Chapter Two

It was bright. She didn't have to open her eyes to know that. The back of her eyelids were pink, they way they were when she lay underneath the sun with closed eyes.

The second thing she noticed was how comfortable she was. Whatever bed she had been sleeping in was the softest imaginable – a sore improvement from the thin lumpy mattress she was used to. The sheets were a crisp cotton fabric – she couldn't resist running her fingertips over the material in awe. She wasn't ready to wake up yet, and so she lay blissfully disconnected, enjoying the luxury she was in before she would inevitably return to that dreadful place.

"She's suffering from magical exhaustion, Auror Dawlish," she could hear. It was muffled, like she was listening underwater. "I cannot allow you to force her awake."

"She almost murdered a Muggle girl," a different voice hissed, probably this Dawlish man. "She should be locked up. I bet she's one of his."

It was a split second, and her eyes flew open. She ignored the disorientation she felt as she sat up suddenly.

"No!" She cried. It wasn't until after the word left her lips did she realise how chapped they were and how hoarse her voice was. "It wasn't my fault, I swear! Please don't put me back in that place. I'll be good!" She gasped in a deep ragged breath, and it dawned on her she was surrounded by five adults, all staring at her in shock.

"No one is locking you up, honey," the only woman in the room reassured her soothingly, stepping closer to her while glaring at one of the men.

She swallowed, and allowed herself to take in her surroundings. She was in a hospital. Everything was so white and clean – a stark contrast to where she lived. There were no machines or beeping noises around her, but she noticed the odd vials that lined a glass cabinet on the wall. Essence of Dittany, she read, blinking bewildered. She'd never heard of such a thing before. Pepperup Potion?

"Sweetie, could you tell us what happened?" She looked back to the woman who stood beside her. Her name, Ruth Lopsick, was embroidered on the chest of her very odd clothing – a long lime green robe. Underneath her name was an emblem of a stick crossed with a bone. Just another thing that was confusing her.

Ruth Lopsick had a motherly face – soft brown eyes and a dimpled smile. Wrinkles around her eyes creased deep as she smiled like well-worn tracks. She was probably forty years old, the dark rings under her eyes almost deceiving her age.

"Maybe first you can tell us your name?" One of the men suggested softly. She remembered him. He, along with two of his friends, had appeared at her orphanage. But she remembered he was nice to her. He hugged her when she cried and she could remember his smell of leather and lavender. Like Ruth, she found he also had a very friendly and warm face. He was definitely old, as could be deducted by his unruly head of hair that was more grey than black. His hazel eyes were almost tucked beneath small folds of wrinkles and his thick eyebrows were weeded with grey hairs. He had a straight nose, prominent cheekbones and thin lips. She could've imagined him being quite handsome in his youth, the ghost of his good looks still lingering in his appearance.

"Eloise." It was quiet, almost unheard. Eloise kept her eyes trained on the warmly man as she revealed her name, at ease in his gentle hazel stare. He smiled at her encouragingly and seeming pleased by her response.

"What a pretty name," he complimented sincerely.

Eloise looked at him, trying to understand why he was being so nice to her. And a thought came to her suddenly.

"How did your cuts heal so quickly?" She asked, her voice a few octaves louder this time. She studied his face and it was void of the cuts and abrasions she recalled inflicting on him. They were gone. She wasn't sure how long she'd been asleep in this bed – but it couldn't have been long enough to heal those wounds.

Surprise was evident in his eyes as he regarded her curiously. He shared a look with the other adults in the room, seemingly having a silent conversation that Rose wasn't privy to.

"Have you ever heard of magic, Eloise?" He asked gently.

Eloise stiffened. A chill seemed to run down her spine as she sat up in the bed, glaring at the man she'd mistaken for being kind and gentle.

"I'm not falling for that trick again," she stated, lifting her chin. "Magic is evil."

Everyone in the room seemed to catch their breath as they stared at the young girl in the bed. Her entire disposition was changing in front of their eyes – her fists started to clench white, her jaw set and her eyes flashed dangerously.

"Magic is not evil," One of the men at the back of the room, Dawlish, intervened. He narrowed his eyes at the girl with renewed distrust.

Eloise glared at him. "Witches are the Devil's servants. They are evil." The outline of her figure turned wispy. The same wispy incorporeal smoke Fleamont had already seen in the orphanage orbited her body. He glanced at the other occupants of the room, kneading the alarm from his voice. He jerked his head towards the door pointedly. He received steely glares from everyone as they left the room, leaving only Fleamont and Eloise.

Fleamont remained quiet for several moments after the door closed. The flickering dark flames that Eloise had conjured around herself were dissipating slowly.

