"I'm afraid we have a policy against Howlers and other mail items that may cause distress," a Healer frowned, entering the room with armfuls of parchment. "So this isn't an extensive inventory of your letters."

"I'm sure I'll live without them," I answered brightly, accepting the post.

It was hard not to be in good spirits. One more day until I would be officially discharged from St. Mungo's. My arm had all but healed now, though it became a bittersweet victory. Beneath the scarring, the unmistakeable ink of the dark mark was more visible than ever. At least I lived in Britain — I'd hardly be sweating beneath a long sleeve.

Though I hated to admit it to myself, more than one reason existed to avoid my own mark at all costs. It mirrored Draco's. And the painful association came clear to my mind each time I looked down to see the snake writhing through the skull. I had only been privy to his tattoo on the more intimate occasions — a fact that made the raw pain much worse.

I distracted myself by opening my letters, sat cross-legged on the bed. They had arrived in the droves since publishing the article. Only a few nasties had slipped through the hospital screening, but they housed nothing more sinister than words. Only ink on a page, whatever foul intent the writer had at the time. The Healer on night shifts whispered to me that a few had arrived with fresh bubotuber pus. I almost wished she hadn't told me.

But most of the letters were positive — even encouraging. Some brought me to tears in a different way. Other witches, and wizards too, who'd faced their own Marcus. Not all of them had been lucky enough to have a Draco intervene before things got too heavy.

You speaking out has filled me with courage, wrote a witch from Kent, to hold my abuser accountable. He can hurt me no longer. I am free.

Overcome with emotion, I opened the last roll of parchment. I squinted suspiciously at the ink. It was the fresh green of a quick-quotes quill that had been enchanted, distorting the speaker's words to fit the writer's bias. It made no sense to me. It would barely make sense to anyone. Curious, I muttered the counter-jinx to return it to the original state. When the letters wriggled around the parchment, revealing the true intent, my heart sank to the base of my stomach.

Of course Marcus would have used such a distraction to ensure I received his letter. Only journalists or scholars would bother to learn the spell, after all. A single line emerged, the ink still bright green and spiky.

You're going to regret it. —M

"Astoria?"

I leapt in fright, sending piles of parchment falling to the floor. A female healer waited at my door, more kindly than the others.

"Your parents are here to see you. Your visitations are restricted to family only, but I thought I'd check first."

Shit. How had they found out? I wondered if Daphne had told them, or let it slip somehow. Still, I couldn't exactly say no.

"Sure," I said, hastening to tidy my surroundings.

I felt awkward waiting. Somehow the whole thing seemed melodramatic — the screen showing my vitals, the tray of hospital food for breakfast. I ran my finger along my wand, trying to focus on the grooves to distract myself. Sparks flew from the end. Nervous.

My mother entered the room even more haughtily than usual, one hand clutching her coat collar. The crinkles had disappeared from my father's eyes, replaced with a stern expression. I gulped. This wasn't good.

Neither spoke to me first, but took the available seats.

"Hello," I said quietly.

Mother sniffed. "Why on earth are you in here?"

I dodged the question. "How did you find out?"

"Please," she hissed. "You've been lying for long enough already."

My brows knitted together in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Your silly stories!" she shouted, finally releasing what was pent up inside. "You have besmirched the name of Marcus Tatter. Using an absolute joke of a magazine, made for lunatics. You have completely embarrassed yourself and, therefore, us."

I glanced between my parents, my cheeks pinkening. My father held none of Mother's anger, but looked resolutely at the ground.

"I told the truth," I said slowly.

"No." Her eyes glinted viciously. "I don't believe that for a second. Why would he be so interested in you? I'm sure he could have the company of any fine witch he chose."

I began to shake. Months ago, I would have tolerated this treatment. I would have mumbled and looked bashfully away and cried when they left. Not anymore. Not on my death bed.

"Then why did he send me this?" I demanded, thrusting his letter in her face.

Her lips pursed as she read. "Well, it's obvious, Astoria. Because you've been telling lies."

"Why would I lie?" I asked, incredulous. "I lost my job, Mother. Why would I risk that? Or do you believe his story, that I'm a death eater? Surely you'd know."

She didn't miss the intonation in my words. "It's high time you stop speaking of things you don't understand."

I held my ground. "I understand perfectly."

Mother met my eye, venom evident in her stare. I fought not to let tears rise or spill, so tempting in this moment of intense vulnerability. I knew there'd be backlash when I wrote the article. I knew there'd be people branding me a liar, or taking Marcus's side. I just didn't expect it to be my own parents.

"You've hurt us beyond reproach," Mother said.

I gaped slightly, eyebrows raised, as she continued.

"We had to find out about your job loss through the Malkins. Absolutely mortifying. And then to see our own daughter is in St. Mungo's, to read about it in the Prophet when you hadn't said a word!"

"What?" My blood ran cold. "What do you mean, the Prophet?"

My father finally spoke, mirroring my mother's cold eyes with his own, not in anger but in hurt.

"They ran an article. You fell from your broom at a Quidditch game and sustained a head injury. It was released the same day as your Quibbler story."

"And I can't find a single healer to tell us what's wrong with you," Mother tutted.

My anger and melancholy faded, turning to a very strange giddiness. I felt invincible, immortal, as I considered what was wrong with me. I was dying. I'd be dead within the year. Whatever was said, whatever was done now, would cease to matter shortly enough. It gave me a thrill of power.

"I'm dying," I said, trying not to smile or giggle. That would be inappropriate.

Mother took two deep breaths. "More falsehoods."

"No, it's true! Ask a healer. Ask any healer you like. A blood malediction. Apparently it runs in the family."

