Chapter 13

23 February, 1940 Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas sat flipping through the Wingate book again, then tossed it aside in irritation. She knew its contents by heart. The hospital had begun its life as a monastery in which the ascestics treated the ailments of the neighboring community, wizard and Muggle alike. The monks were all wizards as best as Dorcas could tell. In the sixteenth century, that all changed with the ebb and flow of historical tides. The Protestant Reformation swept the continent in the first decades of the century, but took a bit longer to catch on in England. Aided by the motives of Henry VIII, come to England it did.

The healers of Saint Jerome of Wingate continued to practice their healing until it became clear that the community would no longer tolerate the "devil's art". The non-magical members of the community being so solicitous of the Church's prescription to earning heaven, they turned on the benevolent brothers. The ensuing decades in which England turned Protestant and then Catholic, and then to Protestantism once more had left the community surrounding the hospital blood-poor in magical abilities. Wizarding kind all over Europe erected enchantments and illusions to keep them veiled from the destructive whims of Muggles. The age of magical and non-magical association came to a violent end.

Wingate stood. It survived the Protestant purges against the glut of land and wealth held by the papacy in England. This was accomplished in no small part, by a scheme of the remaining community of healers who warded the hospital against Muggle eyes and painstakingly erased the hospital's deeds and reputation from the collective conscience of the people. Muggles saw a parochial school, complete with teachers and pupils, sans magic of any type. But the magical healers of Saint Jerome's continued to practice their arts on the dwindling population of witches and wizards living there.

Apart from the larger healing facility in London, named for another sainted healer, Saint Jerome's gained a reputation over the next few centuries as a conservatory where wizards skilled in healing the mind of magical maladies could practice without restraint or reproof. By the end of the eighteenth century, its reputation among the pureblood families as a place where shameful genetic inconsistencies of their gene pool could be hidden away from the judgement of other purebloods was cemented. Thus, Wingate's evolution to an institution of neglect and torture was solidified in the British Wizarding community.

How many other places like Wingate existed in the world? She became uneasy when her mind turned to comparisons between the community she lived in and the society that had evolved on the continent under the regime of the National Socialist leader. But, the voice of the Fuhrer was inescapable by radio or newsprint, and the ideology that Dorcas had heard him to profess singled other groups out for separation just as the magical community seemed to single out Squibs here in Britain.

Dorcas abandoned that line of thought. It made her shudder to ponder the comparison in great detail. Instead, her mind turned to the mystery of the hospital's location. She'd spent weeks scanning every periodical that the Hogwarts library contained searching for some mention of a hospital with such a storied history. There was not one word in the publications about the good healers and their charges. No mention at all of where the hospital was located. She could not accept the termination of her quest to uncover the reasons for her uncle's suffering.

She sat with a great medical tome open at her table, under the lamp in the library once more. Having failed to uncover anything further about the establishment or the community in which it was positioned, Dorcas turned instead to the possible treatments the doctors had used on their wretched patients. The Wingate book was frustratingly scant on details of the spells themselves, although exhaustive in recounting the torture that was inflicted by them.

"At it again?" Tom asked, taking his usual seat next to her. He had another dusty genealogy in his arms.

"You too?" Dorcas rejoined, eyeing the book.

He did not respond, but sat and opened the cover and began his quest. Dorcas continued hers. They sojourned in companionable silence.

:::

23-24 February, 1940 Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas would have protested the location of tonight's castle exploration if Tom had told her where they were going. The gusty wind bit at her cheeks and made her eyes water. Tom was prepared, having stashed some of the quilts from the floor of his den in the secret seventh floor hideout into a niche along the tower's winding stairs.

She could not fault his logic. They had begun to operate on the theory that Tom was unable to read Dorcas's thoughts because of the powerful enchantments that the Founders, and also subsequent generations of educators, had layered into the stone walls and foundations of the school. The last couple of times Dorcas and Tom met to practice these abilities, they were in Tom's hideout, warm under the blankets. Dorcas's passing comment about how Tom needed to focus in order to overcome her mind's barriers had given him the idea. They had brainstormed locations on the grounds, the Astronomy Tower being the least objectionable of the list. Dorcas flat refused a midnight stroll through the Forbidden Forest.

