Chapter 9
11 October, 1957 Diagon Alley, London
Dorcas sat in the chair with her back straight and shoulders squared, assuming the professional air she adopted when on the witness stand. Her psychiatry career had been dotted with expert witness testimony for one client or another.
She sat in the law offices of Counselor Gideon Prewett.
Despite her reassurances to Gideon that she was a veteran at testifying in front of all manner of courts and judges, he'd insisted on running through possible questions that she would have to answer in tomorrow's hearing.
"How did you first come to understand that Mrs. Allen's memories had been tampered with?" Gideon had been firing questions at her for about twenty minutes.
"Theresa Allen was first referred to me in order to assess her mental stability. She had been accused of killing her husband with wandless magic and her son was taken away from her. She was pronounced an unfit parent."
Gideon nodded, assuming the role of the Child Advocate Counsel.
"And you deem her a fit parent?"
Dorcas shook her head slowly. "It's not my place to deem her fit or unfit. That is for the courts to decide," she responded cooly. "I merely walked her through the relevant memories associated with the accident-"
"Say incident, not accident," Gideon corrected. "Accident is a value judgement. It shows you are sympathetic to Theresa."
Dorcas nodded and continued. "I walked her through the relevant memories of the incident and talked with her about her frame of mind when she performed the spell that killed her husband."
"Passive language, Dorcas." Gideon corrected again. "When the spell that killed her husband was performed."
Dorcas nodded again. She didn't really believe word choice was going to matter too much in this instance. It was not a high profile case. Sadly, tales of domestic violence were too common to rate front page news. Also, the Wizengamot would already have seen the memories Dorcas had furnished by the time she was questioned. They would have seen Theresa's altered memory and the true accounting of what had happened.
She was about to continue when the office's frosted glass door opened. Dorcas swiveled in her seat and looked at the newcomer.
He was tall and broad shouldered. He had the same strawberry blond hair as Gideon, but close cropped with a precise parting on the side. The resemblance between the two men was obvious.
"I got your message a little late," the man said, striding into the room and closing the door behind him. "I was at a crime scene in Cornwall. What is it?"
Gideon pulled another chair up to his desk from a corner of the room.
"Fabian," Gideon said by way of introduction. "This is Dr. Dorcas Clerey-Meadowes."
The intruder seemed to just register her presence in that moment. He turned in her direction and nodded.
"Dorcas, my brother, Auror Fabian Prewett."
Gideon motioned to the chair next to Dorcas.
Fabian took the offered seat and extended a hand to Dorcas. "Dr. Meadowes."
"Auror Prewett," Dorcas returned the handshake.
"Fabian," Gideon began immediately. "Dorcas and I have been collaborating on a murder case. The events appeared to be a cut-and-dry domestic in which the battered wife killed the husband in self-defense."
Fabian nodded, listening carefully.
"Dr. Meadowes is a psychiatrist who specializes in memory modification charms." Gideon gestured to Dorcas, and Fabian nodded again.
"My client's memory has been modified in order to cover the true murderer's tracks," Gideon continued, pushing a wooden stand with twelve memories carefully labeled in Dorcas's clinical script across his desk toward his brother.
Dorcas took over the narrative from here. "Those phials are copies of Mrs. Allen's memories. They are numbered. They also indicate true versus modified memories. I discovered last week that Jim Allen's real murderer is Theresa's new boyfriend. He has disappeared since this discovery and Theresa is terrified to go home or to work in case he shows up."
Fabian finally spoke. "I'll see if I can get a lead on him."
"The Wizengamot should be issuing an arrest order for him tomorrow," Gideon said, his tone making it very clear that he did not trust the courts to make Theresa's safety or the apprehension of the boyfriend a priority. "But I would like someone capable on the case as well."
Fabian took a small black notebook from the breast pocket of his coat. "What's the name?"
"Muybridge," Gideon answered. "Steven Muybridge."
"Mrs. Allen's address and workplace?"
Gideon supplied the Surrey address and the Leaky Cauldron as Theresa's workplace. Fabian wrote these details down.
Dorcas supplied the few details about Steven that Theresa had given her. She had been alarmed at how little Theresa knew about him and wondered what other magical means Steven may have used to insert himself so completely into Theresa's life with so little back story.