He smiled gently at her before deliberately pulling the chair from the corner towards the bed Eloise sat rigidly upon. He sat down, remaining silent as he mentally welcomed the relief of sitting. Eloise stared at him perplexed.

"My name is Fleamont Potter. It's just you and me here now, okay. I want you to know you can trust me, Eloise. I'm not going to hurt you," Fleamont paused, letting the young girl digest his earnest words. "You can tell me anything, I won't ever judge you. Do you understand?"

He looked at her, waiting patiently until she gave a jerking nod.

"Why do you believe magic is evil?"

Eloise, if possible, became even more rigid at the mention of 'magic'. She stared at Fleamont speculatively. Her memory of the incident in the orphanage was hazy, but she remembered him. His gentle eyes. He had a fatherly aura, which preyed on her yearning for family. She wanted to trust him. She knew he was worthy of trust. But trying to stifle her innate unease around anyone was an obstacle. She couldn't remember the last person she confided her secrets in, opened herself up to truly.

"They tell me its evil," she tried to shrug indifferently, but the movement was awkward and stiff. She couldn't hide her apprehension.

"Who's 'they', Eloise?" Fleamont asked carefully.

Eloise ducked her head, looking suddenly interested in the neat threadwork of the blanket over her lap.

"The matrons," she whispered. "The director… and the other girls."

"What do they say to you, Eloise?" Every word Fleamont uttered, he heard the sound of eggshells beneath them. He was bracing himself for any of his words to set her off and unleash her fury.

Eloise picked at the bedding draped over her. "I'm unnatural. I… I'm wicked. That even the Devil wouldn't love me."

Fleamont pursed his lips, uneasy. Despite everything he wanted to say to Eloise, to convince her she wasn't evil, he remained quiet. He waited.

"The others… they hate me," Eloise braved a brief look up at Fleamont and was reassured by the soft expression he maintained. "They say that I'm bad and I should die. They do things… They try to hurt me."

Eloise felt Fleamont's eyes on her, never wavering.

"Eloise, can you tell me what happened at the home? The other girl – was she trying to hurt you?"

If he weren't watching her as closely as he had been, he wouldn't have noticed her lower lip begin to tremble.

"It was my birthday," she told Fleamont slowly, as if tasting her words. "The other girls always give me… a gift on my birthday."

Fleamont almost smiled. He was almost reassured that perhaps she wasn't treated as badly as he was beginning to believe. But the lone tear that trekked down her cheek, travelling a worn route before hesitating at her chin, dangling precariously.

"Last year it was a cigarette lighter and a can of fuel." Using his limited knowledge of non-Magical folk, he managed to grasp what a lighter was quite easily, but fuel he did not know. By the strained and aggrieved expression on Eloise's face, he couldn't imagine anything good.

"What was it this year?" Fleamont prompted gently.

Eloise pursed her lips almost white, before meeting Fleamont's gaze squarely. "It was a noose."

That, Fleamont was familiar with. His breath caught in his throat. He couldn't think of anything worthy to say, so he stayed silent. He hoped his eyes were nothing but understanding and comforting.

"They were trying to put me in it, but I started panicking… and things started to happen." Again, Eloise checked his face for any familiar signs of hatred and disgust she usually saw at Hopkins. There wasn't any. "The other girls ran. Anne – she stayed, taunting me and calling me names. Everything happened so quickly." She tucked her head down, the nape of her neck exposed and showing a protruding vertebrae.

"It's okay, Eloise," Fleamont promised, tentatively reaching over and baring a gentle hand to her forearm. She flinched slightly, but didn't remove his hand. He took it as a small victory.

"I don't want to go back there," Eloise whispered, frightfully. "I'll use that noose myself."

Fleamont swallowed. "No. Eloise, you won't be going back there."

She snuck a look at him, her eyebrows raised. Blue eyes ablaze with vivid colour pierced his albeit duller eyes.

"Everything is going to be okay," he assured her, slightly squeezing her arm comfortingly. "I just have to step outside and talk to my colleagues – get some rest." He smiled, standing. Eloise nodded weakly, and watched him leave.

Outside of Eloise's room, Fleamont approached the cluster of his work colleagues and Healer Lopsick.

It was the first time he'd really glanced around the hospital and realised how busy St Mungo's was. Melisande Malfoy Ward for Mystery Maladies was not a ward he had found himself in during his long life. Generally, in his previous line of work in potioneering, he visited Cures for Potion and Poison Calamities on the third floor.

There were bright green robes fluttering about, weaving between one another like an oiled, silent machine. Rickety wooden chairs lined the corridor, occupied mostly by tired and worried families of patients. There was constant noise: patients and Healers talking, people crying, shrieks of pain behind closed doors. Fleamont had a dreadful feeling he knew why St Mungo's was so busy.

