Chapter 44
14 October, 1941 Secret Room, Seventh Floor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
"Tom!" Dorcas shouted once she'd closed the heavy wooden door to the secret room.
"Birdie? Is that you?" came Tom's voice.
She'd known instinctively that she would find him here in his reconstructed cave. She glimpsed him sitting cross legged in front of a stack of books with his sleeves rolled up.
"Tom, I found something!"
"Birdie?" Tom said again, searching the space in front of him with a furrowed brow. "Are you using that spell I gave you?"
"Oh yeah!" Dorcas chuckled a little at herself before holding her wand out and terminating the incantation. "Peeves was roaming around, so I thought a disguise was best."
"Ah," Tom said, smirking at her. "What did you find?"
"Corvinus Gaunt," Dorcas said, excitedly. "In the Trophy Room."
Tom blinked up at her.
"There's an award for him in the Trophy Room," she elaborated. Holding her hand out for him, she added, "Come on!"
He stood, smiling at her and took her hand. She saw in his mind that he was reminded of the times they used to explore the castle hand in hand.
She pulled him along, keeping her senses alert for Peeves.
"Here he is!" Dorcas said with a flourish.
Tom didn't say anything in response.
Dorcas waited a beat.
She turned expectantly toward him.
"So what?" Tom said, dejectedly.
Dorcas licked her lips and tugged her braid.
"Don't you see? Now we know when he was here."
"1795. Why is that important?"
Was Tom being obtuse on purpose?
"Well, it's a start, isn't it? We know he was a student in 1795. Now we can start investigating things that happened at the school then. Maybe Binns thought of him because he figured out where it was and how to open it."
She could tell Tom was not impressed.
"There would definitely be accounts of some mysterious chamber containing a monster being opened. There's nothing on the chamber in any of the books in the library!"
Dorcas couldn't let it go. It felt like something to her.
"Maybe some headmaster removed any mention of it. To keep nosy students from trying to locate it."
She smiled at Tom.
He stared back at her blankly.
"I'm going to pursue the mercury leads. At least there you've been a little more helpful."
Dorcas doubled down. "Suit yourself. I'm going to follow this lead!"
:::
17 January, 1959 Diagon Alley, London
This felt like stepping into her old life.
A life before Tom had reappeared like a dark omen. A time before her heart had been broken by the loss of a child. A time when she was still happily married to a man who trusted her. A time when she had a thriving career that she was proud of.
Stepping into Gideon Prewett's law offices took Dorcas back to that time.
"Dorcas!" Gideon said, shuffling around the desk in his cramped office and offering her his hand. "Thanks for coming!"
"Of course, Gideon. I want to be as prepared as I can be."
"Dearborn just sent an owl. He's been held up in court. But he'll be by as soon as he can. Asked me to begin prepping you in his place," Gideon explained, perching horn-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, he scanned some sheets of parchment–presumably the missive from Dearborn.
He looked up, bringing the glasses away from his face once again.
"By the way, how has that matter with Riddle progressed?"
Dorcas shrugged her shoulders. Things had been blessedly quiet on the Tom Riddle front.
"They haven't, luckily. I think he knows he doesn't have a legal avenue forward with Ryann."
Gideon nodded. "Still, I am happy to draft a letter spelling that out for him, if you like."
Dorcas didn't want to provoke Tom further. She'd begun to see Cal's side of things. If she'd told him about the kiss weeks ago, if she hadn't gone to Gemma's in a fit of rage, if she hadn't made threats against Tom, there would not have been the opportunity for him to make parental demands concerning Ryann.
"No need. I think he'll back off on his own."
Gideon looked as if he was ready to pose a counter to that argument, but didn't.
"Shall we crack on, then?"
"Please," Dorcas replied, removing her gloves and threading them through the strap of her handbag. She crossed her ankles primly and squared her shoulders.
Gideon replaced his glasses and scanned his notes once more.
"You will only be permitted to share testimony related to the memory that you uncovered concerning the murder of Jim Allen by Stephen Muybridge. That memory is a matter of court record and was admitted into the Wizengamot Pensieve records prior to your poisoning and your son's murder. You understand that to make any references or insinuations about your part as a victim in this case could jeopardize the charges against Muybridge related to you and your son?"
"Yes, of course," Dorcas responded evenly.
