Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble-- A Next-Generation-Harry-Potter Tale.
PART I: Faded
Chapter 9: Lucy Weasley, She Might Not Make It
Lucy Weasley
She Might Not Make It
I couldn't go through the first day of Hogwarts in happiness.
It wasn't my life.
Halfway through Charms class, Albus Potter and a few other boys were messing around in the back trying to burn up leaves and only succeeding in drying them out and/or breaking them, and occasionally singing their eyebrows. Rose, Liz, Roxanne, and Elle were nearer the front. Rose was levitating a leaf with her wand easily, watching it float up and flutter amoung the rafters.
All of a sudden a tawny owl came flying in, and landed on Professor Flitwick's stand, his head higher than Flitwick's ancient one. "Hermes," I whispered.
I ran up and unfolded the letter, watching Hermes fly off to the owlry. I began to read.
Lucy and Molly,
I'm sorry to surprise you like this, but you have to know. Your mother's Spattergroit has taken a turn for the worse and has been admitted to Saint Mungo's. She's in good care, but the doctors think she might not make it. Please have faith she will be all right. She has improved in the last few hours, though her blemishes are still present. Professor McGonagall thinks you will be permitted to visit her over Hogsmeade visits. Please send good well wishes to your mother. She is awake most of the day so far, and would love to hear from you.
Your father
I had stopped reading as soon as I'd read "she might not make it".
She might not make it.
She might not make it.
She might not make it.
She might not make it.
She might not make it.
She might die.
Rose's leaf fell from the ceiling. "Lucy, what's wrong?" she asked. I left the letter on the table and ran out of the classroom.
She could be clinging to the last threads of her life right now. She could already be dead. Any second could be her last. I passed the Malfoy son in the hallway and felt sorry for him, though sorrier for myself. He was too young to deserve the spiteful looks and actions that most of the other houses sent him.
But the Malfoy was no matter. My mother was dying. The world was going to use a brilliant, brilliant woman. Spattergroit was going to take her.
Mother.
I walked up to the Gryffindor common room. "Baubles," I muttered to the fat lady, who looked surprised but let me inside. I walked up the stairs to the dormitories, flung myself onto my bed and shut my eyes. The ugly curtain was soft and silky against my hand. I noticed vaguely that I'd left the letter on the table.
She was a brilliant, brilliant woman. I might not see her ever again.
Please don't die, please don't die mother.
You have to live.