"Stop it this instant," she hissed. "There is no malediction in our family. We are purebloods."

I sighed, lifting my hands in the air. "Believe what you want. I'll be dead in a year, regardless."

I should have known better, really. My apathy for her anger was the final straw.

"You are our daughter no longer," Mother decided.

My father glanced, bewildered, but there was no stopping her now. She'd flown into these rages frequently when I was growing up, usually when she was hurt or upset. It took a lot to placate her. And clearly, I'd done everything wrong.

"You'll have no access to your vault. We'll reclaim it."

"You can't do that," I said, my voice shaking.

"Actually, we can. Garbruk owes me a favour." She crossed her arms. "You are never to darken our doorstep again."

I became scared, now, the fear finally breaking through. "You can't be serious," I said quietly. "Mother, please."

"I don't want to hear it."

Father looked as though he wanted to say something, but sparks began to shoot from Mother's wand. I glanced and gripped my own, bracing for a fight, devastated it had come to this.

"We'll leave," my father said quietly, taking her by the elbow and walking from the room.

"Please," I begged, one last desperate bid. "Dad… Please don't."

My lip quivered. I didn't want to end my life with this animosity. I almost cracked completely, ready to beg forgiveness and promise to withdraw my article, to say I'd made it all up. But I couldn't. I knew there was no going back now. And something within me, perhaps fortitude, refused to back down.

They didn't even turn to look back as they left.

"Fuck you," I whispered. "Fuck you. Fuck you!"

My voice had risen to a shout. I wailed and swore until a Healer came running in, calling for assistance. I refused to believe the injustice of it all. It was like a bad dream. I wanted to go back to before they had visited, to before I had woken this morning. Just rewind and do it all again. My delirious mind was on the brink of hatching a plan to find a time-turner, though none existed, when a spell washed over me. Suddenly the anguish disappeared, and I was filled with a sense of calm and tranquility. There was no need in worrying. I laid back into the professional arms of the Healer, still muttering his spell, and thought how nice it would be to sleep. And, unwillingly, now the calm dulled the pain, I sighed his name as my eyes closed. The closest thing I knew to comfort.

"Draco."

When my eyes fluttered open, I thought perhaps I had got my wish and begun the day once more. But a quick glance to the table beside me showed the same letters from the prior morning.

I stood as quickly as I could. The clock read six, and by the darkness outside, it had to be early morning. How had I managed to sleep for so long?

I couldn't bear to wait around for the healers. I gathered my things quietly as I could and went to shower in the adjoining bathroom. The water pressure was weak, and it never reached quite as warm as I liked, but the sensation against my skin woke me from my slumber without stimulating me into further anxiety. I took extra time rinsing and washing my hair, having to work harder to get all the suds gone. The mark on my arm was completely healed now, and clearer than ever. I looked away in disgust.

My stash of clean clothes was running low, and Daphne hadn't bothered to fetch any more as I'd be leaving today. I pulled on the last I had, yoga pants with a fitted long sleeve shirt. Always long sleeves from now on.

Daphne herself arrived within the hour, almost bouncing with excitement. I tried to tell her about our parents' visit, but the words stuck in my throat each time. I studied her, though, wondering if she'd read the article about my attack in the Prophet. Well, they hadn't even mentioned the attack. It seemed they'd been far too creative in the re-telling.

"How are we doing today?" asked the male healer, checking his parchment as he came in.

"Fine," I said. "Big sleep."

He frowned. "Yes, Healer Rand said you were quite distressed after your visitation yesterday."

Daphne's head snapped to me.

"Just nervous, I think," I lied, "about going home."

"Well, that is to be expected. We'll give you a good supply of potions and essences before you go, to cover a range of effects you may experience." He scribbled this down in his notes. "And we'll process your referral to Laurens Deau. He'll contact you by owl. I must warn you, he expects a decent deposit before meeting."

I gulped. "Just how decent?"

"I'll have to run the exact figures, but most specialists are around 900 galleons."

Despair crashed through me. I wondered how quickly I could make it to Gringotts, to withdraw the contents of my vault before my parents took it all back. Knowing them, they'd already done so. It was too late.

"I'll have to, uh, check with the bank," I muttered, all too aware of Daphne's curious gaze.

The healer frowned again. "I will need the deposit before processing the referral. We have an excellent owl service, you can send your inquiry and hear back in a matter of minutes."

"Okay," I said, unsure of a way out of this.

With Daphne watching my every move like a hawk, I wrote a letter to Garbruk, our banker, requesting the withdrawal from my account for medical purposes. It would barely be skimming the top of our total fortune. If I could still get it.

The 'matter of minutes' dragged into what felt like hours. I could feel Daphne burning with questions, but she didn't dare ask with healers present. But I knew it would all come out soon.

And I was proven right when the returning owl came.

"There's been a problem with my vault," I said quietly.

Finally, my sister broke her silence. "What? There can't be."

I showed her the letter. Though he hadn't specified my parents' reclamation, Garbruk made it clear I had no funds to access.

"She can use mine," Daphne said. "Don't bother with letters, I'll apparate there now."

The healer raised his eyebrows, but allowed her to do so. We waited in awkward silence until Daphne appeared back in the room once more, bright red and panting.

"What the fuck is going on!" she shrieked. "They've put a hold on my account!"
"Is there a problem with Gringotts?" the healer asked.

Daphne looked me in the eye, shook her head. "Not Gringotts."

"I'll draft a referral," he continued after a short pause. "If circumstances change, come and see me, I'll get it sent off straight away. Until then…" he eyed me with pity. "Go home. Rest. And be careful."

In my head, this translated to: Go home. Rest. Die.