Though she'd never given expert testimony in a case relating to her own attempted murder and the murder of her son, she'd testified enough times in America to know the scope of her purpose on the stand.
"Dearborn wanted me to emphasize that line, Dorcas. Do not cross it. The defense is going to try to paint you as a hysterical and grieving mother seeking retribution. You have to resist the bait. You must remain professional."
Dorcas bit her tongue. She wondered if Gideon would be emphasizing the point quite so heavily if the expert witness he was coaching had been male.
Make sure that the emotional, hysterical woman knows that she must not be emotional, or hysterical, or a woman on the stand.
"Yes, Gideon. I understand."
Gideon hesitated, removing his glasses once more and tapping them on his desk absently. He was weighing his words.
"Out with it, Gideon. What?"
"I keep coming back to that moment in the department store when you ran into me and Cal. Cal said he would kill Tom for bringing you there. Why would Tom bring you to the location of Muybridge's hideout?"
Dorcas hadn't recalled Tom's name being mentioned at all that night. To be honest, the whole event was a little blurred in her mind.
"I asked him to track down Muybridge for me," admitted Dorcas.
Gideon sat back in his chair.
"Did you ever mention to Tom why you wanted to track down Muybridge?"
Dorcas tried to think back to the conversations she'd had with him. She couldn't remember any specific exchange of words with clarity.
"Can I do some digging when I return home and let you know?"
"You have twenty-four hours. We need to get ahead of anything the defense can use to cancel you as a witness."
Dorcas hadn't realized that any casual conversation she'd had with Tom could put the case against Muybridge in jeopardy. Of course, she also knew there was no such thing as a casual conversation with Tom Riddle, either.
"I doubt Tom would risk the notoriety of testifying on behalf of someone like Muybdrige. He likes to keep to the shadows."
Gideon nodded patiently.
"Let's continue. Your education will also come into question."
Dorcas sighed. "It always does."
"I'm afraid with a case as high-profile as this, with you and your husband being people of note, the defense may dredge up stories of your past," Gideon proceeded.
Resigned, Dorcas shrugged. "Yes, a teenage pregnancy out of wedlock is of great relevance to my career as a psychiatrist and healer."
Holding his hands up in a truce, Gideon said, "It's bound to come up. Let's talk about it."
"Well, I had Ryann when I was eighteen. I left school a year early. But I sat for my exams, the youngest student to receive all Os. I married Cal four months before Ryann came and began pursuing internships and undergrad coursework shortly thereafter. In America."
"And in America, where did you study?"
The questioning continued in much the same way that it normally did when she was being prepped for trial.
Dorcas glanced at her watch three times before another owl flew into Gideon's open office window with a note.
"Caradoc's been held up indefinitely," Gideon spoke as he read. "I think I've covered everything he's asked for, though."
Nodding, Dorcas pulled her gloves back on and stood to say goodbye. She had a lunch appointment with her cousin. She didn't know why Jonas wanted to meet, but she was due across town in about twenty minutes.
"You know where to find me if you think of anything else. Shoe size, eating habits, my thoughts on God," Dorcas said, smirking.
Gideon laughed. "All pertinent information."
:::
Dorcas found Jonas seated, staring at a menu in the restaurant of the Hotel Savoy.
The last time she'd been here was a year ago on Cal's thirty-first birthday. She shoved down the memory of happier times. Gods she was nostalgic today!
"Sorry to keep you waiting. My meeting ran long."
"Not a problem. I was just wondering if you would like a bottle of red or white."
Dorcas considered. "Let's do white."
When Jonas and the sommelier had discussed a selection, he turned to her with a smile.
"I have something to tell you."
Dorcas saw that he was excited to tell her something and it took every ounce of effort not to spoil the surprise by rooting around in his thoughts.
She was hoping for an engagement baby, though.
"Tell me, then! I'm on the edge of my seat!"
Jonas inhaled.
"I know it isn't the done thing. And Anneliese is probably going to scorn us for bucking tradition–"
"So what else is new?" Dorcas cut in.
The sommelier returned with the bottle of wine.
"Right?" Jonas laughed. "Well, you're the closest friend I have and I wouldn't want anyone else to stand up with me when I make Cherry my wife–"
Dorcas gasped.
"Are you asking me to be your Best Man, Jonas?"
Jonas cringed. "Well, when you put it that way it sounds ridiculous!"