Returning his notebook to his pocket, Fabian Prewett stood. He carefully lifted the case of memory phials.
He looked at his brother and said, "I'll be in touch." He strode to the door.
"The DMLE will be officially looped in about Muybridge tomorrow or the next day at the latest." Gideon pointed to the memories in his brother's hand. "Those copies don't exist."
"Strictly off the books, got it," Fabian said succinctly. "Dr. Meadowes," he added, nodding a goodbye to her.
"Auror Prewett, thank you." Dorcas reached for her bag and slipped her driving gloves back on.
Fabian left and Gideon returned to the notes that he was making for the hearing tomorrow. He shuffled some files and rested a hand on the file that had been under Theresa's. He seemed to pause, caught in some internal debate.
"Theresa and I will see you at 8:30 tomorrow morning at the courts," Dorcas said, standing a moment later.
Gideon nodded and tapped his fountain pen absently on the legal pad in front of him. He didn't seem to hear what Dorcas had just said.
"Gideon," Dorcas said, moving closer to his desk. "What is it?"
"This one's out of left field, Dr. Meadowes," Gideon said, coming out of his reverie.
"Okay. Try me."
"Do you think the memory of a house-elf can be Obliviated?"
Dorcas stood with her handbag in the crook of one arm. She seemed to consider this for a few seconds.
"I work with human patients, but I'm sure the physiology can't be too different," she mused.
Gideon nodded, considering something.
"Are you asking about another case?" Dorcas's interest was piqued.
"Yes," Gideon said. "A murder case."
Dorcas blinked at Gideon. "Someone's murdered a house-elf?"
"No," Gideon clarified. "The house-elf is the accused murderer."
"Huh," Dorcas muttered. She was intrigued now. "Can't have many like that come across your desk."
"Nope."
Dorcas turned toward the door, grabbing for the handle. "Let me know if you think I'll be able to help."
"I will."
Gideon returned to his files. Dorcas returned to the bustling pavement of Diagon Alley. She checked her wristwatch. She needed to get across town to pick up Wren from a playdate at Anneliese and Beau's house. There was no time for Muggle conventions like taxis.
She Apparated in the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron.
:::
31 December, 1939 Strattondale, Poplar, London
Dorcas sat picking out a tune carefully, concentrating on the music in front of her. She was glad to have a mentally stimulating distraction from the guilt she felt over her uncle's accident.
An owl had arrived nearly a week ago with a lovely Christmas card addressed to her mother and a thin package addressed to Dorcas. Opening the package, Dorcas found a piece of sheet music with her grandmother's signature in the top left hand corner. It was yellowing and obviously old.
'Fantasia in C Minor', a short note accompanying the music explained, was Liesel Rackharrow's favorite piece to play.
Picking out the tune clumsily on the piano, Dorcas could tell that her mum remembered the piece played by her own mother often.
The note, the music, the Christmas card were all sent by her Uncle Lysander. She found this to be a kind gesture, like giving her the piano. Her mother was less convinced of her brother's altruism.
Still, Mary-Ellen would not begrudge her daughter a Christmas gift from her uncle. Nor, would it seem, did she begrudge herself or Morty the opportunity to listen to a favorite tune of their mother's. Though, Dorcas thought regretfully, Morty wouldn't remember his mother's playing. She had died when he was born.
Dorcas looked to her mother, sitting on the couch, Morty's bandaged head in her lap. Her uncle laid quietly with his sister, one hand clutching a green paper crane as he napped. Mary-Ellen was as good as a mother to Morty, Dorcas supposed. He had lived with them as long as she could remember. Growing up, it was always just the three of them. Morty was like an older brother; and in some ways, like a younger brother to her as well.
She mused about her mother and the mysterious rift between her and Morty and the rest of the Rackharrow clan.
Curiosity got the better of her.
"Mum?" Dorcas asked quietly, tentatively. She stopped playing.
"Hmm?" Mary-Ellen said, her gaze had been far away until Dorcas spoke.
Dorcas took a breath and then forged ahead. "Why does Morty live with us and not Uncle Lysander? And why do you hate Uncle Lysander? And why can't Morty do magic like the rest of us?" It all came out in a rush.