Sheltered against the crenelated wall of the tallest tower at Hogwarts, Dorcas wrapped in one of the dusty blankets, she leaned against Tom's chest and his back bore the freezing contact with the wall. There was no denying that it was an especially cold night. Even Tom had a quilt thrown about his shoulders.

Settled as she was between Tom's legs, a blanket and his arms wrapped around her, she still could not stop shaking. This only abated when Tom took out his wand and muttered an incantation. The blankets became deliciously heated, and Dorcas found that she could relax; the reflexive trembling stopped almost immediately.

Dorcas's eyes became heavy as she focused on the rhythmic rise and fall of Tom's chest behind her, the sound of his breath close to her ear. She had fallen into a terrible habit of lapsing into a search of Tom's mind before an invitation was given.

He was warm and complacent, focused on how Dorcas felt in his arms; the scent of her hair that brushed his cheek.

Dorcas smiled to herself, thankful that Tom was yet a novice and could not readily traverse the barrier of her mind.

"Why are you interested in that hospital, Birdie," Tom asked, pulling Dorcas out of her sleepy trance.

"Hmm?" Dorcas said. She'd not heard the question, only Tom's voice breaking the silence.

"The hospital in that book you carry around." He shifted so that the blanket around him covered her too. "Why are you interested in it?"

Dorcas thought about where to begin. "Have I told you about my family?"

Tom thought for a moment. "I know that you live with your mother. You've mentioned her before. She works at St. Mungo's. You have two cousins, Gemma and Jonas. They're in my house but you were sorted into Ravenclaw. You don't seem too close to them." The scant inventory complete, Dorcas realized that she never mentioned Morty to Tom at all.

"I live with my mother and her little brother, my uncle, Morty," she explained. "My mother's older brother is Gemma and Jonas's father. My mum doesn't get along with him very well. And, you're right, I'm not close to my cousins. I've spoken to Jonas because we have classes together. But I've never said a word to Gemma."

Tom listened and took in every detail. "It strikes me as odd that one could have a blood connection to another person, but live a completely separate existence in which you never speak."

Dorcas, wanting to defend her family dynamic, almost pointed out to Tom that having no relatives, he couldn't possibly understand. Never wishing to wound him, as this comment surely would have, she bit back the words.

Instead, she continued her tale, shedding some light onto the estrangement between the two sides of the Rackharrows. "My grandfather, Titus, was embarrassed to have a son like my Uncle Morty because he isn't magical. He sent him to that place when my uncle didn't receive a Hogwarts letter."

Tom inhaled sharply. He'd read the book. He knew what Wingate Institution did to children who were sent there.

"And your grandmother? Did she try to stop him?"

Dorcas shook her head. "She might have done. But she died when Morty was born."

It was easy to feel Tom's thoughts as he reacted to this. He had sympathy for Morty. Dorcas inspected his emotions closer and realized that the feeling was commiseration. Tom's mother had died upon his birth as well. Dorcas remembered that he'd once explained that he'd been at the orphanage as long as he could remember.

In response to this recollection, Dorcas snuggled closer to Tom, her hand finding his arm wrapped around her and squeezed it gently. His reply was to press his lips gently to her temple.

"He spent less than a year there before his sister got him out. He came to live with her. But he was changed."

"How so?" Tom asked.

"Whatever spells they used on the children in that place…" Dorcas tried to explain without fully knowing herself. It was frustrating. "My uncle has trouble understanding things. He's twelve years older than me, but his mind is still like a child's. And he has these horrible seizures." Dorcas trailed off with a shudder, recalling the worst episode in December when her uncle had ended up in the hospital.

Tom squeezed her tighter when she shuddered, believing her to be cold still.

"Like epilepsy?"

Dorcas nodded.

"So what are you going to do with the information you're gathering?"

The question stumped Dorcas. What did she intend to do when she got her answers? She didn't think it likely that she would ever be able to help her uncle recover in any significant way. She knew that the place that had injured him was shut down. Maybe she was just driven by simply wanting to know.