"Oh stop! Yes, of course I will be your Best Man! I'm going to throw you the most inappropriate stag night ever!"
"Merlin! Please, no!" Jonas said, coloring all the way to his hairline.
"We need to toast!" Dorcas said, grabbing her glass.
Jonas mirrored her movement.
"To my cousin who is like a brother to me. And to the luckiest girl in the world, Cherry Weasley."
"To my beautiful bride!" Jonas replied.
They drank.
"Who's she going to pick for her Maid of Honor?"
It was a smart move, asking Dorcas to stand with Jonas. That way Anneliese could stand for Cherry and she wouldn't have to choose between the two of them.
"–or Matron, I should say," added Dorcas.
"Well, that's the thing. She wants to ask Cal."
Dorcas choked on her wine. The sensation of alcohol in her nose made her eyes water.
"She wanted me to ask you first before she popped the question," Jonas explained.
"Well, I can't speak for him. But Cherry loves Cal the same way I love you. So I think it's perfect."
Dorcas dabbed her eyes with her napkin.
"But poor Anneliese!" Dorcas still wasn't speaking to her friend after their showdown over Wren, but she knew Anne would take the news hard. Dorcas was sorry for that.
"Cherry's going to make her a bridesmaid. Beau is going to be an usher. It's all sorted."
Dorcas nodded. "I know a couple of the cutest flower girls, too," she hinted.
"That goes without saying!" Jonas replied.
:::
15 October, 1941 Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dorcas sneaked glances at Cal as they worked, reminded of the conversation they'd had a week ago about how he might not have been allowed to return to Hogwarts this fall.
She wondered where he would have gone to school instead. What subjects would he have taken? What would his future have been like if he was denied magical learning? It would be the Wizarding World's loss, she was sure.
"Cal?" she asked, setting her quill down.
His hair was sticking up in places where he'd absently run his fingers through it while reading.
"Hmm?" he replied, scanning Dorcas's Arithmancy essay and adding a note in the margin.
She waited for him to finish and look at her.
"Have you heard anything more about your brother?" Dorcas asked.
He handed her essay back to her. Dorcas was annoyed to see notes covering the once-empty edges of the page. She supposed it would be another long evening in the library.
"My mother has been with him for about a week. He was banged up pretty bad. Crash landed in a field in Belgium. Been on the run with the French Resistance for months."
What he didn't add was that he couldn't wait to talk to him and get a blow-by-blow account firsthand.
"Is he mending?" Dorcas probed.
Cal shrugged. "Seems so." He stroked the feather of his quill distractedly. "Anyway, at least now my parents are off my back."
"What would you have done if your brother hadn't returned home?"
"I would have to go to some stuffy private college and learn about land management and running an estate."
Dorcas could tell by the dispassionate tone that this was the last thing in the world that would appeal to him.
"I couldn't imagine Hogwarts without you," Dorcas said.
This surprised Cal. He dropped the quill and looked at her.
"Really?"
Dorcas nodded. "Yes, you're one of the first people I met after boarding the train to come here."
Cal smiled, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he did. "I remember."
"What would you miss if you had to leave?" she asked.
Cal thought about this for a moment. Dorcas could read in his thoughts that he would miss a lot of things about Hogwarts. She was among those things.
"Quidditch, I reckon," he answered.
Dorcas laughed. "Posh Muggle schools have sports too!"
"Not on broomsticks!" argued Cal.
"What's the fascination with flying?" Dorcas thought back to her introductory lesson in first year. Being so high off the ground with barely anything supporting her had been one of the most unnerving experiences of her life.
"Come with me sometime and I'll–"
"Cal! Dorcas! I'm glad I found you!" Cherry interrupted.
"Cherry!" cried Dorcas in astonishment. "You're in the library!"
Cherry looked around at her environs. "Huh! So I am," she replied distractedly.
"What is it, Red?" Cal asked good naturedly, not a bit cross that she'd cut him off.
She shoved a handbill in their faces. There was a curious assortment of objects floating around three central lines of text. A car, a telephone, a cinema film reel, a bicycle, a camera. The text read:
Ever wonder how a car drives without magic?
How does a camera take a picture without a potion?
Join the Muggle Studies Club to find out the answers to these and other burning Muggle questions.
"What if I don't have any burning Muggle questions?" Dorcas asked. "Can I still join?"
"Is there such a thing as a burning Muggle question?" Cal laughed.