Dorcas had never pressed her mother with these questions before. She only knew what she had been able to cobble together from the bits of memory that she'd picked up in her mother's mind.
Mary-Ellen looked down at Morty to make sure that he was not awake.
"Morty was due to attend Hogwarts the same year that I was due to start my last year there," she began.
Dorcas turned away from the keys and focused on her mother. She felt anticipation. Her mother did not share information about her past freely. But, to be fair, Dorcas did not often ask.
"But Morty did not receive a letter," Mary-Ellen continued. "This seemed to confirm to my father what he'd always feared: his youngest child was not magical."
Dorcas nodded in understanding. "He's a Squib? That's what magical people call non-magical offspring of witches and wizards."
Mary-Ellen nodded patiently. "That's right. But Morty was in every other respect just a normal, healthy child."
Dorcas was confused by this statement. She had always assumed that her uncle's inability to perform magic was linked to the fits of seizures that he regularly suffered.
"Sometimes," Mary-Ellen explained. "Children will exhibit signs of magical ability long before they ever receive their first wand or any sort of formal instruction. Sometimes they don't. You didn't show any outward signs of magic before you received your letter."
Dorcas nodded, accepting this logic. She didn't perform any magic before attending Hogwarts, it's true. However, she did begin to hear the thoughts of others about three years ago.
"Your grandfather was the sort of wizard that subscribed to some very outdated ideas about blood and magic. To this sort of wizard, blood purity is paramount. They believe that only wizards and witches who have pureblood parents should be able to attend magical schools. They believe that Muggle-borns should not be educated, that they have no birthright to perform magic. They would see a non-magical child as a stain on the family; an impurity of the bloodline."
Dorcas thought of many students at school who could be described as sharing some of these tenets.
"I believe your grandfather thought that Morty was not his son. But he was unfailingly loyal to your grandmother. So I don't believe he would ever have voiced his beliefs out loud. He would never betray her memory in that way. But he could never love Morty as a true child of his."
Mary-Ellen stroked her brother's hair gently. Dorcas imagined that Mary-Ellen had been filling in the role of mother for Morty all of his life.
"In those days," she continued with a harder edge to her voice. "Pureblood families paid a lot of money to have non-magical children hidden away. I didn't find out that my father had sent Morty away until I had completed my schooling at Hogwarts. Places like Wingate Institution do not exist to help people. They exist to make problems go away for people who are willing to pay."
"Did they hurt him?" Dorcas asked in a whisper. She believed she knew the answer. She had seen the place that her mother was describing in a memory that she had accidentally projected to Dorcas years ago.
Mary-Ellen nodded sadly. "They used horrible curses on the children they were supposed to be helping. When a child didn't do what they were told, they would force them to comply with magic. They would punish them with magic. Torture them."
Dorcas looked at her uncle, asleep on the couch. He was a very gentle person. Dorcas had always felt fiercely protective of him. She'd bloodied the nose of a neighbor boy who had mocked Morty once.
"Using magic of that sort repeatedly causes permanent damage to the brain. Forcing the brain to carry out tasks, forcing it to feel pain that isn't really there," Mary-Ellen trailed off, casting about for an analogy. "It's like taking a record and scratching grooves into it. The record is permanently damaged by the repeated gouging. It will never play the melody that it was designed to play again."
Dorcas understood her uncle more completely now than she ever had. "That's why he has seizures."
"Yes," Mary-Ellen confirmed. "His nervous system is permanently impaired. He has reasoning and processing difficulties." Mary-Ellen trailed off once more.
She looked at Dorcas. "I wish you had known him before he was dumped in that place. He was brilliant, curious, musical." Mary-Ellen paused and wiped a tear from her cheek. "He was very much like you."
Dorcas felt sad about this and at the same time furious at her late grandfather. How could he send his own son off to be tortured? Did her Uncle Lysander know about it?
"That's why you hate your brother," Dorcas said. "Uncle Lysander," she clarified.
Mary-Ellen was stroking Morty's hair around his bandages. She looked up at Dorcas.
