Leechwife
by Veruka

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and the characters and concepts contained therein are property J.K. Rowling. No profit. Transcends to all chapters.

Rating: R [rated for future chapters, which will include violence, gore, sexual content, and of course the musings of an unhinged mind unfit for those of delicate sensibilities]

Notes: This has been festering in my mind for quite some time now. I was going to put it off until I'd at least mostly finished my other stories, "Tourniquet" especially, but when inspiration strikes... Set during Harry's fifth year.


Prologue - Something Wicked This Way Comes


In the evenings, the lamenting wails always became louder, their symptoms more pronounced, as though the rising moon drew with it the strings to their insanity, banishing lucidity with its silvery glow and forcing the raw psychosis embedded into their fractured minds to surface.

\Lu*na*cy\, n.; 1. Insanity or madness; properly, the kind of insanity which is broken by intervals of reason, -- formerly supposed to be influenced by the changes of the moon; any form of unsoundness of mind, except idiocy; mental derangement or alienation.

The textbook definition was firmly engrained into her brain, scratched deep into the grey matter by the tip of a quill that had been made to write it one-thousand-and-one times over the last nineteen years. It made its way back into her thoughts now, as she walked the mournful halls, footfalls echoing and intermingling with the desolate groans. The ones prone to screaming had Silencing Charms placed on their padded cells, where they thrashed themselves into exhaustion, straightjackets buckled tight like corsets, like pythons, asphyxiating their will to harm themselves.

The moans filled her ears like a string symphony, low, woeful cellos and softly shrieking violins the background music as she made her rounds, glancing through the small windows of glass enchanted to never break, almost a contemptuous ridiculing of the shattered minds they allowed her to glimpse.

Little Alice McGee in room nine-o-three, one of the silent ones, catatonic for eight years now after being burnt to a half-death while playing too closely to the sitting room fireplace in her family's fine home. Perhaps she was still playing there, climbing up on top of the mantel to peer through the looking-glass.

Youthful Jean-Claude Lamoureux, aged ninety-two, though he still believed himself to be a boy of seven. Far more vocal than little Alice, he was most often heard calling for his maman, who had been sleeping beneath the earth for three decades now, lured into an early grave by the heartache of her son's endless childhood.

There were others, of course, many others. Catatonics, schizophrenics, psychopaths...a melting pot of dementia steeping, bubbling up sorrowful howls that would continue to haunt the salted halls as doleful spirits, too unhinged even to find their way to the peace of death, cursed to wander the ghost roads for eternity. She had enjoyed that once, taken pleasure in their endless suffering, but the time had come to put business before pleasure, and for days now the incessant, mad dronings of her patients had caused her annoyance more than anything else. How was she meant to gage a person's reaction to a specific something when they reacted randomly to every sort of stimuli placed in front of them? It simply wouldn't do.

How pleased she had been, then, pleased and curious to find an envelope waiting for her on her desk when she returned to her office. On one side, stamped into red wax, was a seal she had not laid eyes on in nearly twenty years. On the other, written in precise letters of green ink:

Miss C. Absinthe
The Office at the End of the Psychiatric Ward
L'hôspital de Charenton pour Maladies Magique
Paris
France

Taking hold of a letter opener, she slid the dull blade beneath the seal and eased it off the rough vanilla parchment of the envelope, extracted the letter contained within, and began to read, a wicked smile slowly curling on her lips.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
~
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss Absinthe,

I realise it has been many years since last we spoke, though I do tend to check up on my former students' successes occasionally and I must say, your career has been one of the most interesting to follow. I was quite happy to find that your ambitions never waned, never lost their focus, and I believe I can say with complete confidence than you are now one of the most respected medi-witches in your chosen field of healing, both in medical and psychological circles.

I also realise that, due to your aforementioned success, what I must request of you may come as a bit of an insult, though that is the last thing I intend as I write it.

Our resident medi-witch here at Hogwarts, Poppy Pomfrey, has announced her wish to retire. With the inevitable conflict between Light and Dark magic in the wizarding world looming ever closer, she wishes to spend as much time with her son, the Auror Patrick Pomfrey, as possible before he is called away to fight against Lord Voldemort's forces. I did not argue with her decision.

Thus, we have an opening in our ranks for a new medi-witch, and it is because of your credentials in psychology just as much as in medical care that I am offering the position to you. With the stressful times ahead, our students and faculty are going to be bruised and battered, and not only in the physical sense. To have someone with your expertise caring for their bodies and their minds would be of great relief to myself, and to the rest of the Hogwarts faculty.

You are under no obligation to accept, of course, but please give the matter some serious thought, and if possible, let me know your response, be it positive or negative, before the first of September. If you have any questions, send me an owl or contact me by fire.

Respectfully yours,

Albus Dumbledore,
Headmaster

She leaned back against the desk thoughtfully, the letter swinging limply between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

Children. Adolescents could be loosely classified as sane; she could extract their troubles from them in detail, gain far more detailed information from their personal reactions to what made them feel so wretched, far more precision in her research. He would be pleased with that.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ancient Albus was unaware that she had been following his pursuits just as closely as he had been following hers. The school did end up in the papers often enough, even more frequently in the last four years, as the study of one young Harry Potter had become quite the underground obsession. The boy who defeated the Dark Lord. The Boy Who Lived -- thrice. She knew a number of wizarding psychologists who would have loved to wrench their fingers inside his skull and probe his mind if given the chance.

Of course, she had been given the chance, written in green ink and held carelessly in her hand. The opportunity to kill three birds with one stone. He would be very pleased, indeed.

She sat down behind the desk and retrieved a piece of parchment from the centre drawer. After dipping a quill in a bottle of red ink, she chose her words and began to write.

Dear Mr Dumbledore,

After giving the matter careful consideration, I have chosen to accept the position of Hogwarts' medi-witch, as per your proposition. Please allow me one month to set my affairs here at Charenton in order, after which I shall arrive as soon as possible to begin fulfilling my newfound obligations to the school.

Sincerely yours,

Cyana Absinthe, M.D.