Dorcas thought for a moment. "How much strain are Churchill's waistcoat buttons really under?"
Cal laughed and then placed his index finger on his chin and adopted a far off look. "How long did Joan of Arc's execution take?"
Dorcas gasped in appreciation. "Burning Muggle, nice one!"
Cherry looked between the two of them blankly, the wind gone from her sails.
"I don't know who those people are," she replied impatiently. "Are you interested in joining my club, or what?"
"Of course I'll join, Cher," Cal said, grabbing the sheet from her hand. "It'll be a laugh!"
Cherry huffed. "It's not meant to be funny! It's a serious, academic meeting."
Dorcas stifled a chuckle as the words serious and academic left Cherry's lips.
"We're just teasing, Cherry!" Dorcas replied amicably.
:::
20 January, 1959 Wizengamot Courtroom 9, Ministry of Magic, London
All of the pep talks, preparations, and planning proved ineffectual in calming Dorcas's nerves. She had a terrible feeling that Muybridge's conviction for the murder of Jim Allen, the tampering of Theresa's memories, her own poisoning, and the death of her son rested on her words today.
Of course, it didn't. There were other witnesses, evidence submitted to the court (some of it, her own memories). But this did nothing to calm her.
Caradoc Dearborn strode up the center aisle and took the seat beside her.
He looked exactly as a prosecutor should look. He had a crisp side part to his salt-and-pepper hair, eagle eyes that promised to catch every detail, frown marks that gave away no hint of humor, and dark navy robes that were trimmed in the same color velvet.
"Dr. Meadowes," he greeted her in a gruff tone that left no room for pleasantries.
Dorcas almost addressed him as "sir" out of habit. He reminded her of stern Professor Maynard, her Charms teacher from school.
Instead, she choked out, "Prosecutor."
"Are you satisfied with the preparations that Counselor Prewett carried out on my behalf? Do you have any lingering questions about the process?"
Dorcas smiled reassuringly. The muscles seemed out of practice, stiff.
"I have provided expert witness testimony at dozens of hearings, sir." She cringed as she heard herself laud her own achievements.
Dearborn fixed her with those eagle eyes.
"Every case is different, Dr. Meadowes. There's nothing old hat or routine about it at all."
Dorcas seemed to deflate a little. She wanted to point out that rule and procedure made the court system function. What was more routine than that?
She pressed her lips together.
Dorcas wished Gideon was here today. Anyone really, who could provide a familiar presence would help.
Catching the movement of the courtroom door as it opened, Dorcas felt her nerves calm a bit and her heart leap into her throat. Cal's eyes found hers instantly as he slipped into a seat near the back.
She felt her hand twitch in her lap, resisting the urge to wave to him.
He didn't smile, but nor was his face an indifferent mask. His features were much softer than the last time she'd seen him; when he'd walked out on her for the second time in the span of a month. He appeared anxious, watchful, alert as he stared at her.
The defense team for Stephen Muybridge entered the room and Dorcas almost made an audible gasp.
The young attorney representing Muybridge was someone she knew from school.
He used to be best friends with her cousin, Jonas.
Wes Rookwood walked down the center aisle and took his place on the opposite side to her and Dearborn.
Dearborn inclined his head in greeting to the younger man but said nothing.
Rookwood smirked in her direction, seemingly pleased to have caused her to startle.
If the only card he had to play was her surprise in seeing him here, Muybridge might as well get comfortable among those dementors. It would take more than their old school acquaintanceship to put her off the task she was here to accomplish.
"Do you know one another?" Dearborn asked under his breath to her as he caught the exchange between them.
"We were at school together," answered Dorcas.
Sliding a sheet of parchment and a quill toward her, Dearborn instructed, "Write down everything you remember about him. He seems to be too delighted to see you here this morning."
Dorcas nodded, taking the quill and making neat bullet points of the things she remembered about Wes Rookwood.
She'd just scratched out her last words with the dulled quill when the bailiff in navy blue robes emblazoned with the Ministry emblem on them ordered the courtroom to rise as the presiding warlock took the bench.
The warlock was introduced as His Lordship Ambrose Skandenberg.
He climbed slowly to his place on a dias at the front of the courtroom and motioned for all present to take their seats.
"Today's hearing is for the purpose of determining what evidence may be presented at trial; mainly the expert testimony of Dr. Dorcas Clerey-Meadowes who is also listed as a poisoning victim of the accused, a one," here he glanced down at a ledger in front of him. "Stephen R. Muybridge."