"I don't hate my brother," she answered definitively. "It's true that he did very little to get Morty out of that place. He refused to believe that it was as bad as I described."
"You're always so angry when he comes by," Dorcas argued.
"I find it hard to forget the past. I find it hard to forgive him for not stepping in. He was always so eager to please father. But he tries to make amends," Mary-Ellen conceded. "He pays for Morty's caretaker to look after him when I'm at work. He pays for your tuition." She shook her head. "But money doesn't cover for his part in destroying his brother's future."
Mary-Ellen appeared as if she wanted to say more but there was a knock at the door at that moment. She looked to Dorcas who hopped lightly from the piano bench and opened the door. Morty stirred and opened his eyes at the sound.
Dorcas saw her upstairs neighbor, Betty Balfour standing in the hall with a fruitcake. She looked quite different now than she had when Dorcas caught her on the stairs a week ago and pleaded with her to call for help. Today she wore wide legged denim trousers and a burgundy jumper. Her blond hair was tied in a scarf and she wore very little makeup. Dorcas noted that she looked just as beautiful now as she had dolled up for the club.
"Hello," Dorcas said, smiling.
Mary-Ellen appeared behind Dorcas. "Ms. Balfour. How nice of you to visit."
Betty had a sunny smile that crinkled her cornflower blue eyes. "Merry Christmas, a little late, I fear. I didn't want to call on you too soon. I know you've all had a trying time."
Her American accent was charming to Dorcas.
"Please come in," Mary-Ellen said, gesturing to the chair beside the piano.
"I baked something for you all," Betty said, holding out the white plate with the fruitcake. "Oh! What a beautiful instrument!"
Mary-Ellen took the plate from Betty, who walked directly to the piano, lovingly stroking the keys. Dorcas liked Betty all the more for fawning over her piano.
Betty turned away from it and noticed Morty sitting on the couch, quietly folding and refolding the green crane.
"And how are you feeling, honey?" Betty asked Morty with a familiarity that confused Dorcas.
"Fine," Morty answered, one hand trailed up to his bandage and he began to scratch. Dorcas sat close beside her uncle and took his hand away from the bandage, holding onto it.
Betty must have noticed the confusion on Dorcas's face.
"Morty and I like to wait for the postman together," she explained. "We're old friends. I was sorry to hear of your accident. I've been worried about you, sweetie." She winked playfully at Morty.
Morty blushed.
Mary-Ellen bustled over with a tray of tea things and slices of Betty's fruitcake.
"Morty's getting stronger everyday," Mary-Ellen said confidently, sitting next to Dorcas on the couch. She passed tea and cake around.
"Glad to hear that!" Betty said with a warm smile. "I need my post companion back. It's lonely waiting for mail by myself."
Dorcas instinctively tightened her grip around Morty's hand. She felt as if Betty was angling to replace her as Morty's friend while Dorcas was off at school. She reasoned that, of course, Morty would need to have companions outside of his family, but they didn't need to be glamorous companions. Dorcas was beginning to notice how similar in age Betty was to Morty. A more fitting friend for her uncle than a twelve-year-old kid.
Morty pulled his hand from Dorcas's grip, displeased with her restraining grasp. He refolded the paper crane in his lap once more and handed it to Betty.
"For me, honey?" Betty looked delighted. She set her saucer and cup delicately on her knees and took the gift. "I don't think I have a green one yet. I'll put him with the others when I get back upstairs."
"Thank you, Ms. Balfour," Mary-Ellen said, sipping tea. "I am grateful that you were able to help Dorcas and Morty that night."
Betty looked embarrassed by the heartfelt thanks. "It was nothing. All I did was ring for the ambulance."
"That made all the difference," Mary-Ellen argued earnestly.
Betty blushed and hid it with a sip of her tea. "I've often heard music coming from this flat. Who plays?"
"Dorcas," Mary-Ellen said, looking at her daughter with pride.
"Not very well," Dorcas added. "I'm just learning."
"Well, you're off to a very good start from what I've heard!"
Dorcas looked down at her tea. She wished she was infinitely better at playing than she was.
Betty looked to Dorcas with encouragement. "Would you play something for me?"
Dorcas blushed. She looked to her mother.
