Author's Note: So sorry for the short break! Thanks for hanging in there. Also, thanks to the two new followers I got in the meantime. Here's the next installment. Please enjoy. Oh, and leave a review if you feel led to do so. I love hearing what you think about my work.

Chapter 59

6 March, 1959 14 South Audley Street, Mayfair, London

Dorcas didn't know how many minutes had passed since they'd surfaced from the memory of Tom killing that soldier in cold blood.

All of the hopeful excitement of finding an altered memory had dissipated from Cal's face and he was staring at her across the Pensieve.

She was racking her brain to think of something to say, but she couldn't come up with a single thing. Her hands felt numb, and she wondered if she was going to have another fit. She hadn't remembered any of the three seizures that Cal claimed she'd had the previous night.

Dorcas was shocked to realize that the part of the memory that played over in her mind was not the moment that Tom spoke the Killing Curse and murdered a man casually in front of her, or his attempted assault of her. It wasn't even when she watched him Obliviate her again.

She was thrown off balance by the feeling she'd had when she saw Tom, but had mistaken him for his long-dead half-brother. The fact that she'd mistaken one for the other wasn't the unusual thing about the recollection. It was the deep sadness that overcame her when she realized that it wasn't Jack Hardin.

But she'd only met the boy three times in her life. He was an affable person and very handsome, and she was certainly sad when she'd learned about his death. But she could only describe the acute stabbing in her chest at the sight of him suddenly vanishing and becoming Tom as heartbreak.

Even more curious than the strong emotions that came with his sudden appearance was the fog surrounding that particular part of the memory. She'd seen something similar when treating a patient in America years ago.

The patient was a young woman who'd been the victim of repeated abuses, both physical and sexual, as a child. Even after Dorcas had found the Obliviated memories, a fog remained over some of the most atrocious acts that she'd been subjected to. The fog turned out to be a mental defense against the worst of the trauma. The woman's mind simply wouldn't let her acknowledge what had been done to her.

But she knew that, while the fog was similar, in this memory she'd just uncovered from 1942, the circumstances were much different.

Was her mind protecting itself from something she didn't want to acknowledge?

"He called you a fucking whore?"

Dorcas blinked and came out of her thoughts.

"What?"

"You were referencing a conversation between you and Tom. He called you a fucking whore?"

She looked at Cal and saw concern on his face and...sadness.

She tried to shrug it off. That was a long time ago. "He's called me a lot of things, Cal. I don't care."

"I do!" he argued.

Dorcas let out a breath that she wasn't aware that she'd been holding. "It was...warranted," she replied.

"I don't believe that." Cal sat across from her and stared at her. The concern and sadness on his face was replaced by obstinance.

"The conversation that Tom and I were having before he–" Dorcas swallowed around a lump in her throat. "Before he killed that man, was about something that happened in February of that year."

Cal swallowed as well and leaned forward. "What happened?"

Dorcas felt herself becoming uncomfortable. She never knew how aware Cal was of all of the rumors that flew around Hogwarts about her. Rumors that mostly stemmed from Gemma's vendetta against her. She never saw them repeated in his mind. He was too much of a gentleman to think them in her presence, let alone voice them to her.

She had always fooled herself by thinking that they never reached him. But of course they had. The rumor mill was strong at school.

Dorcas looked down at her hands in her lap. If she was going to confess to Cal all of the things that had happened between her and Tom at school, she knew she couldn't look at him while she did it. She knew that the recrimination that would certainly paint his features would be too much for her to bear.

"I told you that Tom made a Horcrux while at school…"

A sharp inhale. "Yes. I'm still floored by that revelation, by the way."

She didn't look up from her hands, clasping them tightly as they rested on her knees. "I helped him acquire the book, an old Rackharrow heirloom, that instructed him how. I helped to plan and obtain all of the rare ingredients he needed. The last ingredient was mercury."

"Mercury?"

Dorcas heard the impatience in his voice. Though she wasn't in his mind, she could practically hear his hurried question, "What does this have to do with Tom calling you cruel names?"

"We left the school on a Thursday evening to go to a factory in…Newcastle, I think. We'd both been in trouble the previous summer for using magic in front of Muggles–"

"When your uncle fell. I remember you telling me about it," Cal interrupted.

Dorcas nodded patiently and continued. "Uncle Lysander was able to get the Ministry to drop it. But we knew we couldn't push our luck by doing magic in a Muggle area again so we used a type of Disillusionment Charm that Tom invented to conceal ourselves. We also took Felix Felicis as a contingency for the things that we couldn't plan or control."

"Liquid Luck?"

She nodded and inhaled again. She didn't know if she was strong enough to continue this conversation. His interruptions weren't helping.

After a pause, Cal looked down at the table top. "Sorry, I won't interrupt you. I want to hear it all. I want to understand."

"Liquid Luck...it made me feel so odd. Like I wasn't in control of myself, but I didn't care. I felt...invincible. Nothing could touch me. There are quite a few side effects. Overconfidence, giddiness, recklessness. I wouldn't say that it made me more attracted to Tom. But it made me more confident in my attraction or flirtation or...whatever it was."

"So you flirted with him? Were you two together at that time?" Cal swallowed nervously.

She wondered what he meant by together.

"We hadn't had sex yet. I was only fourteen at the beginning of 1942, Cal," Dorcas reminded him.

Cal blushed and met her eyes. "No, I meant dating. Were you two on or off again at that point?"

"We weren't dating then, no."

He nodded, but didn't say anything else.

Dorcas took this as a cue to continue.

"We'd been joking around and the jokes took a sort of bawdy turn after a while. I remember at one point we were even making out in the back of a lorry on the way to the factory."

She could recall her own racing hormones as she exchanged one of her first real hot and heavy make-outs with Tom and couldn't help matching the coloring in Cal's cheeks with a blush of her own.