"Prosecution may call forward your witness," His Lordship commanded.
Dearborn nodded to Dorcas who took the center seat in the round courtroom, feeling eyes on her from seemingly all directions.
She found Cal again and received a reassuring nod from him.
Caradoc Dearborn stood and approached the witness chair that Dorcas had settled in.
"State your name and occupation for the record," he said in a voice that contained the sharp ring of authority.
"Dr. Dorcas Clerey-Meadowes. I am a licensed psychiatrist and a healer on the Janus Thickey Ward for Long-Term Spell Damage at St. Mungo's."
"Dr. Meadowes," Dearborn said, making a practiced arc around her as he spoke. "You presented evidence recovered from the mind of Theresa Allen that suggests the accused, Stephen Muybridge killed her husband, Jim Allen."
"That's correct. I uncovered a memory that had been altered. That's my specialty. It was presented as evidence in the Wizengamot's family court in order to allow Theresa to have custody of her son returned to her."
Dearborn nodded.
"Please describe for the court the contents of the memory that you uncovered."
Dorcas inhaled. "Theresa believed that she was the one who killed her husband in an act of self-defense. She remembered performing wandless magic that brought a good portion of the roof down onto Mr. Allen's head, killing him. After careful study of this memory and other related ones, I discovered the alteration and lifted it. The lifted memory revealed the presence of Stephen Muybridge and his use of the Killing Curse to murder Jim Allen."
Dearborn turned and paced the opposite direction in front of her.
"And when you say you "lifted" the memory, what does that entail, exactly?"
"A potion developed by my husband and I. The Ex-Nebulae Elixir is able to burn off the mirage memory and reveal the concealed, true memory beneath."
"And this elixir. What does it contain?"
"Well, some ingredients are proprietary. But it contains bitterroot extract, chamomile, vervain, and a few others."
"Your Lordship," Dearborn called, turning to the dias. "You have a list of the ingredients in more detail. Dr. Meadowes has an American patent for the recipe of this potion and is in the process of filing with the Ministry to receive one here. She requests that the specifics of the elixir remain confidential."
Skandenberg appeared to be reading the paperwork. "Yes, granted."
"As you say, the memory was presented in the Wizengamot family court for the custody hearing of Theresa Allen's son?" Dearborn proceeded.
"Yes," Dorcas answered.
"I move to submit the memories filed in the Wizengamot family court to be transferred to your custodian for the trial of Stephen Muybridge, Your Lordship," Dearborn chimed.
"So granted," Skandenberg replied.
Dearborn nodded in thanks to the warlock and returned to his seat.
Dorcas felt the sensation of abandonment as Dearborn left her in the witness seat. She turned to Cal once again as Wes Rookwood stood and buttoned his blazer.
"Dr. Meadowes, is it?" Rookwood said, referencing the notes he held as if he didn't know her. As if he didn't know she'd married Cal.
"It is," she replied evenly.
"Not Healer Meadowes?"
"I work with my husband, who is also a healer. The title expedites matters a bit. And I am also a psychiatrist, which falls under a branch of Muggle medicine."
"How did you come to be in the Fields Department Store in Hendon on the night of 22 November 1958?"
He thought he'd just ambush her with the knowledge that she had been involved in Muybridge's apprehension. She thanked Gideon for bringing this up and exploring the possibility that it would factor into her testimony. She was not caught off guard.
"I was given a tip that Stephen Muybridge would be there. Also, my husband was there with a group of Aurors."
"Why would you want to be involved in an active crime scene, Mrs. Meadowes?" Wes said, intentionally blundering her title.
She ignored the intended slight. He thought to rile her by stripping her of her title. She would not rise to the bait. In fact, she couldn't think of a title she loved more than Mrs. Meadowes.
"I'm a healer and my husband is a healer. We provided assistance to the team that was closing in on Muybridge's location."
She could read Wes's thoughts, but his poker face was just as easy to discern. He was working toward suggesting that she wanted to kill Stephen Muybridge herself.
Wes, have you been chatting with Tom? she thought smugly. She'd already prepared a denial. She'd gone home and scoured every conversation she'd had with Tom and was assured that she never breathed a word of her intentions to kill Muybridge herself.