Mary-Ellen smiled and nudged her, taking her saucer and cup. "Go on. You're better than you think."
Dorcas crossed the room and sat at the keys. She thought about playing the piece that was her grandmother's favorite, but was still uncertainly picking out the melody and plodding slowly through the notes. She decided instead to play 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' from memory.
Betty soon joined her. Dorcas enjoyed adding embellishments and riffs along with the musician and singer. Soon, all four of them were singing spiritedly along.
"Ooh! What's this?" Betty asked, pulling Liesle's Bach from the music stand and examining it.
Dorcas swallowed. "It was a Christmas present. It belonged to my grandmother. I'm not good on that one yet."
"Let's try it," Betty said, nudging Dorcas playfully.
"Okay." Dorcas was disarmed by her cheerful smile.
She became more at ease when Betty scrunched her nose up and proclaimed the piece to be a real challenge.
"Dorcas could benefit from lessons," Mary-Ellen chimed in.
Dorcas was picking out the left hand while Betty took the right.
"She's got the basics of the instrument and it's clear that she can read music," Betty agreed. "But she could definitely do with some proper technique."
Dorcas became excited at the prospect of learning to play properly. Her earlier jealousy of Betty usurping her place as her uncle's best friend evaporated.
"Would you teach me, Betty?" Dorcas asked, brightly.
"It wouldn't take much instruction at all to get you up to scratch," Betty said, continuing to pick out her part of the melody. "Let's start now."
Betty pointed out a few places in the music that could be problematic for Dorcas's smaller hands. They practiced these bits a few times.
By the time that Betty stood to leave, Dorcas could play the piece straight through, only stumbling once or twice.
"Tomorrow we can do some pedal work," Betty announced.
Dorcas nodded eagerly. "Thank you!"
"Sure, honey," Betty said with a smile. "Morty, maybe we can go for a walk tomorrow. Fresh air would do you some good."
Mary-Ellen agreed and showed Betty to the door.
:::
12 October, 1957 Wizengamot Courtroom 2, Ministry of Magic, London
Theresa Allen was arguing with Steven Muybridge, pleading for him to leave the house quickly and quietly. She explained frantically that Jim would be home any minute and that Billy was asleep upstairs.
You could see the realization in her face when Theresa finally understood that Steven had no intention of leaving; was even eager for a confrontation with her husband.
Dorcas, Gideon, the Child Advocate Counsel, a court reporter, and five Wizengamot Family Court Judges stood on the periphery in silence as the scene unfolded. This was the final memory in a gamut of scenes they had all patiently watched play out.
Jim Allen walked through the door a moment later.
A beat.
Jim spoke. "Theresa? Who is this?" He was confused.
Theresa was tearful. "No one. H-he was just l-leaving." She stared at Steven defiantly.
Steven reached out and grabbed Theresa's wrist, twisting.
She cried out and stumbled.
"Tell him," Steven spat at her. "Tell him you're leaving him."
Jim was more confused than ever. "Theresa? What is he talking about? You're leaving me?" Jim was hurt and bewildered. He looked pointedly at Steven's firm grip on Theresa's wrist and drew his wand.
"No," Theresa gasped. "I'm not leaving you." She looked at Steven, "You are leaving. Get out."
Steven had quick reflexes. Jim had barely raised his wand when Steven had cast the spell that disarmed him.
Theresa struggled, but managed to pull her arm from Steven's grasp. He reached for her and tore her sleeve instead.
She raised her own wand to defend herself and her husband. Her hand trembled. "I said get out, Steven."
"Look, I don't know who you are," Jim said, standing next to his wife. "We have money, some valuables. I'll show you where. Just let my wife and boy leave first." He was inching closer to his wife's side.
To Theresa, Jim instructed, "Get Billy and get out of here."
"No," Theresa argued. "This is my fault."
Jim reached for Theresa's wand. Steven anticipated this action and disarmed him again.
"Theresa," Steven spoke slowly and patiently. "We discussed this. You want to be with me. You don't want this life anymore. It's all planned."
Theresa was shaking her head violently.
The look of confusion on Jim's face was renewed. "What is this psychopath talking about?"