"At one point, Tom chased one dose of the Luck with another, but I held back. I wanted to keep the second dose for...some reason…"

She realized as she was trying to explain to Cal that she couldn't remember why she hadn't taken the second potion with Tom. She remembered even being very secretive about it, not wanting Tom to know she'd held it back.

"Perhaps you were worried about how relaxed you were becoming around him, worried about where the two of you might take it if you were both under its influence…"

Dorcas nodded at Cal's assumption, but it didn't feel right.

She paused as she thought about it and then shook her head. "No, that's not it...I wanted that second dose for...something…

"Anyway," she continued, shaking her head to put her train of thought back on the point of the explanation. "It doesn't matter why, but I didn't take the second dose. On the way home, we were both so excited to have carried off such a daring plan successfully. The flirting continued, I may have even pushed it a little and led Tom on. I wanted him to think I was still under the influence of the potion like he was. Then I fell asleep."

She watched Cal as he sat up straighter and his gaze became more intense. He was bracing for another tale of assault. Dorcas wouldn't completely characterize it in that way. But the line was certainly blurry.

"When I woke up, Tom was on top of me, my legs spread and my skirt up…"

Dorcas was trying to keep her voice even and clinical as she tried to explain the context for Tom's words with her that they'd exchanged in the memory.

"He said that I told him that it was okay. I don't know...I might have said something in my sleep. But I woke up and tried to push him off, but I couldn't. His fingers pushed into my knickers and then inside me and I tried to tell him that it hurt and that I wasn't ready."

Cal nodded, silently reaching for her hand across the table. Dorcas placed her fingers in his and felt the gentle reassurance as he squeezed them. She wished she knew what he was thinking, but his mind was shuttered with Ryann in the house.

"Then what happened?" he asked in a faint voice.

"I realized that he wasn't going to stop and that I couldn't stop him. So I offered to...do something for him instead to distract him."

Cal swallowed, but didn't look away from her.

"He was ready to...it was...he was already...excited. So I offered to touch him hoping that he would take his hands away from me. And so I used my hand to…"

Dorcas had the strangest sensation of flushing and feeling the color drain from her face all at once.

Cal squeezed her fingers again. "I understand."

She was grateful that he didn't require an explanation. She wasn't sure she could continue with one.

"I avoided him for almost two days, but he wanted to talk about things. I tried to explain to him that I didn't want to do anything. The potion carried us away. He took offense to that. I suppose he felt differently about the experience. But he denied that he'd pushed me into anything and called me a fucking whore. He was hurt, I guess."

Cal was shaking his head. "It doesn't matter what he thought was happening. If you said to stop and he didn't, Dorcas, then he was wrong. Not you. You could have paraded around in front of him completely starkers but if you told him not to touch you then he should have listened. It's not your fault."

"I led him on, Cal. It was all my fault. I kept thinking that, every time he forced me...it all stemmed from this one time when I'd encouraged him and then tried to stop him once he was already to a point when I couldn't."

She hadn't wanted to cry. She was doing well to remain detached until Cal began to defend her indefensible behavior. He was too good. He always took her part.

"I can't hear you make excuses for Tom, Dorcas. I won't. I need you to tell me you understand that you are not responsible for all of the times Tom raped you. Please tell me you know that, sweetheart!"

Dorcas felt her mouth gaping with the beginnings of an acknowledgment on her lips, but she couldn't make the words come out.

:::

17 February, 1942 Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Avoiding meals was not a realistic plan, though Dorcas had tried for the past two days to come down only at the very last minute in order to grab a triangle of toast and any letters that had been dropped off for her. Then she would retreat to her first hour class quickly.

Tom's words still sat like acid in her stomach and stole her appetite. He'd called her a whore and said that he hoped some boy would catch her in the halls when no one was around and hurt her. It was a cruel thing to say. But Dorcas didn't feel nearly as awful about those words as she did about the anguished look on Tom's face when he realized that she was not willing to rekindle their romantic relationship.

She knew that she'd given him a false hope.

As careful as she'd tried to be under the influence of the Felix Felicis, she'd teased Tom and provoked his desire for her. What did she expect would happen?

It was as if every joke or suggestion was leading to the inevitable events on the train ride home. She knew it was all her fault. If she could just apologize to him and explain, maybe he'd forgive her.

But neither one of them could forget what happened. And she grudgingly acknowledged that their friendship was over as a result.

Dorcas tried to comfort herself by repeating in her mind the idea that Tom didn't feel as strongly for her as she felt for him. His was a physical attraction and a need to use her gifts in order to obtain his Horcrux ingredients. Now that he had the latter, he wouldn't want her around. As for the former, the physical attraction...Tom was a very handsome boy and Dorcas knew that many girls would be thrilled to have her out of the competition for his attention.

That thought caused a dull ache in her chest. She cared for him. He was probably her closest friend. But she was certain that it didn't translate into anything romantic on her part.

As she hurried into the Great Hall, Dorcas nearly walked into the boy who was occupying her thoughts this morning.

There was a humiliating exchange between them as Tom tried to side-step her and she him, only to end up directly in front of one another again.

"Sorry," Dorcas muttered, lowering her gaze to the flagstone floor, standing completely still so that Tom could maneuver around her.

He remained silent, sweeping from the hall without a word. Roman Flint and two other Slytherins followed behind him.

"It will get easier," Dorcas told herself. "We'll find a way to be easy around one another again, if not completely friendly."

Roman's thoughts interrupted her pep talk as he imagined loudly how Dorcas's hands would feel on him. Tom had said that she was clumsy and unskilled when she touched him. But Roman was considering how Dorcas might be once he showed her exactly what to do.

The most unsettling feeling, like spiders crawling down her spine, forced Dorcas's feet to move. She hurried into the hall, putting distance between her and Roman.