She doubted that Tom would offer so much as a sentence in defense of some hack dark wizard like Muybridge. It just wouldn't fit into his plan. It was too much exposure to risk. For what?
Denying Dorcas the justice she sought for her son?
Muybridge would still go away for Jim Allen's murder whatever else happened.
"You did not go there with the intent to mete out justice for yourself, Mrs. Meadowes?"
"Your Lordship," Dearborn stood to address the bench. "Mr. Rookwood is leading."
"I'll allow it for now. I want to hear the Doctor's response."
Dorcas shrugged casually. A calm control settled over her. She owned this courtroom.
"Certainly not! I have the highest regard for the law. I would never think of subverting it."
"Are you sure, Mrs. Meadowes?" Wes said, coming close to her, glaring at her.
The warlock interrupted. "Asked and answered, Mr. Rookwood, move on."
Wes seemed to flounder for a moment.
Dorcas resisted the tempting impulse to let a smug smile spread across her face.
"The defense rests, Your Lordship," Wes said, turning to his notes and walking back to his seat.
"You may take your seat, Dr. Meadowes," the warlock instructed.
Warlock Ambrose Skandenberg wrote briskly. The courtroom was silent, save for the scratching of the quill on the parchment. A moment later, the warlock addressed those assembled.
"I have determined that the evidence already heard in the Wizengamot family court is admissible into this court as well. Dr. Meadowes, you will give state's evidence against Stephen Muybridge for the murder of Jim Allen."
"Yes, Your Lordship," Dorcas replied with a bow of her head.
"But I want to make it crystal clear to you that your expert opinion extends to the memories that you have extracted. You may not present evidence related to your poisoning or to that of your son's murder. Am I understood? Capacity as an expert witness must be wholly separate from victim testimony."
"Of course, Your Lordship."
Dorcas turned to look for Cal once more. She'd done it! She was desperate to see him smiling at her.
But he was no longer seated toward the back of the courtroom. In fact, Dorcas had missed his exit altogether. The only evidence that he'd been there was the motion of the door as it swung back on its hinges.
He'd already left her.
:::
15 October, 1941 Girl's Lavatory, Second Floor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dorcas was beginning to feel as if there was not a single place in this entire school where she could just write a letter in peace.
That was how she found herself crouching on a toilet in the last cubicle in the girl's lavatory.
She found that the alcove, though concealed and cozy, could be breached by Tom at any moment. The library was always too public a space to read Jack's letters or respond to them. Even her own dormitory contained several pairs of curious and judgemental eyes that all seemed to be pointed in her direction.
With a book balanced on her knees so that she could use its hard surface as a writing desk, Dorcas tried to compose a response to Jack's latest letters. She admired his open and honest style of writing. He was unabashed in the sentiments he offered her.
She couldn't quite affect the same tone in her replies. She found herself writing about surface information, things she would share with any passing correspondent. But when it came to echoing his feelings and wishes for their future–which she wholeheartedly shared–she found her vocabulary inadequately expressed precisely what she felt.
Crossing out a line that sounded too much like begging him to come back, she sighed in frustration. There was nothing he could do about the distance between them. Reminding him of it was unfair.
She read her words once again.
Dear Jack,
Why couldn't she muster the courage to address the letter with a sentiment that told him all of the things he was to her?
She tried again.
My Darling Jack,
She became frustrated again. It didn't sound like her at all.
My Love,
Dorcas found that this sentiment said everything she wanted to tell him, but in a simple and direct way. She wondered how it would make him feel to open a letter that began with My Love?
You asked me to tell you all about the school that I attend. I am afraid to overwhelm you after the visit we made to Diagon Alley. Hogwarts is more spectacular by far! On virtually every surface there are pictures of ancient witches and wizards. They wave and talk to you, they have their own social lives, moving in and out of the frames of their friends for a bit of a chat. The staircases move, which can be terribly fun (except when you're late for class). The Great Hall has an enchanted ceiling which mimics the outside sky. In the morning it's bright and sunny with clouds that float by as if blown by a breeze. At night, a million stars twinkle down from a deep navy velvet. Thousands of enchanted candles float above our heads as we eat our meals.
She looked around herself in this tiled, utilitarian space. Not all of the confines of the school were enchanted and breathtaking.
But there are some surprisingly mundane Muggle features of the school too. For instance, there are toilets and sinks and showers, just like an ordinary school might have. There's nothing particularly magical about those things, but they sure are a necessity!
