Constance jumped from her covers, and fell to the floor as her nightmare ended.
" Was it another one?" Ms. Cackle asked.
" Yes," she said folding her arms. She wanted to make it obvious that she didn't intend to talk about it. Still, something told her that Amelia would push. Over the years, the border of tension between them faded. This was a fact that both eased and perturbed Constance.
" You know, it would help if you'd talk about it."
" I don't want to. It's bad enough that I see it in my head almost every night now. Talking about it gives it a conscious life."
" It's been two weeks now. Either you let me or somebody else know what's going on, or I place you on sick leave."
" You wouldn't!"
" Oh, yes I would, Constance. Now, you always emphasize that it's your duty to help others to carry through by doing what's good for them, but now, it's time for me to help you carry through by doing what's good for you."
" Oh, very well! " she shouted while throwing herself on the bed. " My mother and I are in a hotel room with some little boy. She's feeding us, and we hear footsteps approaching. There's a blast of light, and the door opens. A man enters, and he grabs my mother by her hair and starts hitting her and throwing her about. The little boy and I cleave tightly to each other. The man grabs the both of us, and I bite him; because, I know that I shouldn't go with him. He's bad. He's hurt my mother. I run to her, and he picks me up again. I kick at him, and then he slaps me. The little boy runs out of the room, and the man runs after him.
I try to wake my mother, but she doesn't stir. I know that the man will be back, so I run outside using the back stairs. He returns, sees me running, and calls out a name, but it's not Constance. It's Lilias. I know that he can catch me, so I run into a crowd of people. I know that he can't possibly fight through all those people to get to me, and I run as far as I can until something that looks like a car hits me. I wake up in the care of my adoptive parents, Claudius and Honora Hardbroom. So there it is! Are you satisfied?"
" I'm sorry, Constance. It looks as if you need more help than I thought."
" What do you mean? I can handle this by myself."
" How? With 'Wide-Awake' potion?"
" I have my ways," she said dangerously, but Ms. Cackle wouldn't back down. Constance would get angry and then get over it.
" You're having what they call a recovered memory. Lots of people who have been traumaitized have them."
" Now see here, Amelia, I have never, nor do I ever plan to be a victim!"
" It's not about being a victim! It's about taking control!"
" Taking control?" Constance asked laughingly, "taking control? Well, my dear Amelia; let me tell you about taking control. First off, I almost single-handedly run this establishment, while you and those two oafs stumble around here like the three blind mice. Secondly, I, for one, find it preposterous that you keep a staff member around who can barely keep keep still, let alone encourage a bunch of hyper active and over pampered young curs to keep control over themselves. And while we're at it, let's not even start on Imogen Drill. What kind of witch school doesn't have witching sports? You know it wouldn't hurt us to have a Quidditch team, or maybe even an aerosquad. Who knows? Perhaps with either of these, someone might consider putting this meager little tollbooth on the map, or maybe on the acceptable list of schools!"
" That's right, Constance. Keep going," Miss Cackle said calmly.
Constance hated it when she did that. This time, she wouldn't stand for it!
" Oh! I can't talk to you right now!"
" Perhaps it is a good idea for you to take a walk and let off a little steam."
" You're doing it again, Amelia! Can't you see? I dream about my mother being violently murdered, and all you can do is throw that ludicrous pop psychology jargon at me. Now, thanks to you, I'll be spending the next few days vividly reliving my pain."
"Not so."
"What do you mean by 'not so'?" she asked.
" Have you ever heard of a penseive?"
" Yes, I have. It's a tool that weakly minded, pansified wizards use to cast their bad memories aside as if they were paper. Now, if you think that I plan to use one, then you've got another thing coming! As I said before, I will handle this situation without the aid of artificial purging or extraction!"
Miles away, a man cries as he clasps his mother's brooch that he carefully tied to his twin sister's hair ribbon all those years ago, hoping that squeezing this unified semblance of them will bring him some peace. He shouldn't have run away from them like that when they needed him. His father always said that he was weak. He ties his robe about himself and proceeds out of his bedroom in the direction of his office. He sees the Potter boy and Weasley creeping about, but it doesn't matter. He just wants to cast this feeling aside. He has important work ahead of him, and he can't afford to break down at a crucial time like this. He opens his office and approaches the bowl.
" Now, Amelia, if I do this, then you cannot watch! My memories are personal!"
The man concentrates as he untwines the mental fibers of torment that enlace his deeply perturbed subconcious.
Constance breathes over the solution in her bowl, and exhales.
Both parties thrust their memories into their respective receptacles, and get blasted backward. Severus awakes to find himself dressed in feminine silk pajamas, and Constance struggles to regain her stance clad in plainly drab black flannel pajamas.
So close, yet worlds away, two estranged people begin an odd journey to self-discovery that will hopefully, somewhere down the line, lead them to the peace that both of their aching souls so desperately seek.