She fought the white spots in her vision by blinking rapidly before taking a seat at the Ravenclaw table.

"Dorcas, you have post," a voice said in the back of her mind.

Tom had told them. He'd described for Roman and some of the other Slytherin boys what she'd done for him.

She felt her breathing speed up in time with her racing heart. She'd seen Roman's thoughts. He was thinking of her. Thinking of her doing that to him. Imagining that he could coach her…

"Dorcas?"

Dorcas snapped out of her thoughts.

Charys Fletcher was staring at her and holding a letter out for her.

"Huh?" Dorcas asked dumbly.

"You have post," Charys repeated, handing Dorcas a letter.

She swallowed and reached for the envelope that Charys held out for her. "Thanks," she managed to squeak.

"You don't look well, Dorcas. Are you going to be sick?" Charys asked, studying her.

Dorcas had wished that she'd not tried to be brave and come to the Great Hall today. She longed to be hidden behind the heavy curtains of her four-poster once again.

"Maybe," Dorcas whispered in reply, trying to focus on the writing on the envelope in her hand.

It was from Jack. That was a surprise.

She stood again without bothering to grab a piece of toast and walked back out of the hall. The entrance hall was mostly deserted with the exception of a few Slytherin and Hufflepuff students coming up from their dormitories.

Tom's words came back to her again, hoping that she met one of her tormentors in the halls. She thought she might turn and go back into the Great Hall. At least there, no one could molest her. There were at least six teachers there at all times.

The halls were partially deserted and Dorcas began to see every male student that she passed as someone who could potentially hurt her.

She was nearly running by the time she reached the Ravenclaw common room. Her feet didn't stop moving until she was ensconced in her own bed, curtains drawn once again.

Dorcas couldn't face first hour Arithmancy today. Not with Tom in the same room with her. Though he'd given up his constant mental refrain in her mind, she knew that he would continue to monopolize her thoughts. She couldn't shake the image of Roman imagining the way she might touch him. She couldn't believe that Tom would tell his housemates what she'd done.

She felt lightheaded at the idea of either of her cousins hearing about it.

Gemma would use it against her without a doubt.

Jonas would probably try to defend her against the lie. Only it wasn't a lie, she reminded herself.

To distract from these thoughts, she tore open Jack's letter. It might give her more information about his sick aunt. She could focus on that problem and try to distract herself from the difficulties that Tom was creating for her.

But when she opened the letter, she was disappointed that Jack's aunt was not mentioned once. Though, if she thought about it, he wouldn't have had time to receive her offer of help. This one was an answer to her earlier letter that recounted her dramatic rescue of the B-26 Martin Marauder crew that had turned out to be spies.

To My Brave, Beautiful Girl,

I would have given all I have to see the look on Fritz's face when you did magic in front of him before knocking him to the ground. I still remember the ease with which you put that nutter Gaunt down. You are a force, Dorcas! A fearsome, fantastic force. I'm glad you're on our side and not on Adolf's!

That nightingale came to me the last couple of nights, reminding me of you and your captivating voice. It brings me back to memories that I had as a child when Verity and I would spend the warm summer evenings swimming in a pond not too far from the main house. My mother's house (well, it's a shack, really) faces the water and we would float on the surface and listen to the birdsong as the sun set. I want to take you there one day. I think you would enjoy the peacefulness of the place.

My nights are occupied thinking of you and me, floating on the tranquil surface, carefree and happy. Singing along with the tune of the birds. Happy.

I miss you and your enchanting birdsong.

All my love,

Jack

Dorcas decided not to write him back immediately. She was impatient to hear how she might be able to help his Aunt Penny. She didn't know the specifics of the woman's illness or even if she would be allowed to visit the Riddle home and see her in her sickbed.

Rather than wait for Jack's letter to give her this information, Dorcas reasoned that she could gather some general items that could be of help while she was waiting for details from Jack.

Just as she knew it would, planning to help Jack's Aunt Penny took her mind off of her own troubles. She began to make lists in her head. Healing Potions and Sleeping Draughts would come in handy although they were not specific treatments for what might be ailing Jack's aunt.

These would be found in the hospital wing of Hogwarts.

Dorcas would have to come up with an idea of how she might get into the infirmary if she was not injured or ill.

:::

6 March, 1959 14 South Audley Street, Mayfair, London

Finally alone with her thoughts, Dorcas took out the box of trinkets that always seemed to soothe her after dredging up bad memories.

The house was quiet since Cal had taken their girls to Blackpool Abbey to visit Jonas and Cherry. Sensing that he'd pushed her far enough today, he offered to distract Wren and Ryann for a while so that Dorcas could sleep.

They needed to talk about what they planned to do about Ryann's schooling.

Dorcas still felt that Hogwarts was too dangerous for Ryann to go back, even with Professor Dumbledore keeping watch over her.

Ryann had thrown an epic fit when she asked to return to school so that she could attend Quidditch practice this afternoon. When Dorcas had refused to let her go, she'd turned pleading eyes on Cal. She had him correctly pegged as the weak link and her ally against her mother.

But Cal surprised her by not automatically taking Ryann's part in the argument. Whether he'd had a change of heart about the school now that he knew more about what Dorcas had experienced there, or whether he was being cautious about pushing Dorcas on the issue, she couldn't say for sure.

Rolling the alabaster bird pendant around in the palm of her hand, she recalled the foggy memory of mistaking Tom for his older half-brother in the nightclub. Why had she felt so despondent at the realization that it was Tom standing in front of her and not Jack? What did the fog signify? Was this something that she'd repressed?

Dropping the bird pendant back into the box, her fingers curled instinctively around the mysterious key tied with a stiff black ribbon.