"What about your research? Have you found any relatives?" Dorcas asked because she didn't know how to answer him.

"None. But I don't have a lot to go on. Mrs. Cole, she runs the orphanage. She was there the night my mother showed up on the orphanage steps."

'What did Mrs. Cole tell you?" Dorcas asked, curious. She didn't know a lot about Tom outside of Hogwarts and was eager to gain any insight into him.

"She never told me anything," Tom responded. "But I broke into her office one night. I found her gin and I found my file."

Dorcas smiled to herself. She pictured a wayward little Tom sneaking about the orphanage, just as he snuck around the school.

"What was in the file?" Dorcas prompted.

"My name, birthdate, some other details that she'd remembered when my mother came there. She died not long after I was born. I don't even know her name. And that's the end of that."

That was, indeed, little to go on.

"What were the details she remembered about your mum?" She felt Tom shrug in response to her question.

"That it was her request that I have the name of my father and her father," he said simply.

"They were both named Tom?" Dorcas thought that this could be a serious barrier to making progress on finding Tom's family line. Tom was such a common name.

"No," Tom explained. "My father is Tom, her father is Marvolo. Riddle is my father's surname, I suppose. I don't even know if he was married to my mother. And then, Mrs. Cole had written down one curious thing my mother had said: I hope he looks like his father."

Dorcas thought about this last detail for a moment, wondering if Tom's mother got her dying wish. Did Tom resemble his father or mother? How would they ever know?

"I've looked for the name Riddle in all of the wizarding genealogies. I've looked at every award and plaque in the Trophy Room. I'm sure my father was magical, or is magical. I don't know if he's even alive anymore."

Dorcas could detect a note of frustration in his voice.

"How can you be certain?"

"I can't. It's just a feeling. My mother couldn't have been magical. If she were, she could have used magic to keep herself alive. She wouldn't have collapsed at an orphanage and then just left me there."

Dorcas didn't have to search Tom's mind to feel the sense of abandonment that came with this statement.

"I'm sorry, Tom," Dorcas whispered.

In answer, Tom held her closer and rested his chin on the top of her head. It was a long while until either one spoke. Dorcas was struck with a thought.

"Maybe you're the first magical member of your family," Dorcas said. She could tell instantly that Tom did not like this theory all that well. His arms stiffened around her.

He answered with a hollow, "Maybe." That was the end of the discussion of Tom's family tree for the moment.

"Can you try to push out with your thoughts?" Tom asked Dorcas, changing the subject to reading minds.

"You mean like when you talk to me with your mind?" Dorcas asked, adjusting the blanket wrapped around her, pulled up to her chin. She considered this question. "I could try."

She picked a completely mundane memory of Potions class yesterday and the lecture on Aconite that Slughorn had given. She pictured the thought being cast free of her mind and out into the space ahead of her. As she concentrated mightily on this task, she could not push aside all of Tom's thoughts that vied for her attention. Some thoughts were ones that'd she'd seen before, many others were new.

Dorcas could see the snake in the tall grass talking to Tom when he was with the other children at the orphanage outing. She saw a rabbit hanging from the rafters of a large dormitory with rows of beds. A stern woman (Mrs. Cole, she presumed), shouting at Tom, demanding to know how the rabbit had gotten up there. Tom shrugged and said he couldn't get into the rafters, so how should he know.

If the sight of a hanged rabbit hadn't unsettled Dorcas, the next image would. She had returned to the seaside. She spun and saw to her left the windswept cliff and below that, the cave mouth that she had entered as Tom. But a loud hissing pulled her attention from the black cavern and she spun to her right in alarm. The largest snake that Dorcas had ever seen was approaching Tom.

Just as she had done when she saw the small serpent talking to Tom during the outing to the countryside, she wanted to call out to Tom in warning now. But she found that she couldn't. The snake was immense. Dorcas thought of pictures of some Southeast Asian constrictors or pythons from the Amazon that she'd seen. This one was larger by far.

Tom did not seem surprised by the snake's appearance and did not exhibit the urge to flee as Dorcas would have expected from anyone who had beheld such an enormous predator. Instead, Tom spoke to it. It hissed back. They conversed.

