Christmas holidays passed far too quickly. Beth immersed herself in her chores (there were parts of the house that hadn't been cleaned since she had left that summer) and spent her free hours reading through her favorite old paperbacks. Whenever something unpleasant came to mind the banshee, the Dark Lord, N.E.W.T.s, Riggs, the Guild she forced it away. Vacation is supposed to be restful, she thought stubbornly. Darn it, I'm going to rest. And she was largely successful ... although she found that ignoring her troubles was nearly as tiring as facing them.
The day the Hogwarts Express was to carry her back to school, Beth spent the morning packing and then made lunch for both of them. Afterward, she filled the sink and got to work on the dirty dishes while Mr. Parson settled in the living room with the morning paper. Washing dishes had been one of her least favorite jobs as a child, but these days she found it soothing; it was mindless work, but attention-consuming, with a tangible and pleasing result.
There came a slow knock at the door.
"I've got it, Dad," she called over her shoulder. She wiped her hands on the dishtowel and flung it onto the counter. Back in the den, she heard her father call back, "I'll be there in a moment, Bethy," and there came the creak of a chair and slow footsteps down the hall.
Crossing the kitchen swiftly, Beth tugged open the front door.
A sharp whirl of snow burst into the kitchen, and a freezing chill. Beth stared into the face of a tall man, blonde and ragged, no longer young but yet not so old his grizzled hair was nearly as gray as her father's, his broad shoulders held a stoop.
She recognized him instantly. She was afraid to say his name.
Mr. Parson came into the kitchen. He stopped dead in the doorway and stared past Beth at the figure enveloped in snow.
The world was very still.
The man spoke. His voice was harsh, a rusty gate hinge. There was no love in his voice.
"Da. I'm home."
Beth moved backward, slowly, until she was pressed against the kitchen counter. The man followed her inside. His gait was stiff; his eyes, in the glow of the kitchen, shimmered madly.
Mr. Parson raised one trembling hand to his mouth. Finally, he spoke.
"Chris."
Chris Parson barked a terrible laugh. "Hullo, Da."
Mr. Parson was white as a sheet. "How ... are you here?"
His oldest son staggered closer; his was the unsteady gait of the mad, a swaying, unsure rhythm in his movements. "No welcome, Da? No k-kind words?" He raised a shaking hand suddenly and swung it to point at Beth. "W-w-who's that?"
His father took a step to meet him. "Chris, that's Beth. Remember?"
Chris sneered. "C-couldn't do without, c-could you? Isn't she a bi-bi-bit young for you, D-da?"
Beth's face flushed a burning red. He thought she was ? She opened her mouth but couldn't bring herself to speak.
"Chris, that's your sister," said Mr. Parson in a low voice. He had both hands extended toward his son. "Elizabeth. She was just a baby. Do you remember...?"
"D-don't fool me," Chris snarled. "Mother w-will w-want to know. She was p-p-prettier," he added, with an ugly look at Beth.
Beth forced herself to breathe evenly. He's raving, she thought to herself, very clearly. He's as crazy as I thought... She put her hand on the counter and let it snake toward her wand, laid out beside the clean dishes.
Mr. Parson, who had been advancing slowly, stopped suddenly. "Your mother," he said, in hardly more than a whisper. "Is she with you?"
"She's in the w-walls," said Chris.
His voice was rusty and thoroughly empty of sense.
"Please sit down, Chris," said Mr. Parson softly.
"Did you h-h-hear me?" Chris screamed suddenly, and Beth pulled back, heart pounding. "She's in th-th-the walls! I c-can hear her c-c-cry!" He gripped his head between two clawing hands; the pads were rough, the nails torn and dark. "And I h-h-hear"
"Chris..."
Beth's seeking fingers closed on her wand.
"In th-the w-w-walls! A-and you with this h-h-harlot !"
"Christopher!"
"Keep away from me!" Suddenly Chris had a wand clenched in his white-knuckled hand. "Why didn't you keep them from taking me? I thought you'd keep them from taking me b-but they th-th-they did"
Mr. Parson had his hands to his sides and was breathing very slowly and deliberately. "You need to sit down, Chris," he said, with quiet authority, "or you need to leave."
"Catalepsia!"
A bolt of golden light exploded from Chris's wand and hit his father full in the chest. The old man flew backward several feet. He thudded to the floor.
Beth might have screamed, or not; but before she had taken her eyes from her father, she had her wand pointed at Chris. "Expelliarmus! Expelliarmus!"
Chris stared at her in amazement as his wand was wrenched from his grip and clattered against the wall.