He'd become so immersed in one side of the war – the side where Aurors were stationed, fighting the anarchy and constantly battling for the upper hand. In the all-consuming war, he'd forgotten – or rather ignored – the other side. Families attacked and hospitalised, or killed, ambushes of innocents, or Merlin forbid, them getting admitted to St Mungo's for their own sustained injuries. He would be naïve to think the Dark Lord's power hadn't infiltrated St Mungo's, corrupting the staff just enough to allow their own soldiers and followers to be treated. The thought made him queasy, and paranoia itched at his skin as he glanced around the hospital.

"What did she say, Potter?" Dawlish was the first to acknowledge him. He was most definitely seedy, likely because Fleamont had dismissed him in the hospital room. He'd always been quite a petty man in the time Fleamont knew him.

"She's been treated extremely poorly during her time at the orphanage," he grimaced. "The other orphans bullied her and from what I can gather, it's likely the director of the orphanage and the matrons did as well. It seems they are quite eccentric and old-fashioned … Eloise was accused of witchcraft and being evil, and on her birthdays she was gifted a fire lighter and a noose."

Healer Lopsick gasped, raising a pale hand to her mouth, staring at Fleamont in shock and horror.

"Why…" Robarbs tried, his eyebrows furrowed thick. "Why would they give her a lighter and a noose?"

Robards was a Muggleborn wizard. He hadn't grown up completely in the wizarding world, therefore he wasn't well-versed in the history of magical kind. Only a few centuries ago was a time when witches and wizards were hunted to be killed by Muggles – non-magical folk.

"In the witch hunts a few hundred years ago, methods they murdered witches and wizards by were burning at the stake and hanging, also drowning…" Ruth Lopsick trailed off at her last word, glancing at Fleamont questioningly. He didn't answer. Eloise hadn't mentioned anything about attempted drownings, but he wouldn't be surprised if they also occurred during her childhood.

"So they've tried to burn her and hang her?" Robards summarised, baffled.

"They were trying to hang her the day we went to the orphanage. She had a magical outburst, resulting in the other girl, Anne, being pinned to the wall."

"Potter," Dawlish began slowly, his face in a grimace, "Did she mention anything about that outburst? I mean, we all saw – she was changing. That smoky entity she was turning into – I've never seen anything like it."

"Me neither," he replied, shaking his head. "She only mentioned being panicked. I've never heard of accidental magic like that…" He looked up. "Has the investigative team completed their search at the orphanage?"

Shacklebolt spoke up, the first time in a while that Fleamont was aware of. "Willows said he'd Floo over shortly with his report. Didn't sound promising though."

Fleamont run a hand over his exhausted face, scraping over the small beginnings of beard stubble. He had barely been home to rest in the last two days, completely absorbed in the investigation of Eloise and the incident at Hopkins Girls Home.

Before Fleamont had even gotten Eloise to St Mungo's, she'd fallen fast asleep, later explained as magical exhaustion by the Healers. She'd slept, practically comatose, for the following two days. It certainly halted their investigation, not being able to question Eloise on the matter. But there was plenty more that needed to be explored.

As such, the investigative team of the Auror department was sent to Hopkins Girls Home along with an Obliviator, whose role was to erase and smooth over the memories of Muggles who'd witnessed magic. From her report, Fleamont had gathered it had been reasonably easy, once the scattered orphans returned to the orphanage with the matrons. Only a few girls needed thorough Obliviating – the ones who'd aided Anne, and Anne herself, in their torment of Eloise and witnessed her outburst. While the Obliviation was conducted, the investigators searched the premise for magical residues, wards that may have been constructed or any information that may help unravel the mystery that surrounded Eloise. There was still the matter of extracting information from the Director and the Matrons, which was going to happen later in the afternoon. Fleamont had been holding off Shacklebolt until Eloise was awake and he'd had a chance to talk to her first.

"We need to find out anything the girl knows about arriving at the orphanage – maybe it will tell us where she came from, who her family is and why she was left there." Dawlish was grumpy. He'd gotten just a few more hours of rest than Fleamont, but handled it with far less grace.

"Eloise," Healer Lopsick interrupted, with a stern glare, "needs to rest."

"Ruth, just a few minutes," Fleamont suggested quietly. He'd silently taken the reins on this case – something he'd never felt necessary until Eloise. Shacklebolt had allowed it, not surprising really, and stepped back. It became quickly obvious that Fleamont was best at handling Eloise.

Ruth studied Fleamont carefully, before sighing exasperated, waving them on to the room.

Fleamont hesitated briefly, wondering if it was such a good idea that everyone came into Eloise's room. But the Aurors were all already gravitating towards the door, willing themselves to be a part of this conversation. Fleamont knew, with the exception of Shacklebolt, his colleagues didn't trust him completely.