Dorcas was seeing the inside of the cave from Tom's vantage point once more. As he may have done, Dorcas turned and spoke to two children who clamored over rocks that were slick with sea water and vegetation. She had known their identity, because she'd seen them in Tom's mind before. And, she reasoned, she was Tom now. Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop. She knew things about them, because Tom knew things about them. Amy Benson tattled to Mrs. Cole when she saw Tom stealing from the new kid, Dennis. They both needed to learn their place. They both must understand the consequences that came with disobedience.

Her words to the children were drowned out by the roaring waves below them. She was unafraid of either Amy or Dennis slipping and falling. If they did, it was just as well. Call it natural retribution. But nature claimed no victims on the craggy cliff that night. Dorcas led the boy and girl deeper into blackness. She heard the angry sea receding, but another sound growing louder. It was her own voice (Tom's voice). But he spoke no words, only a series of hissing sounds. The striking serpent came out of the void unexpectedly. Dorcas jumped in her own skin and felt adrenaline course through her, but in Tom's skin she was calm and knew to expect the snake's lunge.

Behind her Amy and Dennis fell over one another and raced for the cave's opening, screaming in terror. Dorcas was screaming in terror as well.

Dorcas was being shaken forcefully, her head snapping backward and forward with the violent motion. She blinked and the cave, the children, the snake were no longer before her eyes. Instead, Tom's panic-stricken face was inches from her.

"Do you want to wake the entire school?" he said through gritted teeth.

Dorcas's screams died out immediately and Tom threw her backward against the stone wall and stood up.

"What's wrong with you?" He spat the question with disdain.

Dorcas stumbled, blankets twisted around her feet. She stood and tried to explain in a low and quavering voice.

"Amy and Dennis," she began, her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart was beating furiously.

Tom rounded on her. His eyes flashed and he was furious. His hand shot out as Dorcas recoiled from him and he caught her wrist. With one deft and powerful jerk, he twisted her arm, forcing her to her knees to take pressure off of the bones that were threatening to snap.

"What did you say?" Tom stood over her, a whitehot anger radiating from him.

Dorcas felt tears on her cheeks, the wind turning them cold before they fell. She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Somehow, she knew that to lie to Tom would mean pain far worse than her throbbing arm knew in this moment.

Instead, Dorcas employed a rarely-used, but innate trait of hers. Unlike her ability to see into the minds of others, Tom knew nothing of it. She could influence the moods of others. But, unlike her ability to see thoughts, she could reign this ability in and use it in moderation. Her Uncle Morty was the only soul she had ever influenced in this way. She would use it now and again when he became agitated.

Tom twisted her arm mercilessly. Dorcas cried out, but this only increased the pressure Tom applied. She knew that he was relishing her pain.

"What did you just try to do to me?" he said, his voice calm but threatening.

Dorcas felt something in her arm snap. She cried out again. "Nothing," she gasped, her vision began to swim.

"Don't lie," Tom commanded. For good measure, he slapped her across the face with the hand that did not clutch her broken wrist.

Dorcas tasted blood. "I'm trying to calm you." Every word Dorcas spoke pulled at her split lip and made it throb.

Finally, he released her broken wrist. The pressure of his fingers at last gone, she could feel a sharp pain near the fracture, but only the faintest pin pricks in her fingertips. She tried to flex her hand, but it wouldn't obey her and rested limply in her lap.

Tom was crouching in front of her. He grabbed her face with the hand that had just snapped her wrist. Squeezing hard, he forced her to look at him.

"Let's try this again," he said, that calm voice that belied a tempest beneath the surface sent a chill down Dorcas's spine. He was inches from her face, his breath and hers mingling in visible vapor in the freezing air of the Astronomy Tower. "What did you see? Why did you say the names Amy and Dennis?"

Dorcas was terrified. She would not attempt to evade Tom again, but she didn't want to describe to him the disturbing scene that she'd witnessed either.

"I won't ask you again," he warned.

"A cave, a snake, you, two other children."