"Get out of here!" Beth's voice was shrill; she didn't notice. "Go away! Get out or I swear I'll kill you!"
Chris sneered, his eyes glinting madly. "You couldn't k-kill me, you t-t-twopenny whore"
"Crucio!"
Her brother was blasted back into the wall. He hit it hard and slid down, eyes wide. Almost immediately, he scrambled to his feet.
"Get out!"
Chris Parson staggered to the door, fumbled it open, and stumbled into the cold night.
Beth dashed to the door and threw herself against it, grappling with the lock. Her chest heaved. Somewhere inside she knew she had just cast an Unforgivable curse, and couldn't believe what she had done but there was no time to listen to that voice. She slammed shut the deadbolt and scrambled to her father's side.
Mr. Parson lay stretched on his back in the hallway. His eyes were closed; his shallow breaths seemed too fast, too loud. Beth shook his shoulders desperately. His slack face never flickered.
The scream of the banshee rang in her ears.
They had to get out. Beth rushed to the fireplace. She grabbed the urn full of Floo powder with the tips of her fingers and hurled the whole thing into the fire. The porcelain shattered; billowing clouds of green smoke blasted out, filling the room with glittering embers and a cloying stench. Beth hooked her other hand underneath her father's shoulder. "Hospital!" she practically screamed; then she dragged her father into the flames, and they were surrounded by the whirling network of fireplaces.
Violent motion terrifying speed then a lurching halt, a sudden jolt. Beth was thrown to a floor of white marble, dizzy and desperate, and immediately began struggling to her feet. "My Dad" she began shrilly, not knowing where she was, but suddenly she was surrounded by strong hands, confident faces, starchy cloaks of lime green she was being moved, someone was trying to drag her away, she tried to fight her way back someone had her by the shoulders, they were looking her dead in the face and speaking. She forced herself to hear them.
"It's all right, we have him now, you're both safe, we'll take good care of him Pye, would you please"
Beth felt a sharp rap on her head. Her breathing slowed ... things started to come into focus. A round-faced woman, brown hair in an untidy bun, smiled gently at her, while still keeping a firm grip on Beth's shoulders. A young wizard came around beside her, a concerned look on his face.
"There now," the plump witch was saying, "a good Calming charm helps, doesn't it? Thank you, Pye," she added, to the young wizard, who nodded. "Now let's get you to a chair, eh? Our healers are taking care of that man right now." She guided Beth to a folding chair and very firmly pushed her down into it. Sitting down across from her, she leaned toward Beth, took both her hands, and went on: "Please relax, dear, and try to tell us as much as you can about what happened."
Beth took a deep breath. She had barely had time to realize what had happened. She opened her mouth to speak and stopped herself. These people mustn't know that Chris was the attacker.
"A man," she said slowly, "came into our house, and and hexed my father."
"Can you remember the spell he used?" the witch persisted.
"Cana ... catastro ... catal ... I don't know, I'm not good at Charms!" Beth fought the temptation to stand up again. "Where am I, what are you doing to him?"
"Hush," the witch said, firmly but kindly. "You're in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. You're father's in the hands of trained Healers, I promise they're doing all they can for him. Now, the spell that was used. Does the word catalepsia ring a bell?"
"I don't know," said Beth, trying to look over her shoulder, but her father was nowhere in sight. "Yes. That sounds like it."
The witch smiled and patted Beth's knees. "Thank you. Pye, go tell the others," she ordered, and the young wizard hurried away. "As for you you did a very brave thing, bringing him all this way."
Beth couldn't reply. She didn't feel remotely brave she felt muddled and useless, as if she had botched up everything. And somehow it was all her fault. She should have tried harder to protect her father ... how had Chris even known where to find them? Had Lycaeon told him? What had he come for...?
A steaming mug was placed in her hands and she took a sip without wondering what it was. It turned out to be hot chocolate; she took another, longer drink and looked around for the first time. The room was white-walled and squarish; fireplaces lined two of the walls, and a third opened directly into a hallway. A large plaque bore the words "Crisis and Urgency Access Center." There were several round, white tables, and of all things a black iron stove with a steaming teapot, hung with colorful potholders.
Beth put down her mug. Almost immediately, the plump witch bustled over and sat down again. "That's better now, isn't it, dear?" she said, and seemed pleased when Beth nodded. "Very good. I'll still need you to tell me some more about the patient, if you think you can."
"I can," said Beth, almost scornfully. She instantly regretted her tone, but the witch never seemed to notice. "His name is William Parson."
"Age, please?"
"Seventy-one."
"And will he be a wizard or a Muggle, then?"
"A Squib." She felt an unexpected flush of shame, and hated herself for it.