Just like the heart-stopping sensation of believing that Jack Hardin stood before her momentarily only to have the illusion shattered by Tom, the key felt like a mysterious clue dangling in front of her.

Dorcas rubbed at the head of the brass key where it met the stiff and crusted edges of the soiled ribbon. She detected a raised design or lettering, but it was so dirty that she couldn't make out what it was exactly.

Reaching for her wand, Dorcas muttered a cleaning spell and watched as the brass polished itself up.

As she suspected, there was writing on the rounded key head. A name, in fact. Hargreaves Trust & Co was etched into the elaborate Art Deco design.

A bank? A London bank?

It was a safe deposit key. But she couldn't remember ever having a safe deposit box. Perhaps it was something of Cal's that had made its way into her box of things.

She dropped it in with the rest of her girlhood possessions and vowed to ask him about it when he returned home with the girls.

Her mind returned again to that mysterious fog from her recently uncovered memory. What was it that her mind was repressing? She'd uncovered unspeakable abuse at the hands of Tom while she had been at Hogwarts. And yet, once she'd lifted those memories, the true experience came back to her clearly and vividly. Her mind hadn't attempted to conceal any part of the physical assaults or emotional abuse that she'd suffered.

Why was her mind covering a seemingly benign detail?

So she'd mistaken Tom for a boy she'd met a couple of times. He'd died a few months before this memory she'd uncovered had even happened. He'd fallen in battle somewhere...in France, was it? Or Italy? She couldn't remember exactly where Jack Hardin had been stationed.

It was sad, of course, to learn about a young man she'd known, cut down in his prime. But that was the story for so many during the war. It wasn't an unusual tale at all.

She couldn't recall if Tom had reacted badly to the news of his half-brother's death or not. She certainly did not remember Tom being as broken by the news as he'd been when Jack's sister, Verity, had been killed in a car accident.

Suddenly, the house felt stifling and stale. She longed for a walk in the brisk winter air.

Cal's voice rang in her mind, warning her not to venture out without him. They still hadn't figured out what Tom's intentions had been in the courtroom yesterday. He may still be a threat to her.

But if she brought her housekeeper along, the indomitable Mrs. Frost, surely that would placate Cal's concerns about her security…

Without realizing that she'd resolved to do it, Dorcas reached into her box of trinkets and retrieved the safe deposit key and shoved it into the pocket of her trousers.

:::

17 February, 1942 Potions Classroom, Second Floor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"Be careful, Dorcas!" Anneliese cautioned for the third time today. She clamped down on Dorcas's hand and looked sternly at her. "Why don't I do the chopping? You're too distracted today. If I see blood, I'm going to pass out."

Dorcas waved Anneliese off gently and shook her head. "I can do it, Anne. I'll be careful."

She was reminded of Potions class two weeks ago when Garrett Delaney cut off the tip of his thumb while slicing gurdyroot. Anneliese had fainted when she turned around and saw the blood dripping from his wrist.

Dorcas's lips curled in a faint smile recalling Professor Slughorn's similar reaction, clutching the workbench to keep himself from joining Anneliese on the floor.

"I can do it. Swear!" Dorcas muttered distractedly.

An idea had just popped into her mind and she saw an opportunity to gain the potions she would need to help Jack's aunt.

"You swear?" Anneliese repeated, a dubious look aimed at Dorcas.

"Yes!" hissed Dorcas. She returned to the firethorn she was chopping. "You'll have to start over," she added, nodding to the runespoor eggs that Anneliese was supposed to be counting.

Firethorn was an anticoagulant. If Dorcas sliced her palm open and contaminated the cut with the oils from the plant, the bloody sight would be spectacular!

There was a gasp beside her that Dorcas barely heard. Faintly, Anneliese said, "See! I told you–"

The rest of Anneliese's admonishment went unspoken as she crumpled next to Dorcas. Her head nearly smacked the flagstone floor, but Garrett Delaney was quick. Dorcas guessed it was his Seeker reflexes that helped him to catch her in time.

"What's all this commotion, eh?" Professor Slughorn asked, approaching Dorcas and Anneliese's workstation.

"Anneliese fainted again, sir," Dorcas explained while brandishing her gushing palm in front of the Potions Master's face.

Dorcas bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as her teacher wobbled, his eyes transfixed on her gashed hand.

"I think I might have gotten some firethorn in, sir," she added for effect. Blood was spilling into the pristine cuff of her uniform shirt.

Slughorn gaped, his mouth working like a fish out of water. Glynnis Howard and Charys Fletcher jumped to one side as the professor collapsed into their workstation, sending their bubbling cauldron flying.

"Use, Rennervate!" Dorcas instructed Garrett.

Anneliese came to as Dorcas was wrapping her hand up in a spare cloth, which barely staunched the flowing blood.

When Anneliese saw the saturated cloth, she collapsed against her housemate again. Glynnis was fanning the Potions Master with her textbook and looking to Dorcas for help.

"Maybe you should get out of here, Dorcas, before anyone tries to revive the professor or Epping."

Dorcas turned and saw Mohit Singh, barely containing his laughter behind her.

"Oh. Right," she said, stepping over Anneliese's legs.

"Hospital wing then?" Mohit asked, offering his arm to her.

She took it with her good hand and elevated the bleeding one, leaving the chaos she'd caused in her wake. As her housemate helped her out of the classroom, she wondered how long this bit of news might take to travel the castle grounds. She was becoming notorious among the rumor mill. The thought wiped the laughter from her lips instantly.

"Was that on purpose?"

"What?" Dorcas blurted, snapping out of her thoughts.

"Cutting yourself. Was that done on purpose?"

Dorcas looked at the ground ahead of her as they walked. She remembered a conversation she'd had with Mohit at the beginning of the school year. He'd gotten an internship with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He wanted to be an Auror, maybe. Dorcas thought his observant nature might serve him well in a job like that. But she cursed the gift in this instance.