The most amazing thing I've found in my explorations of the school is a mirror. It's not just a regular reflective surface like an ordinary mirror. It's a massive, gold-framed structure that shows you your future. I visit it almost every night because the reflection that I can see in the frame is of you and me and a little girl. The most fascinating part of it is that I found this mirror and our reflected future before I ever met you! Isn't that amazing?
Please write to me soon and tell me all about where you're stationed. I imagine you in a landscape covered in sand dunes and riding a camel. Tell me if I'm at all close.
Be seeing you!
A heart full of love from,
Dorcas
Dorcas folded the pages and addressed the envelope before stuffing them inside.
She packed up her bag and shouldered it. She was determined to get this letter off to the Owlery before she had the urge to rewrite it again.
Bending over the sink to wash her hands, Dorcas felt her brow furrowing as she noticed a curious marking on the faucet. A curling snake, poised to strike was stamped into the brass fixture. Dorcas looked to the faucets on either side of her. They had a foundry mark on them from where they'd been forged. But it wasn't the same as the snake she'd noticed on the one she used.
She dried her hands, wondering if this used to be a bathroom that only Slytherin students could use.
:::
20 January, 1959 Watermead, Aylesbury
Dorcas returned home around half twelve. The hearing felt as if it would carry on forever when she'd been at the center of it. But now, she wished it'd dragged on longer. She had one and a half more hours to kill before she could pick up Wren from school.
This was the time of day that she hated. Being alone in the house with only her regrets for company.
Once Wren was home, she could bear it. She had dinner to make, baths to run, bedtime stories to read. But she couldn't expect Wren to take up all of her lonely hours. It wasn't fair to put that on a five year old.
Dorcas went to her bedroom to change out of the smart wool suit she'd worn. Time to remove the costume and put on the clothing of reality. She selected a pair of dungarees, a white button down shirt, and a rust colored jumper. In the bathroom mirror, she brushed the volume out of her hair and tucked it up into a tidy scarf.
Her coping mechanism for the hours that Wren was not home was to invent projects for herself. Today, she was sorting out the garage. But first, she needed to run a load of laundry.
Cal seemed to come home every four or five days to drop off dirty clothes and pack up some clean ones. He was due back today or tomorrow for this new ritual of theirs. But Dorcas was not sure today how likely he would be keeping to that schedule.
She was reminded of the look of encouragement he'd given her in the courtroom today. He'd come there to lend her support, she was sure of it. That is, until she'd looked back at him in the triumphant moment that the warlock had announced that her testimony would be allowed, and he'd disappeared without so much as a "Congratulations!".
Then she'd revised her earlier assumption. He'd not gone to lend her moral support, but rather to make sure that she didn't do anything to mess up the chances of Muybridge answering for their son's death. When she proved she was not a fuck up, he'd left again, satisfied with the performance.
In any case, there was so little Dorcas was allowed to do for Cal these days. He barely spoke to her, only ever stopped by to visit Wren, or to pick up fresh laundry. She felt compelled to make sure he always had a stack of clean shirts and trousers on hand. It was a pitiful attempt at showing that she still cared for him. But it was all she had.
She trotted down the basement steps with a basket of his clothing in tow. Halfway up the staircase with freshly laundered shirts to iron, she heard the front door opening.
Balancing the basket on her hip, Dorcas patted her pocket to reassure her that her wand was still at hand.
She opened the basement laboratory door and nearly came face to face with Cal.
"Jesus!" she gasped. "You scared me!"
When she'd gathered her breath again, she began to ramble.
"I'll have these shirts ironed for you in another five minutes. I would have had them done by now, but the hearing this morning. Well, you know. You were there. Thank you for coming by the way. I didn't get a chance to tell you that earlier. Wren will be home in a little over an hour if you'd like to wait."
Cal took the basket from her hands and threw it on the floor beside him.
Grabbing Dorcas around the waist, he pulled her flush against him and covered her lips with his own to stop her talking.
Dorcas did stop talking then and found her hands tracing down his back, taking note of the smell of him. Not his usual citrusy smell, something more earthy.
She supposed there were bound to be things he noticed that were different about her as well. She hoped they'd spend all afternoon getting reacquainted with one another.
