as much as possible.
Catherine just rolled her eyes as she stripped off her own clothing. "I've seen it all before, Mary," she said drily, and motioned for the girl to climb into the nearer bath. She didn't comment on the scars from rituals and thestrals and unicorns which adorned Mary's chest, for which the younger girl was grateful.
The water was very cold, and if it wasn't enchanted itself, the tub must have been, because she could feel magic fizzing through it. It was very strange, and altogether uncomfortable, not even counting the awkwardness of being naked in front of an equally-nude Catherine.
"Head down. You need to get every bit of you submerged."
"You have got to be kidding me," Mary grumbled, teeth chattering.
"Come on, the quicker you do it, the quicker it will be over."
Mary glared, but pinched her nose and did as she was told. When she re-surfaced, Catherine was chanting in Latin, and there was a golden glow over the surface of the water. The tone of the chant changed as the older girl produced a dipper from somewhere and poured fresh water from a bucket Mary hadn't noticed over her head. She repeated this three times, then helped Mary out of the bath.
"Can I get dressed now?" she asked, still shivering, even in the fluffy towel Catherine had given her.
"No. You can dry off, but you can't get dressed until I'm done. It's important that we both move through the cleansing ritual together."
Mary nodded, resigned, and wrung as much water as possible from her hair before setting the towel aside.
"Right, then. All you have to do is pour the dipper of water over my head when I nod at you," she explained, climbing into her own tub, "and give me a hand when I'm getting out."
"Okay."
Catherine slid down, her hair floating on the water until she reached up to pull it under. She looked very peaceful there, her mouth moving as she silently whispered the spell. The golden glow appeared again, and after a few seconds longer, Catherine sat up, now chanting aloud. She nodded at Mary, who obediently poured the fresh water over her tutor, twice, and then thrice, and it was done, even more quickly than Mary's bath.
They dressed in the undyed clothing lining the walls, and Mary followed Catherine across the Ritual Room again to gather chalk and candles. The older girl drew a septigram on the altar without hesitation, and set the candles in their proper places. It looked to Mary as though it was the perfect size for a circle of seven to sit between the points and hold hands, which was exactly what the ritual entailed. Finally, she led the way into yet another room, this one behind the Rowle tapestry, and bare, save for a mirror on one of the walls.
Catherine walked up to this and after demanding that it show her the Main Parlor, announced that they were ready. Mary heard Lady Urquhart's voice calling that they would be right down, and the girls settled in to wait. Catherine knelt easily, as though she had done this a hundred times before (as she easily might have done). Mary fiddled restlessly with the ties of her too-large robe and tried to finger-comb her still-damp hair.
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Several endless minutes later, Lord Urquhart appeared at the door to escort the girls to the circle, all the other ladies already in place. Mary thought it was very unfair that they got to wear their normal clothes. She tried not to fidget in front of the family who had assembled themselves in a ring, lining the outer edge of the platform in silence.
The ritual itself was very short, she thought, in comparison to the amount of preparation they had put into it, and the time it would take to sand the altar again, after.
It was worth it, though.
It was similar to the ritual the Moons had used at school for Hermione and Lilian's birthdays, though not the same.
Madam Urquhart led, her old voice strong and clear. "Who brings this child before magic this day?"
Mary, who had not been instructed to say or do anything in particular, stayed quiet as three answers were given.
"I, Catherine, born of the House of Urquhart, bring this child, my student, to meet the magic."
"I, Minerva of the House of McGonagall, once of Urquhart, bring this child, my ward, to meet the magic."
"I, Dahlia of the House of Urquhart, once of Flint, bring this child, my fosterling, to meet the magic."
Madam Urquhart nodded to each of them in turn. "Who bears witness to the meeting this day?"
"I, Lilith of the House of Urquhart, once of Rowle, do bear witness to this rite of meeting."
"I, Primrose of the House of Urquhart, once of McKinnon, do bear witness to this rite of meeting."
"I, Nanette of the House of Urquhart, once of Auvis, do bear witness to this rite of meeting."
Madam Urquhart nodded again, then fixed a gimlet stare on Mary. "Who is the child who is brought before us?"
It was clearly Mary's turn to speak. "I am Mary Elizabeth," she said, "Heir to the House of Potter. Ward of McGonagall and fosterling of Urquhart," she added for good measure. She must have done well enough, because the old woman nodded her acceptance and moved on.