"What? Were you watching me, Singh?" she asked, dodging his question.

In his mind, she could tell that he was watching her.

The arm that she was holding lifted slightly as he shrugged.

"I might have been admiring the view, sure."

He admitted to watching her. She hadn't expected this. The thought that her movements were being monitored made her pulse quicken. In turn, she became lightheaded and stumbled.

Mohit was quick to place an arm around her waist and draw her closer, supporting more of her weight.

"Keep that hand elevated," he reminded her.

She didn't know how to respond to him. She hadn't bothered to make it look like an accident. Once she was sure Anneliese had returned to counting runespoor eggs, she'd just dragged the knife over her palm and pressed it into the chopped firethorn. She should have been more careful. She hadn't realized anyone else was watching her.

"Did you want to hurt yourself on purpose?" Mohit's voice was lower, almost a whisper.

She was forced to lean into him further as they climbed a flight of stairs. Dorcas knew she couldn't make it up on her own steam. Her legs felt increasingly like they'd had the Jellylegs Curse placed on them.

Mohit smiled and Dorcas became fixated on his full lips as they stretched with the expression. His light brown eyes were almond shaped and bright. He had a handsome face.

Dorcas blinked. Bloodloss was making her delusional. Since when did she find Mohit Singh fanciable?

A laugh escaped him as he looked down at her.

"Dorcas, you're staring."

"I might have been admiring the view," she repeated his words back to him, and then dropped her eyes to the steps in front of her. What in the hell was she doing? She felt loopy and a little numb. Her toes dragged each step as it became harder to lift her knees and climb up them.

"I know that's the bloodloss talking, but I'll take what I can get," Mohit replied, bending and sweeping her knees up with his opposite arm, carrying her the rest of the way up the stairs.

She tried to protest, insisting that she could walk on her own, but it was no use. She could barely keep her injured hand elevated.

Dorcas was spared a long trip in Mohit's arms because the hospital wing was not far from the top of the staircase. He insisted on taking her through the doors and directly to Madam Higgins before releasing her on a crisp-sheeted hospital bed.

"How very gallant of you, Mr. Singh," Madam Higgins replied dryly when Mohit explained what happened in Potions class, being careful not to out Dorcas for intentionally cutting herself. "But her legs don't seem to be injured."

There was a tinge of red beneath the olive skin of his cheeks as he responded, "She was stumbling. I feared she might collapse on the stairs, ma'am."

"Very well. Off with you," the nurse dismissed him.

"Thank you, Mohit," Dorcas offered, as Madam Higgins began to unwind the sodden cloth from her hand.

He shrugged and winked at her before leaving her in the care of the school nurse.

:::

6 March, 1959 Hargreaves Trust & Co. 24 Cardinal Place, City of London

Dorcas watched silently from the window of the black taxi as the Christopher Wren architecture passed her. As they drew closer to the bank that issued the key in her pocket, the questions seemed to mount in Dorcas's mind.

This was the Muggle financial district. The stock exchange was not far from here. The Royal Bank of Scotland just passed on her left. They were in the very shadows of Saint Paul's. Why did she have a key belonging to a bank in this area of the city?

What if the key did belong to Cal and had somehow gotten mixed up in her belongings years ago? What if he'd hidden it there, thinking she would never go looking through these things again? Why would he hide it from her?

She swallowed around a lump in her throat and cast a hurried glance at her companion.

Mrs. Frost sat beside her in the cab, her knees pressed together modestly and her back ramrod straight. This was the only way she could leave the house without Frost immediately alerting Cal. She'd reluctantly allowed her housekeeper (her jailer, as she was coming to think of her) to tag along.

"You'll wait in the lobby," Dorcas said, low enough that the driver couldn't hear her.

Mrs. Frost continued to stare straight ahead. "I go where you go, Miss."

"It's Doctor. You'll wait in the lobby."

Mrs. Frost did not offer further argument, but Dorcas did not for a second take this as capitulation. She might not know a lot about her mysterious housekeeper, but she did know that the woman's orders were to protect Dorcas. And she would do just that.

Dorcas closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Tom was not going to track her to the financial district and kidnap her in broad daylight. He didn't need to abduct her to keep her in line. The threats against her family were just as effective. She would never speak to Dumbledore again, if that's what Tom required.

"This is it, Miss," the cab driver said, looking over his shoulder.

Dorcas straightened her gloves and her skirt, placed her handbag on her arm and stepped out of the automobile.

Hargreaves Trust & Co was the most modest facade on the entire street. The address was posh, but the bank was unassuming.

It just added to the mystery of the place in Dorcas's mind.

She looked down at the key in her gray gloved palm and back at the building once again as Mrs. Frost paid the driver.

"I still say that Master Cal should hire a driver for you. That way we can make sure he's a trained wizard who's driving you to and fro. Getting into cabs with strangers is dangerous, Miss."

"I don't want a driver," Dorcas responded simply as she stepped through the bank's doors, held open for her by a doorman.

"Good afternoon, Miss," the young man with freckles and a stiff uniform cap said as she entered.

She nodded at him in thanks and walked to a red and white marbled counter on the opposite end of the small lobby. Her gray Chanel pumps echoed in the silent space.

"Good day. How can I help?" a blonde haired, ruby lipped attendant smiled up at her from behind the marble counter.

Dorcas blinked and opened her mouth before closing it again. What was she doing here? Now that she was close to solving the puzzle, she began to feel as if this was a ridiculous whim that she shouldn't have entertained.

"Miss?" the attendant prodded.

"Sorry, it's been so long since I've been here. Do you still service safe deposit boxes?" she asked, not knowing what she would do if the answer was no.