Before Theresa could open her mouth to answer Jim there was a flash of green and Jim crumpled beside Theresa.
"No!" Theresa screamed, collapsing over Jim's prone form. "You've killed him?"
"Mummy?" a little voice called from the stairs. Theresa's head whipped in the direction of the voice. Billy was on the stairs. The commotion had woken him from his nap.
Like a flash, Theresa jumped to her feet and lunged forward placing herself between her son and Steven.
"Don't you hurt him," she said. Hands in rigid claws, she struck out at him.
Steven backhanded her effortlessly across the face, the force of the blow causing her to fall over Jim's lifeless body.
"Steven, please," Theresa begged. Her nose was bloody, her eyes streaming.
Steven Muybridge approached the child who stared wide eyed at his mother and father on the ground.
He lifted his wand to the spot between Billy's eyes. "Obliviate."
The child sat on the stairs with a vacant expression and watched the scene with disinterest.
Steven walked calmly over to Theresa, who still lay sprawled over her husband.
"Theresa, love," he said in a patronizing voice. "You should have followed the plan. This wouldn't have happened." He gestured to Jim, lying on the floor, eyes staring, dead. "This is all your fault."
He pulled her to her feet and led her to the couch. Theresa was still sobbing uncontrollably.
Steven turned back to Jim and tossed the wand he'd taken from him on the ground next to him. Pointing his own wand at the ceiling, Steven said, "Expulso." The ceiling collapsed on top of Jim's body.
Steven returned to Theresa, sitting on the couch next to her and took her trembling face in one hand, turning her chin so that she was forced to look at him. With the other hand, he lifted his wand to her temple. "Obliviate."
Theresa's eyes went vacant like her son's. She stopped crying, stopped trembling.
"Riviso" Steven continued.
:::
The massive Pensieve that the court employed for memory testimony was stored once more below the flagstone floor in front of the Wizengamot witness chair. The judges, court reporter, counselor, and Dorcas returned to their seats.
Gideon alone remained standing.
"You've seen two sets of memories," he stated, recapping the experience for the judges, for good measure. "One, a narrative expertly tailored by a controlling and manipulative man. A man who stalked my client for two and a half years. A man who killed my client's husband and then framed her, the woman he claimed to love. The other, a true narrative of events as they actually played out months ago in the Allen home."
Gideon looked at Dorcas and nodded almost imperceptibly.
Dorcas nodded back. She was up. Time to go over the technical and medical details.
"I call Dr. Dorcas Clerey-Meadows to come forward and give testimony relevant to the innocence of my client, Theresa Allen."
Dorcas stood and moved around the wooden divider that separated the gallery seating from the counsel and the witness seating. Dorcas sat in the witness chair, her back ramrod straight. She was clad in a dark navy wool suit jacket and skirt. She knew that it was customary to wear robes at the Wizengamot. But she was not a conventional witness. She was a practicing psychiatrist-a Muggle profession. But she was also a qualified Healer. Like many other aspects of her life, she lived in both worlds simultaneously and never conformed to the prescribed rules for either of them.
"State your name and profession for the record."
Dorcas spoke clearly and authoritatively. "Dr. Dorcas Clerey-Meadowes. I am a clinical psychiatrist and a Healer at St. Mungo's Hospital."
"Where did you earn the qualifications for these professions, Dr. Meadowes?" Gideon led her down an expected line of questioning.
"I trained at Columbia University in New York. I also completed a residency at Mount Sinai Hospital, New York. I earned the requisite NEWTs for my Healer's Certification from Hogwarts."
"And you consult on cases of Memory Modification?"
"Occasionally," Dorcas answered. "In America I worked with the New York City Police Department as well as for MACUSA."
"Both Muggle and Magical institutions. I would gather that you are rather well versed in both Wizarding and Non-Wizarding theories of the mind and of memories."
"I am." Dorcas stated confidently.
"Tell me," Gideon asked, changing his line of questions from her profession to her observations about Theresa. "What were your impressions about Theresa Allen when she first came into your office."
"I observed a woman deep in the grief of losing her husband." Dorcas looked in Theresa's direction. She looked small and pale in this dark, wood paneled, masculine space.
"A husband that she believed she'd been responsible for killing?"