"I, Morgana of the House of Urquhart, once of Fawley, accept these claims!" she declared.
The magic already present in the chamber seemed to somehow banish itself, leeching away until Mary could hardly feel its electric tingle. The room was quiet for a short eternity, the only sound the breathing of the circle of watchers, and then…
"We call on magic, friend of our family, to join us in our circle," Madam Urquhart declaimed. "We call upon magic, will its own, unbound by mortals, wild and free. Join us in our circle."
When Aerin had said the words, they were an order, an expectation. When Madam Urquhart spoke them, it was as though she extended an invitation to an old friend.
"Join us in our circle," the women echoed.
The candles between them flared to life, outside the circle of clasped hands, and the lines of the septigram began to glow as the sense of magic's presence slowly restored itself from wherever it had hidden.
"We welcome the magic, friend of all witches. We welcome the magic, heart of the world. We welcome the magic to our circle."
"We welcome the magic to our circle."
The magic was active, now, brushing against Mary like a cat, twining between her fingers and playing with her hair. It tickled, and she struggled not to laugh as the center of the septigram filled with light.
Another breath and it was inside her. She blinked, and it was like seeing for the first time as she watched the currents of magic flowing through the room, within the witches in the circle, and the watchers outside of it, even within her own hands when she looked down. She felt her heart beat strongly, felt the magic in her blood. She closed her eyes and fell into the core of her magic, deep within her mind – opened them to see visions of light dancing all around her. A symbol hovered before her eyes. She reached out to touch it and knew that it stood for herself. It sank into her skin, flowing over her like water, before settling at the center of her chest, just below the spot where she knew the nautilus spiral still lingered.
All of this took place within the space of a breath, it seemed, because when she took notice of the world again, Madam Urquhart had only just resumed the ritual: "We call the magic to meet this child, proud heir of a dying house, reluctant heroine, favored by both fate and fortune, student, ward, fosterling, friend. We bring the child to meet the magic, strange and wondrous, the sum of the whole that is greater than its parts, being and non-being, mystery power. We offer nothing this day, and ask nothing in return – only to celebrate together, in harmony and accord, the bringing-together of magic and child."
"We witness and celebrate," the witches chorused.
The magic, still present in Mary from before, grew stronger, sinking deeper into her until she felt that every bone and muscle must be full of it, every cell bursting with joy and magic. She felt herself glowing, so saturated with power and magic that it was rolling off her in waves, and suddenly knew that it would stop only when she spoke. She held the words to herself as long as she could, enjoying the feeling of the connection with the world, but it quickly became overwhelming.
"I offer my friendship to magic!" she nearly shouted it, unwilling to let the feeling go, but unable to hold it a moment longer. It sounded a bit twee, she reflected, even as she said it, but it wasn't untrue. She wanted the kind of relationship with magic that Madam Urquhart so clearly had.
"We witness and celebrate," came the chorus again, but Mary wasn't done. She'd simply had to catch her breath as the magic ebbed away.
"Mine to yours, and yours to mine, know and be known, henceforth…" She stretched her mind, the word she wanted just out of reach. "Familiar," she finally decided. It still wasn't right, but… close. She had the feeling the magic was laughing at her for missing something very obvious. Easy for you, she thought at it. You didn't have to say the words!
"We witness and celebrate."
The magic continued to ebb, flowing out of her, and away, but Mary took the way it spiraled around her torso and arms as it went to be a sort of fond farewell. Familiar indeed.
"We thank the magic for joining us. We thank the magic for recognizing this child. Our circle thanks the magic."
"Our circle thanks the magic!" the women echoed, Mary among them.
The magic departed fully, taking up its residence again in the walls and the floor. The lines of the septigram grew dim and became, once more, only chalk. The candles remained lit. Each of the witches in the circle picked one up and carried it carefully to a small table Mary hadn't noticed before as the men and children who had watched congratulated her, and introduced her to the unfamiliar faces – Aunt Percy and Uncle Aeron, and the cousins Catherine had mentioned.
When the witches of the circle returned, the crowd thinned, until it was just Mary and Catherine and the sandstone blocks left. Mary suppressed a groan and picked hers up without complaint, following Catherine's instructions to begin at the center this time, and work outward in a counterclockwise direction.