"Yes, Miss. We provide that service and many others besides. How may I assist you?" Her beatific smile seemed to conceal impatience.

Dorcas gave her a smile to match.

"I have this," Dorcas responded, taking the key out of her coat pocket and showing it to the attendant.

The change in the blonde's attitude was instant. "Of course, ma'am. You'll be wanting to access your box this afternoon?"

Feeling relief wash over her, followed by a nervous anticipation, Dorcas bounced on her toes and glanced over her shoulder at her dour housekeeper.

Frost was casting her gaze suspiciously over the lobby, one hand in her coat pocket where Dorcas knew she was clutching her wand in a vice grip.

"Yes, please," Dorcas replied.

"May I see some identification?" requested the assistant.

Dorcas planted on her heels once again. "Oh."

"Standard procedure for anyone requiring access to the vault, ma'am," the blonde reassured her.

Dorcas smiled, hoping she came off nonchalant as she pulled her wallet from her handbag. She slid her Muggle identification card across the marble counter and held her breath.

Would her name correspond to a vault space in this bank? Would she be turned away and denied entry?

"Miss Meadowes," the woman read from her identity card. "Our bank's manager will be with you shortly. Please feel free to have a seat while you wait. May I offer you coffee, or champagne, perhaps?"

"It's Doctor Meadowes. Coffee would be splendid."

Dorcas didn't want coffee, but felt like a fraud by not accepting a beverage while she waited.

She walked to a corner of the lobby demarcated by a large oriental rug and burgundy button-tufted sofas and chairs. Mrs. Frost joined her on the sofa.

The blonde returned shortly with a delicate blue china cup and saucer for Dorcas.

"Thank you very much," Dorcas said, cringing at her overly enthusiastic voice. She lifted the cup to her lips, but paused when Frost coughed pointedly.

The blonde turned to Mrs. Frost. "May I offer you anything, ma'am?" she asked.

Mrs. Frost opened her mouth to speak. Dorcas knew she was going to refuse the attendant.

"Champagne, please," Dorcas replied before Frost could answer.

"Very good, ma'am," the attendant said, turning on her heel to execute the order quickly.

Frost waited several beats before turning to Dorcas. "You should cast some tampering charms on that coffee first, Mistress."

Dorcas hated "Mistress" more than she hated "Miss", but she ignored the title.

"Relax, Frost." Dorcas sipped her coffee as she waited for the bank manager.

The blonde returned with a crystal flute for Mrs. Frost, who pointedly set the glass on the coffee table in front of her without taking a sip.

A tense silence fell between them.

"Are you going to tell Cal about this little outing, Frost?"

From the corner of her eye, Dorcas saw the housekeeper's spine straighten. "Of course, Miss."

Dorcas didn't say anything in reply to this. But she made a note to use the drive home to convince Frost that Cal didn't need to know of the trip into the city.

"Dr. Meadowes?" a man's voice called from behind the marble counter. The heels of hard-soled shoes announced the approach of someone. Dorcas set her coffee cup and saucer beside Frost's untouched champagne and leaned around a column that blocked the man's approach.

"Here I am," Dorcas sang cheerily, standing at the small, balding man's approach. "Dr. Clerey-Meadowes," she corrected.

The man looked down at her identity card in his hand once more and smiled.

"You've held your box in the vault since before adding the Meadowes. Or the Doctor," he joked, smiling.

Dorcas felt the wind leaving her lungs as if she'd fallen hard. Her box? Since before her marriage?

"Beg your pardon?" Dorcas whispered breathlessly.

The balding man pressed his lips together slightly before responding. "Apologies. Bad joke. I just meant that the name on the vault box is Dorcas Clerey. You've added the Doctor and the Meadowes since then."

Dorcas recovered quickly and spread a warm smile across her face, laughing a little at the intended joke. "Ah, I see. Yes, I've been busy, indeed!"

"Well, shall we?" the bank manager asked.

"Lead the way," Dorcas said, turning and glaring pointedly to Mrs. Frost.

With a pointed look of her own, Frost followed behind Dorcas.

The bank manager paused and made an awkward noise in between a cough and a sneeze. "I'm sorry, only box owners may go down to the vault."

"Please wait for me in the lobby, Frost," Dorcas said, trying to keep her voice from sounding too gloating.

"Very well, Mistress," Frost replied, dragging out the title that Dorcas hated.

The sound of her heels and the hard soles of the bank manager's wingtips accompanied them down a flight of stairs and into a dimly lit corridor.

Dorcas began to feel alarmed that she had been stripped so easily of her bodyguard. The logical part of her brain tried to reason that she had nothing to fear from this slight and aging man. But her paranoia caused her to grip her purse tighter. She resisted the urge to reach inside it and clutch her wand.

They stopped before a massive iron door with an equally massive iron wheel attached to it. Dorcas imagined that it must have about two dozen bolts holding the vault door closed. It reminded her of the factory vault that she and Tom had broken into when they were at school. Where was that? Manchester? Newcastle? She couldn't remember. Looking back, it was a wonder that she and Tom hadn't been kicked out of school for even half the shit they'd pulled.

"Here's your identity card back, Dr. Meadowes," the manager said, handing her the card.

She grasped it between her gloved fingers and slipped it back into her purse.

"Thank you, Mister…"

The bank manager startled. "Oh jeez! I didn't even introduce myself!" He thrust a hand out to her. "Rupert Fox, I manage this branch."

"Thank you Mr. Fox," Dorcas replied, taking the man's hand while oozing charm.

She watched as Mr. Fox stepped closer to the vault and inserted a key. Turning three dials precisely, Dorcas heard the tumblers click into place. Then he stepped over to the massive wheel and turned it.