But for now, all Dorcas wanted, the only thing that filled her mind, was the all-consuming need to have him moaning her name. She wanted to bring him to the very edge of the precipice, to make him insane with desire for her.
She found herself grabbing her husband forcefully by the waistband of his trousers and shoving him backward against the wall of the sitting room.
A framed portrait of the two of them on their wedding day was knocked from its hook on the wall and shattered on the ground at his feet.
Her hands furiously unbuttoned his shirt, once quickly darting to his groin to see if she was having any success in her clumsy seduction.
A sigh escaped Cal's lips as they pressed against hers hungrily.
With practiced fingers, Dorcas made quick work of the belt, the button, and the zipper of his trousers, dropping to her knees, hands anchoring his hips.
"Glass," Cal sighed, incapable of using more words to make himself understood.
"Forget the glass!" Dorcas growled.
It wasn't long at all before Dorcas had him groaning and sighing with her name on his lips. The sounds of him getting closer to completion reminded her to slow down, to steady her pace.
This wasn't a sprint. She wanted the marathon to last.
Cal grabbed her forearms roughly and pulled her to her feet once more, bringing his lips down over hers, parting them with his tongue. His hands traveled over her waist before squeezing her backside. Then he was lifting her, coaxing her to wrap her legs around him.
One hand darted to his wand and with a flick, there was nothing between his skin and hers. He'd enchanted their clothes to completely disappear. She was impressed and reminded herself to ask him about his dirty parlor trick later.
She heard her wand clatter to the wooden floor, released from the pocket of a pair of trousers she no longer wore.
Keeping his wand in hand, he supported Dorcas while tracing his other up her spine before winding his fingers around the scarf that tied her hair and tugging. Threading his fingers through her tresses, he pulled her head back a little roughly to expose her neck to his tongue, teeth grazing her delicate skin and raising gooseflesh all over her.
"Cal, bedroom," Dorcas commanded breathlessly as she submitted herself to his hands and tongue and teeth.
Cal's answer was an indistinguishable growl, but he carried her to the end of the hallway, kicking their bedroom door open with his foot.
He finally set her on her own two feet. Dorcas had to concentrate to remain upright, her knees unsure and wobbly beneath her.
Cal stood back just to take in the sight of her standing there.
Dorcas felt the sting of his love marks on her neck and collarbone where he'd branded her as his.
She surveyed him too.
His tall frame seemed bigger somehow with the way he was looming over her, his eyes studying every inch of her.
Her eyes fell to the obvious evidence of his arousal, knowing her gaze was wide and hungry and reflected his own desire, seemed to push all of the air out of her lungs.
It wasn't that she was overwhelmed with physical desire for him, even though she was. It was the fact that she was looking at the one person that she trusted more than anyone else. The person she loved with her whole being, even though that love could be ripped away, leaving a gaping, bleeding wound, was before her and she was overcome with warmth and ardency.
They hung in a limbo, neither one moving first. Then Dorcas could not bear to be without his touch a moment longer and rushed to him, pushing him onto the bed and clamoring on top of him.
"I love you, Cal," she confessed, leaning forward to meet his lips.
His hips moved beneath her, searching for that friction that they both desired. At the same moment, his hand rested palm to her cheek, holding her gaze to his own.
She leaned into his touch, the look of devotion in his eyes nearly moving her to tears.
"I loved you too, sweetheart."
Lifting her hips she reached for him and guided him into her.
His groans mingled with her own cries of pleasure.
Cal took control of her movements, firm hands on her hips, fingers digging into her flesh.
She drew her nails across his stomach and chest eliciting a tormented hiss from him that made her laugh.
In response, Cal shifted, dumping her onto her back.
Capturing her wrists in his grip, he pinned her hands above her head, settling between her legs once again and driving into her with renewed intensity.
Dorcas's cries seemed to only spur him into a more frenzied pace.
She supposed that all of the emotions of the past month, the betrayal and the frustration had built up to an untenable pressure inside him, frantically pursuing release.
"Cal," Dorcas gasped. "Slow down, my love. Not so rough."
He didn't seem to hear her over his own grunts and growls.
The wooden headboard of their bed began to beat against the wall in time with his thrusts.
His mental barrier slipped as all sense of self seemed to desert him.
In her head, his voice rattled loudly.
"Come for me, Birdie!"
Dorcas felt every muscle in her body tense.
Horrified, she tried to pull her hands out of his adamant grip.
"Tom?"