Before the birthday ritual, she had thought that she might use this time to ask the older girl what she ought to meditate on for the rest of the day. She had no idea how long they had been here, in this windowless chamber, but she suspected it would be nearly time to start the Lammas ritual when they finished.
Now, in the wake of the ceremony, she felt no inclination whatsoever to talk. What would come, would come, and she would deal with it as it did. Besides, between the physical exertion of sanding this accursed floor twice in a matter of hours, the magical excitement of the ritual, and the emotional trauma of Black's escape, all she really wanted was to go take a nap. She had a sneaking suspicion that it was going to be a very long night.
The girls worked in silence until it was time to fetch the water, when Catherine informed Mary that it was her turn to throw two buckets. She did so, and was finally allowed to change back into her own (properly fitting) clothes. She made sure to change with her back turned to Catherine (who laughed at her and called her a prude), and managed to confirm that a new ritual tattoo had appeared on her skin, without alerting the older girl to that fact. It was a plain black ohm-sign over a bar, which she was almost certain was for Libra. It was about as wide across as the length of her thumb, located just where her ribcage split, beneath her barely-present breasts, and looked rather like someone had taken a paintbrush and calligraphed it onto her pale skin – plain, yes, and simple, but graceful, in its way. Mary just sighed and pulled on her robe, wondering what it meant. Hermione and Lilian certainly hadn't mentioned any kind of symbols appearing during their rituals.
"Come on, Mary," Catherine called from the door. "It's got to be nearly dinner, and I'm starving!"
Mary fell into her usual place, following Catherine from the Room. Its magic coiled, snake-like, around her fingers as she did, and she smiled. At least one thing had gone right today.
Saturday, 31 July – Sunday, 1 August 1993
Urquhart Mansion
It was, indeed, nearly time for dinner. There was, in fact, just enough time before dinner to have a quick shower – Mary was sweaty again after sanding the floor a second time, and there was sawdust in her hair.
Dinner was, as expected, a tense affair. Cleo and Bernie had been seated as far as possible from Madam Urquhart, but the old lady still managed to make cutting remarks which carried the length of the table. Mary did her best to ignore them, chatting with Leon and Chelsea about classes and professors, much as she would with any strange Hogwarts student. She felt that her part of the dinner conversation was going quite well until Chelsea suddenly burst out in apologies for the behavior of her House the previous year.
"I never thought you were the Heir of Slytherin! I just went along with the others, and now I feel so bad! You're far too nice, and I can't believe I let them convince me to shun you like that! I'm so sorry! Please say you'll forgive me!"
Mary had stared at her in shock (along with most of the table) for nearly a minute before she managed to say, "There's nothing to forgive, of course."
Leon broke the tense silence with a snort of laughter and a, "Nice one, Chels'. Way to be a spaz."
When the adults' talk resumed, Mary had to fend off Laina's questions about the Heir of Slytherin and the attacks at the school, while Chelsea buried her very red face in her hands and Leon busied himself talking to their cousin Frances, who was seated on his other side.
"I don't understand!" Laina complained. "Why did they think you were the Heir of Slytherin in the first place?"
Mary sighed. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to answer that question or not, and quite frankly, she was tired of talking about it, anyway. "Because I am an heir of Slytherin. I can speak Parseltongue. But I wasn't the person calling himself the Heir and going around petrifying people."
"Who was?"
That, Mary was almost certain she wasn't supposed to tell people, especially impressionable seven-year-olds. "Ask Aunt Minnie. She'll probably say when you're older."
Laina pouted at her, but quickly came up with another question. "What's pars – pastle-tongue?"
"Parseltongue," Mary corrected, "is the language of snakes." Anticipating the next question, she added, It sounds like this, and by the powers you are irritating. I wish there were a snake nearby so I could ask it to chase you away.
Laina's eyes were very round, and Chelsea had made a funny little eep sound and flinched away from her. "Oh, come off it, Miller," she whispered, "It's not like it's a secret."
"No, but it's creepy! I don't like snakes!" the Hufflepuff said, a bit angrily.
Mary bit back a laugh as Laina said, "I do. What did you say?"
"It sounds like this, and I wish there were a snake around, because it's more impressive to hold a conversation," Mary said innocently. "Oh, look, they're bringing out the pudding!"