There was a shuddering groan, iron against iron, as the vault's door swung wide. The expanse inside was misleading. There were at least twenty-four rows of neat brass slots lining each wall. Elaborately carved art deco doors concealed each slot. Dorcas looked down at the key in her hand and noticed that the decoration on the vault box doors matched that on the key's head where the bank's name was engraved.

On the back wall of the vault was an identical iron door like the one that Mr. Fox had just opened.

"Here it is, number seventy-five," Mr. Fox said, stepping onto a library ladder that he'd positioned before the box. Taking a key from his pocket, smaller than the one he'd just used to open the vault's door, he held his hand out to Dorcas.

She looked at it blankly and then back to him. She almost dove into his mind in order to discover what he wanted from her when he spoke.

"Of course, some patrons prefer to turn their key for themselves…"

"Right," Dorcas said, staring down at the key in her hand. She stepped up onto the ladder before the vault box, level with Mr. Fox and inserted her key.

:::

17 February, 1942 Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"Dorcas, how's the hand?" Mohit asked, taking the spot next to her on the bench along the Ravenclaw table.

Dorcas had been pretending to eat dinner and brooding over how she was going to see Jack's aunt and give her the potions she'd stolen from Madam Higgins earlier today.

Dorcas raised her left palm, which was unmarked, waving it at him. "Fine."

"I'm glad," replied Mohit, piling food onto his plate. He slid closer to Dorcas.

Without making it too noticeable, Dorcas inched along the bench, putting more space between them.

Why had she encouraged him earlier today? Could she really blame her open admiration of him on the loss of blood from the cut on her hand? Or was Tom right? Was she a shameless tease who chased after the attention of boys only to rebuff them when they showed interest in return?

She moved a stalk of broccoli around on her plate.

"Hey, listen," began Mohit.

Dorcas felt her eyes bulging out of her head as she stared at the vegetables on her plate. She could see it in his mind. He was about to ask her on a date.

"Look, Mohit," she cut him off. "About earlier–"

Mohit spoke over her, insistent that he be heard. "I was wondering if you'd go to Hogsmeade with me next month. Let me take you somewhere nice for a drink or for lunch?"

Zelda Weston's eyes darted to her own plate as Dorcas lifted hers. Dorcas knew she'd heard the request.

"Mohit, I'm grateful for your help today. But, I–"

He cut her off again. "It's only one date, Dorcas." He dropped his voice so only she could hear him. "I didn't say anything about the stunt you pulled in Potions. And I won't say anything, I swear. Just go out with me."

Dorcas felt her chest rising and falling rapidly as he leaned in, whispering, brushing the hairs along her neck with his breath.

There was a light tittering sound across the table as Zelda Weston and June Riley had a whispered exchange, both looking at her and Mohit before turning away, laughing behind their hands.

"I heard you and Riddle broke things off, so what's the problem?" he pushed.

Dorcas turned to him and glared. "Move back, please. You're too close. Tom and I haven't been together in over a year. And even if I'm unattached now, it doesn't mean I want to be attached."

His face fell at her harsh tone and Dorcas felt instantly terrible for her cutting words. She tried a more logical approach instead.

"I went with you to the Halloween dance and you got angry with me because I wasn't giving you enough attention. You knew that Cherry asked me to play piano that night. Why do you want to do that again?"

Mohit ran a hand through his black curls and licked his lips. "I expected that night to go a bit better, I admit. But I'm asking for a chance to show you that I'm not a jerk. Please, Dorcas."

Professor Slughorn passed between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables on his way up to the dais where the teachers ate.

"Or," Mohit countered, watching Dorcas's eyes as they followed the professor. "I could tell the professor that what you did today was no accident..."

"A chance to show me you're not a jerk?" Dorcas asked, glaring pointedly back at her housemate.

"I'm not too proud to blackmail. I like you. And I want you to give me a shot," Mohit replied with a winning smile.

Dorcas pushed her plate away in disgust.

"I'll go to Hogsmeade with you, pig. But it's under protest, you understand?"

Mohit laughed.

"Arsehole!" Dorcas growled as she slipped off the bench and left the Great Hall without eating.

She vowed to be the absolute worst date that Mohit Singh could ask for. And she had nearly a month to plan exactly what she would do.

:::

6 March, 1959 14 South Audley Street, Mayfair, London

Dorcas sat in stunned silence the entire ride back from the city center to Mayfair. Her plan of convincing Mrs. Frost not to squeal on her to Cal had been completely forgotten in her shock.

Mrs. Frost seemed to read the disquiet in her expression and the way her hands shook as they clutched her handbag to her chest.

"My lady, is there anything I can get you? A cuppa or something stronger?"

Dorcas shook her head with a muttered "No thank you," and retreated to her office, closing the door behind her.

Her limbs didn't seem to have feeling in them any longer. At least, her brain didn't acknowledge what her hands and feet were doing anymore.

She pulled out a stack of letters, a stack of cash, and a ring box, placing each item in front of her on the coffee table. She dropped to the couch, barely feeling it as she collapsed onto it. Her eyes never left the three items she pulled from the safe deposit box.

Blinking, she thought back to her shock at opening the box in the bank's vault.

"I'll give you your privacy, Dr. Meadowes," Mr. Fox said, placing the box on a polished oak table in the center of the vault. "When you're ready to return your box, just pick up the receiver and I'll come and close everything up for you."

She looked at the ornate silver phone sitting in the middle of the table. It looked as if it was as old as the bank itself.

"Thank you," Dorcas said, almost too low for Mr. Fox to hear. Then a question came to her mind and she turned in her chair to catch the bank manager's retreating form. "Mr. Fox?"

"Yes, ma'am?" the slight man replied, stopping at the vault's entrance.

"Is there anyone besides myself who is associated with this box?"

The bank manager cocked his head to one side as if this was a curious inquiry to make. He stepped away from the vault's door and went to a shelf immediately to the left of the entrance. He removed a large ledger from a cubby there and placed it on the opposite end of the table from where she sat.