It was enough of a confirmation that she'd seen something that Tom intended for no one to see, by the way he pushed her backward with the hand that held her face to his. But as Dorcas fell backward over the tangle of blankets around her ankles, Tom was instantly on top of her, pinning her down. His hands grasped her upper arms in a vice grip, fingers digging into her flesh even though she wore a thick jumper. His legs were on either side of hers, restraining them.

"Do not look into my mind, Birdie," he ordered. To make his point perfectly clear, he emphasized it by shaking her. Dorcas's head hit the stone of the rooftop observatory floor once and then again. The third time Tom threw her back against the stone she saw stars. And then nothing.

:::

24 February, 1940 First Year Girls' Dormitory, Ravenclaw Tower, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas woke to the faint light of morning coming in through the window to her left. Someone had already thrown the curtains back.

Opening her eyes invited a stabbing pain to enter her head. Sitting up brought the realization that not only her head, but her arm throbbed and stabbed as well. Trying to focus her eyes was more of an effort than it should have been. But when they did focus, she could see that her right wrist was swollen and had a ghastly purple tinge to it.

Throwing her covers off of her, Dorcas noted blandly that she was still in the clothes she had worn the night before. She paused on the edge of her bed and struggled to remember where she had gone and what she had done.

Reaching her left hand up to her pounding head, she felt that her hair was sticky and matted in the back. When she pulled her hand away, it was bloody. She blinked and did not remember how she came to have a head injury and, she couldn't be certain, but it felt like a broken wrist.

Placing her feet on the floor, Dorcas paused before shifting her weight forward. She was not altogether confident that her legs could support her. She breathed heavily to stave off a wave of nausea that came on her suddenly.

She finally gave her legs the full weight of the rest of her and swayed for a moment, but stayed upright. Scanning the room, aware that her appearance would invite gasps and solicitations about her well being, she was relieved to find that she was alone. Turning to the small clock beside her bed, she saw that it was half past ten.

Dorcas's mind made a painful lurch as she panicked. She had missed one class completely, though she struggled to think just exactly what class it had been. And now she was late for another. But, as much as she wanted to grab her books and race out of the dormitory, the reflection that she caught in the mirror above her bedside table told her that the prudent course of action would be to make herself presentable.

Stumbling to the trunk at the end of her bed, she tried to push back anger that she felt for her roommates. Why hadn't anyone woken her up for classes? She would have been courteous enough to do the same for any of them. She found a fresh uniform folded on the top of her trunk's contents and rushed out of the dormitory and to the girl's washroom. The effort at normal motion of any kind was impared by blurred vision and vertigo. But she managed to find the right door and push through it.

Undressing one handed was a difficult task that left her head more muddled and painful than before. Finally divesting herself of every stitch of clothing, she ducked behind the curtains of the shower. The water stung the back of her head, but the steam relieved some of the pain behind her eyes and in her wrist. She found that she could barely move the fingers of her right hand, however. This worried her. As she washed, she discovered other lesser injuries. On each of her biceps, she found dark bruises. And, on her left, in the center of a particularly dark welt, a cut in the shape of a small crescent. Placing her fingernail close to the cut, she could see that it mimicked the shape closely enough. She ran a finger over her jaw and mouth as well. Though she couldn't see them, she could feel the bruises on her chin and jaw with the slightest bit of pressure. There was a gash near the corner of her lower lip as well.

She gingerly washed her hair and stepped out of the shower, instantly chilled. Catching her reflection in the steamed mirror opposite her made her unease grow. She stooped and collected her towel from the floor beside the pile of fresh clothes, but she did not bother to dry herself and dress. Instead, she used the towel to wipe the condensation from the mirror and forced herself to inventory the injuries. She was still unable to remember anything from the night before.

She studied the bruises on her upper arms, raising her left, she pressed it over the purple and black marks on her right. Her fingers didn't quite cover them, but larger ones might. It would fit with the fingernail like marking on her left arm, which she studied now in the mirror.

Her gaze traveled up to her face. There were indeed bruises on her jaw and chin, and a dark purple mark at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darted to the cut that split her lip there.