"Yes," Dorcas agreed. "I believe that made coming to terms with his death all the more difficult for Mrs. Allen."
"Tell me about your approach with memory investigation."
"I questioned Theresa extensively about her relationship with her husband, Jim. I worked backwards from the memory that she had of his death to some of her earliest memories of him. I analyzed these memories and began to notice a pattern of inconsistencies in the later memories that did not exist in the earlier ones."
"What were these inconsistencies?"
Dorcas looked at the five judges who had been observing and listening patiently. "Perhaps you noticed some of them yourselves. There was an obvious glitch. A hiccup in the movements of the people in the altered memories. There was also the same phantom smell. Cigarettes and cologne. You would have noticed these traits were also present in the unaltered memories and were clearly associated with Theresa's boyfriend, Steven Muybridge."
Three of the judges nodded in agreement. They had picked up on some of the same signs.
"Tell me about the serum that you've developed to uncover true memories that have been revised using the Memory Charm Riviso," Gideon directed.
"The Ex-Nebulae Elixir is a potion that I developed with my husband while practicing psychiatry in America."
"And can anyone take the elixir if they believe that they've had their memories tampered with?"
Dorcas shook her head emphatically. "No. That would be dangerous. It must be focused carefully on a specific memory. I would only attempt this with a patient when I've confirmed a memory has been tampered with."
"By observing a glitch?"
"Yes," Dorcas continued. "Unaltered memories play through one's mind without interruption. They can be recalled and played back perfectly. Even if a person is skilled in memory modification, there will be a signature left behind. A slowing down of a motion, a skipping of a frame, missing dialogue, something out of place."
Gideon nodded. Dorcas could tell that he was mentally ticking off key points in his mind.
"And what happens if the elixir is applied to memories that have not been altered?"
"Memory loss," Dorcas listed. "Numbness on the left side of one's body, a loss of fine motor skills. It's similar to the effects of a prolonged Memory Charm on the brain itself. Similar to the effects of prolonged use of many other COCs."
"COCs?" Gideon probed.
"Compulsory Operational Curses. Curses and charms that take over the nervous system. Obliviate, Riviso, Stupefy, The Unforgivable Curses. If used repeatedly, these spells can damage neurological functions permanently."
"So the Ex-Nebulae Elixir must be carefully administered by a Healer and only on a confirmed memory revision?" Gideon clarified.
"Indeed."
"Thank you Dr. Meadowes," Gideon took his seat.
She wondered if the Child Advocate Counsel would have many questions for her.
The black robed gentleman with a graying ponytail and stubble stood and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
He came to stand a few feet from where Dorcas was seated.
"Dr. Meadowes," he began. "What is your professional opinion of Mrs. Allen's fitness as a mother?"
"I've had a lot of time to get the measure of Mrs. Allen's character. She loves her son. She loved her husband. Steven Muybridge manipulated her feelings and used magic to control her. I believe she would do anything to get her son back. And I believe she is a good mother."
The Child Advocate Counsel nodded as she spoke. "Child Advocates want the child to be with their parents when possible and appropriate. The memories that you've collected are compelling. I believe they confirm that Mrs. Allen is no threat to her son's safety." He swivelled and faced the five judges seated opposite Dorcas. "I am inclined to grant the petition of custody to Mrs. Allen."
The gray ponytailed wizard next looked to Gideon. "I will recommend that Mrs. Allen petition the courts immediately for an order of restraint to be sworn against Muybridge."
"It will be filed immediately," Gideon agreed.
One of the five judges, all of whom had been silent throughout the entire preceding, finally spoke. A dark haired and pale man with black eyes. "The petition for custody is so granted."
Theresa let out a cry and clapped her hands to her mouth.
Gideon rose with an order of restraint in his hands for the judges to sign against Steven Muybridge. This would ensure that he would be kept away from Theresa's house and place of employment. It was an empty gesture, really. Before the end of the day, an order for his arrest for murder would be filed as well. The last place Steven Muybridge would want to turn up was near Theresa or her son.
Dorcas stood and left the witness stand. She was buoyant. It felt damn good to help someone who needed her.
A/N: Reviews are welcome and appreciated.