"Vault box seventy-five?" he murmured to himself as he flipped pages, finally settling on one and running his finger down the page. "The original owner was Mrs. Mary Riddle. Then Mr. Jack Hardin was named its owner. Finally, your name was added to the box in…1942."

"1942?" Dorcas repeated.

"Yes, that's what the record indicates."

"I see," Dorcas replied, smiling at the bank manager. She didn't see at all.

Why did she share a safe deposit box with Tom's deceased grandmother and half-brother? None of this made any sense to her. But she began to feel an eerie foreboding as she was left alone in the vault to open the box.

First, she'd uncovered a memory in which she mistakenly thought Tom was Jack and had become shattered at the realization that he wasn't who she thought. And the mysterious fog that hung over that particular moment in the memory…

Now, she was sitting in a bank that she'd never been in at any point in her life, with a safe deposit box that she happened to have a key to. A box that contained…

A stack of letters.

Dorcas pulled the yellowed envelopes from the box first. As she flipped through them, she saw that about half of the stack was addressed to her, mostly from Egypt. A little more than half the stack was addressed to Jack Hardin from her.

But she didn't recall writing to him after he'd enlisted. Tom wouldn't have liked that one bit.

"Tom…" Dorcas breathed as she flipped through the stack of correspondence. With every letter that slipped through her fingertips she became more certain that this was another gap in her memory–a major gap–placed there by Tom. Was it possible that he was able to erase an entire person from her life?

Three letters caught her attention at the end of the stack. They were unlike the previous letters in the pile because they were tied up in a string and were unopened. There was a stamp on each of them requesting that they be sent back to the sender as undeliverable. Dorcas was the sender.

Dorcas untied the string and slipped her fingernail beneath the flap of the last letter in the small bundle, tearing it gently. Unfolding the pages with trembling fingers, Dorcas inhaled a ragged breath. She seemed to know that reading the contents of this letter would be painful.

Jack, my everything,

With each day that goes by it becomes harder to hold onto hope that you're still alive. But not to have hope; giving up on ever hearing from you again is too painful to acknowledge. It's impossible to live in this in between. But I don't know what else I can do. I nearly smashed that cursed mirror that shows our future. If you are dead, how could it lie to me and reflect us together and happy? But I didn't destroy it because that mirror may be telling me to hold onto the hope that you're still alive. Surely that mirror would not have shown us together with a little girl if that future could no longer come to pass?

It's been five weeks since I've had a letter from you. That's far longer than I've ever gone without a word letting me know you're safe. I pray constantly that you used the Felix Felicis that I gave you. You promised me that you would use it if you were in danger. Did you forget? Did you lose it? When do I give up? At what point does my heart accept that you're gone?

Please write to me, Jack. I cannot continue to hold onto hope. But I don't know how I'll let you go if that hope dies. Please write. Please be alive. Please come back to me. I'll wait for you. I promised I would.

All my love,

Dorcas

Dorcas read the letter three times and opened the others that had been tied to it, marked as undeliverable.

They spoke of a deep love and a fear of loss that she didn't remember experiencing. It was her handwriting, to be sure. But it was not a sentiment that she remembered feeling.

She hadn't even recalled Jack Hardin being stationed in Africa.

Thinking back to the last time she remembered seeing him, Dorcas pictured the handsome features of the boy who looked so similar to Tom, but taller and with kinder eyes. He'd visited her shortly after his sister's death. He'd shown up on her doorstep in his uniform.

Dorcas remembered being shocked at his daring for enlisting underage. But, she reasoned that he hadn't had much to keep him in England after his sister had been killed. And he had spoken to her previously about wanting a life of adventure.

They'd had tea, chatted, and said goodbye. Dorcas wished him well, sending him off with a friendly peck on the cheek. She'd blushed and worried what Tom would think if he'd caught them like that.

But nothing had ever come from the brief attraction she felt for him.

Nothing had come of it…

This stack of letters proved that assumption false.

Besides the yellowed bundle of envelopes, there was a stack of banknotes in various denominations–nothing too large, and a ring box.

Dorcas lifted the small black velvet box from the safe deposit box and slowly pulled back the lid with a creaking of dusty hinges. There was a silver ring with a small stone set delicately in a cloisonne fastening. It looked like something that would have been modestly fashionable around the turn of the century.

Clutching the cushions of her patients' couch, she stared at the items that she'd taken from the bank vault laid out before her on the coffee table.

She couldn't decide her next move. If Jack Hardin was a missing memory, how could she locate and lift what blocked him from her mind? This was a far more complicated Memory Charm than the others that Tom had used on her. She wasn't even sure if the Ex-Nebulae Elixir would work on the kind of charm Tom had used.

And then there was Cal.

He had to live with so much history–bad history–between her and Tom. How could she expect Cal to accept another lost love from her past?

Even thinking of Jack Hardin as a lost love felt like an odd, out of body experience.

How could she expect Cal to understand something that didn't add up even in her own mind?

A knock on the door of her office derailed Dorcas's mental runaway train. She'd been expecting Mrs. Frost again, but it was Cal's voice that called to her.

"Come in, Cal," she said, inhaling a fortifying breath and bracing herself for the explanation that Cal was due.

"Dorcas, there you are," he said breathlessly.

"Here I am. Did the girls enjoy Blackpool? How are Jonas and Cherry?"

"Fine. Fine," Cal answered hurriedly, shoving a paper at her. "Did you see this?"

She recoiled slightly. She'd avoided the Prophet since that slanderous piece ran about her being a fraudulent physician. Cal knew she didn't read that rag anymore.

He must have seen the disgusted look on her face, so he held up the front page for her to see.

"The Minister of Magic is dead."