She left the washroom after dressing and arranging her hair in a simple plait and debated what to do next. There were a couple of students milling around the common room, including her roommates June and Zelda. Bing lay on his back between the pair, having his belly scratched.

Dorcas tucked her chin into her chest, hoping that no one would comment on the state of her appearance. Pausing once more outside of the wooden door with the bronze eagle knocker, she debated once more. She should really hurry to class. But her blurred vision and the fact that she could hardly move her dominant hand left little doubt that she would be unable to carry out her studies appropriately. She swayed on the spot and placed her left hand on the wall to steady herself.

"Hey Clerey," she heard Cal's voice call conversationally. She looked in his direction blandly.

"Hey," she said, trying to sound as offhand and casual as possible.

He was with his friends, Beau Haywood and Darren Barton. She saw him address them under his breath and they departed. He crossed the hall to stand next to her.

"I had an idea," he began, holding out a letter to her, but he paused when he looked at her. "Why are you dressed like that?"

She dropped her hand from the wall and looked at her uniform. "Like what?" she asked.

"Like you're off to class," Cal clarified. Dorcas noticed that he and the other students in the hallway were not dressed similarly. Cal looked as if he had just come in from a morning spent out of doors.

In her confusion, Dorcas looked directly at Cal and cast about for an answer. But she couldn't think of one. She was spared the effort of responding when Cal inhaled sharply.

"Jesus Christ," he said, shocked. He placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. "What happened?" His hand moved from her shoulder to her neck and his thumb gently tilted her chin up to him.

A light suddenly flicked on in Dorcas's brain. As if waiting for someone to ask this very question, a memory popped into her mind of going up to the Owlery late last night. What had she been doing up there?

"I slipped on the steps going up to the Owlery last night. They were icy," Dorcas said mechanically.

Cal surveyed her bruised face and her cut lip sceptically. "You fell? Are you sure?"

Dorcas was annoyed at his disbelief. "Of course, I'm sure." She made up her mind at that moment, to go about her normal school schedule as best she could and hope that her skiving and lateness wouldn't earn her detention. "Look, I have to get to class."

"It's Sunday," Cal stated calmly, unfazed by Dorcas's sharp tone. "Did you hit your head?"

Reflexively, she lifted her hand to the back of her head, which painfully protested.

"Okay, Clerey. To the hospital wing," he ordered. He grabbed her right hand and this elicited a sharp cry from Dorcas.

Cal stepped back in surprise at her reaction and pulled his hand away quickly.

"I think it's broken," Dorcas said apologetically, holding her right hand up to Cal by way of explanation.

His only response was another sharply inhaled breath and a hand on her back, pushing her gently in the direction of the infirmary.

:::

Dorcas didn't protest when Cal guided her all the way to the sterile whitewashed rooms of the hospital wing. She wondered vaguely why she hadn't come here directly after her fall last night. It was so foolish.

At the doors, Madam Higgins hurried over, fretting about the laceration on Dorcas's lip.

Cal pointed out the more serious injury to her wrist and the concussion that he suspected.

Madam Higgins bustled Dorcas behind a screen and bade Cal wait in a chair at enough of a distance so as to preserve Dorcas's modesty and privacy. Then she carefully helped Dorcas out of her uniform. She was especially diligent as she guided Dorcas's injured right hand from its sleeve. Her kind touch reminded Dorcas of her mother. The thought made her breath catch in her throat. She wanted to be with her mother more than anyone else right now. She would have had all of the answers.

"This looks bad," Madam Higgins said, examining the wrist and the bruises on Dorcas's upper arms. "You say you fell?"

She pulled out her wand and touched it to each of the bruises. Each one in turn faded to a dull yellowish-green. The small puncture in the shape of a fingernail was closed. Then she gently held Dorcas's right arm out.

"This will sting a bit, dear," Madam Higgins warned.

Dorcas inhaled and braced herself for pain. But it was bearable. The relief that she felt after the small pop was exquisite. She closed her eyes momentarily as the dull and persistent ache in the joint faded.

"You should have come to me straight away," she admonished Dorcas, but not unkindly.