Dinner was allowed to run late that evening, the adults (those of whom were on speaking terms) lingering over cake, then coffee, then drinks. The assembled family finally trooped outside, to the old oak tree in the smallest courtyard, on the west side of the Mansion, just after ten. They arranged themselves with their backs to its trunk. With twenty-two people in attendance, they shouldn't all have been able to lean against it at once, even shoulder to shoulder, but there must have been some kind of space-bending enchantments in effect, because they all found a place easily. Mary was between Miss Anna and Miss Elsie when they settled down, rather than between Laina and Chelsea, for which she was quite grateful.
As the moon rose above the horizon, Lord Urquhart took a sip from a steaming goblet and passed it to the next person in the circle. It passed Mary three times before it was empty. It tasted like rainwater and honeysuckle. The steam rolling off it smelled like baked cherries, though the liquid itself was cold. She could honestly say it was the best-tasting potion she had ever had. A voice to her left began to speak – a woman, either Mrs. Miller or Ms. Persephone.
"We gather beneath the leaves of our heart-tree," she said, "strong and steady, family like the oak. We gather in darkness, holding light in our souls, to honor the Powers of Order and Binding, acknowledging and embracing the ties of our commitments and our duties, to family and friends, to ourselves, and to our people and the wider world. We witness what we would have come to pass, and what warnings may be offered in this, our moment of decision."
When Catherine had described the ceremony the year before, she said magic rose like a fog from the roots of the tree. Mary found that, while accurate, that description did not adequately capture the way in which it spread heavily through her shoulders, leaning against the trunk, pulling her back, and down to the earth, or how it was strongest there, where the roots were thickest, but concentrated in thick bands, diffusing slowly, while it was like a mist around her ankles, sticking straight out in front of her. It was scary, as though the magic was making her a part of the tree, and yet wonderful at the same time, because hadn't she always felt that she ought to have been part of something larger than herself, a growing and organic whole? (In point of fact, she had not, but in the grip of the ritual, it felt as though she had.)
After a time, when she was fully aware of the magic seeping into her from every point of contact with the ground and the trunk of the tree, consciousness slipped away. She did not know if she was asleep, or in a trance. She had no idea what a trance felt like, in truth, but she suspected that this must be somewhere in-between, because the images she saw were rather indistinct and dreamlike, while she was certainly too aware of herself to be legitimately asleep.
She watched, confused, trying rather desperately to figure out what was going on, as she (apparently) set off to find the man who had betrayed her family. She saw herself getting lost, getting hurt in any number of ways. She saw herself finding him, watched as his life was taken by a burst of green light, as a hooded creature bowed its head over his, and pulled away to show an absent stare, the man's mind gone.
She listened as he begged for his life, pleaded with her, telling her I didn't do it – it was the rat! Little Fawn, please! She saw herself give him a chance, let him explain, let him beg. She saw her heart soften, let him run away again. She saw her eyes grow hard. I don't believe you, she said, scathingly, and watched as the green light flashed.
If she had had a face and hands in that non-dream, she would have buried her eyes, and refused to look, but she didn't, so she was forced to watch.
And then she saw herself going back to school, not seeking him out, and yet still finding him, at the end of the year – more begging, more choices. There was a sad, scared-looking little man, and the feral, half-mad Black, both of them kneeling before her, each pointing at the other. It wasn't me! They cried as one. He's the traitor!
She woke at dawn, as the sun clawed its way over the horizon and the magic faded away, tears streaming down her face for the second time in two days. And before yesterday, she thought sardonically, I can't remember the last time I cried. Her mind whirled as she tried to make sense of the things she had seen, but try as she might, it was hopeless.
Ms. Persephone helped her to her feet with a small smile, and handed her a handkerchief, which Mary thought might have been the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her, before moving on to Miss Anna. "Go with grace," she whispered, "and make your choices not in ignorance, but in confidence."
If only it were that easy.
She followed the family to breakfast, staring moodily at her eggs and toast as though they might hold the answers she sought, and pushing them aside angrily when they failed to speak. She considered that it might help to write everything down, but no sooner had she started copying out what she had seen onto a fresh scroll than she felt immensely stupid about the whole endeavor, and completely unable to focus. After half an hour, she threw herself onto the bed and refused to move, hoping that, perhaps, real sleep would quiet her mind and make things clearer.
It didn't.