The witch nodded. "I'll expect you'll want to file a report with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she said, looking up at Beth. "Now please hold still while I perform a Recurrus spell ... it's simple and painless, it'll help us record the things that you saw..."
Beth froze. She had been the recipient of a Recurrus spell once before, after a break-in at Gringotts four years ago. It showed exactly what she had seen ... and it would reveal Chris's face to the Ministry.
"No," she said quickly, "no. That won't help. I I wasn't there when it happened. I only heard it. From the living room." She didn't know why she was protecting her brother, only that it was vitally important that no one find out who had attacked them, or why.
"I see." The witch looked disappointed. "Could you give a statement, at least ?"
"No," said Beth again, "I don't want to press charges, I just want it all to be over." She had never said anything so true in her life. "Where is my father?"
"Your father is being stabilized," said the witch, with patience learned in many years' practice. "What is your name, please?"
"Beth, Beth Parson." She was distracted, trying to see out the door.
"Then listen to me, Beth, you need to help us." Beth focused in again. "The thing we need you to do is wait here. Relax." The witch patted Beth's arm, with a comforting smile. "Your father will be fine. Have some more cocoa. There are magazines along the wall. If you want to stretch your legs, you might take a jaunt up to the visitor's tea room, it's on the fifth floor." She patted Beth's arm again. "The Healers are doing what they do best. When it's time, I promise, they'll get you the moment they can."
Something about the warmth, the calmness of the woman made her words hit home. Beth sat back in her chair with a little sigh. Of course she couldn't see him; she'd only get in the way. And of course he was in the best hands, in the safest place possible. "Where are the magazines?" she said wearily.
The witch beamed. "Just there, in the rack by the stove," she said kindly. "Shall I fetch you an issue of Miss Magic?"
"I think I'll look for myself, thanks," said Beth, getting to her feet. Miss Magic was intended for the kind of person that Antigone von Dervish had been at the age of twelve. She was not in the mood for teeny-bopper beauty tips and hints on first-level love potions. She thumbed through the selection, pulled out an old Quidditch Quarterly and last month's Journal of British Alchemy, and went back in her seat.
The waiting was dreadful. The comforting feel of magazines in her hands didn't stamp out the unearthliness of the bleak walls and white floors. Three times, the fireplaces along the far wall spat out another patient: One with the dragon pox, itching and sneezing flame, one with a broken leg and leaves in her hair, and the third bleeding badly from the side of his head. Every time Beth glanced up, thought, That's nothing compared to what happened to Dad, and went back to her magazines.
She read them both through and didn't remember a word.
She was halfway through an ancient Witch Weekly (the one with the entire sappy article about Harry Potter, which Beth practically knew by heart from all the times her classmates had quoted it) when a wizard came up behind her.
"Miss Parson?"
Beth looked up quickly, letting the magazine fall shut.
"Your father's stabilized. Would you like to go see him?"
Beth stood up so fast she knocked the chair over. "Yes," she said, blushing furiously, as she righted the chair. "Yes, please."
The Healer led her through white, portrait-lined hallways and up the stairs to the fourth floor. He opened a bland door just like all the others along the hall and entered; Beth hurried behind him.
There were two other inhabitants in the room, each lying perfectly still, although one was floating about six inches above the surface of the bed and staring at the ceiling. Mr. Parson occupied the middle bed. His eyes were closed and his breathing was steady. The Healers had swathed a wide white bandage around his head.
"He took quite a fall," the wizard said. "We did a counterspell to the Catalepsia Curse, but it's the lump on his head keeping him out now. All we can do is wait." He looked at Beth. "Will you be heading off to Hogwarts tonight? First day of term is tomorrow, you know."
"I'm staying," Beth said shortly. She didn't like to look at her father, helpless and small in the hospital cot, but she couldn't take her eyes away from him either.
"Then we'll alert the Headmaster," said the wizard. He waved his wand and a large brown armchair appeared beside Mr. Parson's cot. "Just ring if you'd like a pillow," he said courteously. "It's nearly lights-out for our patients."
"Thank you."
The wizard left. Beth, looking at her father with love and dread, was finally able to think.
He was all she had. It had never even occurred to her that she might lose him this early. He was old, and showing it he had never been especially quick or sharp but he was solid. He was always there. She couldn't even remember the last time he had taken ill.
"Don't you dare," she whispered. "Don't you dare."
She curled up in the brown armchair, chin tucked to her knees. "Don't you dare..." she said again, in a voice so low that even she could barely hear herself.
Lights-out came soon, but Beth was already asleep and didn't notice.