She helped Dorcas to don a crisp white nightgown and into a waiting infirmary bed. Madam Higgins examined the back of her head once she was tucked into the blankets.

"Now this is a frightful cut," she muttered to herself. To Dorcas, she added, "I can close the wound, but you likely have a concussion. It looks like you've given yourself a pretty good smack on the head."

Dorcas didn't respond. She didn't have a clear memory of what actually happened. She could not relive the scene when she tried to recall it in her mind. She had only a vague impression that it had happened.

"Now it's time for some rest," Madam Higgins pronounced, handing Dorcas a small glass with an ounce of deep blue liquid in it. "Drink," she ordered when Dorcas hesitated.

She lay back feeling instantly heavy lidded. She watched as Madam Higgins turned from her and stepped over to Cal, who sat by the door. She couldn't hear what they said but it was just as well, because she couldn't focus on their shapes. And then there was oblivion.

:::

Dorcas was in a hurry to post a letter. She couldn't say why the need was so urgent. She did not know why it had to be posted at night. She didn't know who she was sending the letter to.

None of these gaps in understanding stopped her from taking the steps to the Owlery two at a time. Her lungs protested in the cold, but she rushed on. She belatedly registered the patch of ice on the topmost steps to the landing, her foot was already sailing behind her.

She smacked the last step of the landing with her mouth, the copper taste of blood alerted her to that injury first. But as she shifted to her knees, trying to pull herself up to a standing position once more, her arm protested loudly at the effort. She tried to flex her fingers on her right hand, but they would not cooperate without an unbearable grinding of bone on bone when her tendons pulled.

Losing her footing a second time caused her to tumble backward and land face up and prostrate upon the stone. Her vision swam and tiny pricks of light danced before her before the blackness descended on her.

She woke later after an unknown amount of time had passed. Her fingers and toes were numb from the cold and her head felt as if it would split open. Managing to get to her hands and knees, she used the wall to brace her as she stood.

Somehow she had walked all the way back to Ravenclaw Tower and climbed into bed. How could she have managed it? And what happened to the letter she was in such a perilous rush to send off? Did it lay on the icy steps of the Owlery at this very moment? Had it been picked up and posted for her?

Dorcas woke with these questions swirling in her mind, but to the figure sitting next to her bed she only asked, "What time is it?"

Tom sat up, flinging his feet off of her bed where they rested as he reclined in the chair beside her. He set down the book he was reading and said, "Around six in the evening on Monday."

This should have meant something to Dorcas. Perhaps if she'd had a context that informed her of when she'd entered the hospital wing then she would have been able to gauge how long she'd been asleep.

The last thing she remembered before closing her eyes was Madam Higgins in conversation with Cal.

"Where is Cal?" she asked. He would be able to tell her how long she'd been asleep. A deep sense of panic overwhelmed her when she began to imagine how many classes and assignments she'd likely missed.

She only faintly registered the dark look that passed over Tom's face. The next moment he became solicitous.

"I don't know, Birdie," he answered. "Don't try to move. You took a nasty fall yesterday."

He stood so that he could be closer to Dorcas's bedside, taking her right hand in his. Dorcas was aware that Tom's touch should have pained her wrist, but it didn't. All of the injuries she remembered inflicting upon herself thanks to her clumsiness were now healed.

The pounding in her head contradicted her supposition. Almost all injuries had been healed.

"Do you remember what happened?" Tom asked, searching her eyes for any hint of an explanation for her banged up and bruised state.

"I went to the Owlery to post a letter," Dorcas was aware of the rehearsed quality of the response. How many people had she already answered this question for? "There was ice and I fell."

"You're very lucky," Tom pronounced with an affectionate squeeze of her hand. "It could have been much worse." He looked as if imagining "the worst" had been a torture that he'd played out in his mind on repeat.

She didn't have a reply. Her brain hurt too badly to think.

Tom seemed to sense that she'd reached the end of her strength for the moment and said nothing more. He pulled his chair closer to Dorcas's bed and sat once more, keeping her fingers firmly in his grasp until she fell asleep again.

A/N: Reviews are welcome and appreciated.