Eloise tensed at the sight of all four Aurors entering the room, Healer Lopsick remaining outside the room this time, presumably to do her rounds of other patients.

Fleamont offered Eloise a reassuring smile, which somehow was enough for her shoulders to relax slightly. He took his seat by her bed again, hoping it showed his support enough.

Eloise studied the men in the room. Somehow, this situation was less stressful than being cornered by a group of teenage girls. She hadn't experienced misfortune at the hands of a male – the only male she had much contact with was the director of Hopkins, Mr Bishop. Fortunately he treated her with mostly indifference. He wasn't a fan of witchcraft. But unlike everyone else at Hopkins, he always showed aloofness tainted with fear.

Eloise thought of herself as quite observant, as a girl always cautiously living in the shadows, and she was quick to notice the shift in attitude. The three men that accompanied Mr Potter, of whom she only knew Dawlish's name, were now regarding her quietly, gently. Sympathetic.

"We just need to ask a few more questions, Eloise. Is that alright?" Mr Potter was the one who spoke, in his gentle and warm voice. It was like dripping honey – comforting.

She nodded, silent, looking around the room reproachfully.

"How did you end up at Hopkins Girls Home?" Mr Potter asked.

She swallowed, as if a lump had suddenly formed in her throat. Guarded, she peered at Mr Potter, trying vainly to ignore the other presences in the room.

"I was left there when I was four. I remember a man taking me there. He didn't say very much, I don't think. Just knocked on the door and then disappeared." Her voice was shaking, bubbling unevenly. She didn't like thinking about that day. It was confusing. It hurt. She never understood much of what happened when she arrived at Hopkins, and in the years that followed her memories became grainy, broken, jarred in her mind.

"Who was the man, Eloise?" Mr Potter asked, a trace of urgency dripping from his voice. "Was it your father?"

She slowly shook her head, her brows knotting slightly. "I don't think so. He… I think he was a stranger." Her frown deepened as she tried to recollect the events from over a decade ago.

She saw Mr Potter exchange a look with his colleagues, who remained quiet at the back of the room.

"Do you remember anything else from that day?"

Eloise hesitated, casting her eyes downwards and letting her hair fall over her face like a curtain. She shook her head.

Silence stretched.

"Eloise, is it okay if we talk about magic again?" Mr Potter was careful with his words. Cautious. Tensed. As if waiting for eruption. A game of roulette.

She didn't respond. She wanted to disappear. Filled with confusion and anger, she wanted to turn herself inside out and shake it all away. This was a trap. Magic was evil. She repeated it over and over in her mind – a mantra.

"Magic isn't evil," Mr Potter told her gently, his hand outstretched and resting on the bed. "I can do magic. Everyone in this room can do magic… including you."

Braced, Fleamont Potter waited for the explosion. But all he saw were silent tears rushing down the cheeks of Eloise. Tears of defeat. Large and tired.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, broken. Tears balanced on her lips and chin before dripping onto the blanket. "I try… not to."

She looked up at Mr Potter pleadingly. Her blue eyes seemed to glow from the fresh tears that pooled within them. "Please don't send me away. I'll try harder, I promise."

Fleamont's chest ached at the pitiful sight of the girl – fearful, confused and pleading. He couldn't begin to understand the exhausting emotions she was battling, but he knew how to help.

"You're not being sent anywhere, Eloise," he said gently, "I promise." Sharp glances were shot his direction by his fellow Aurors, but Fleamont paid no heed. He was the only parent of them, and he was not going to allow harm to come to Eloise, a child that reminded him far too much of his own – despite their contrasting personalities.

Fleamont made eye contact with Healer Lopsick. "When was Calming Drought last administered?"

She paused for a moment, reconciling with her patient chart. "Yesterday evening, sir."

Nodding thoughtfully, Fleamont responded softly, "I would recommend another dose now, Healer Lopsick. She needs rest."

The Healer agreed, scratching at her chart with slightly furrowed brows.

Fleamont glanded back down at the frowning teenage girl, offering her a kind smile. "This kind lady is going to give you medicine that will help you feel calm and relaxed, okay? It is perfectly safe. I want you to get some sleep, Eloise."

Eloise's glassy and pink eyes stared at him. She whispered something incoherently, flushing when she saw his questioning expression.

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

Surprised by the vulnerability unveiled in her large eyes, Fleamont faltered. "Of course, young Schatje."

He smiled down at the exhausted girl, before quietly sweeping out of the room behind the rest of his peers, leaving only the Healer to tend busily to her patient.

His pace slowed once he gently closed the door behind himself, rubbing his face wearily.

Shacklebolt glanced back at him, and did a double-take. "Potter?"

Fleamont shrugged uncomfortably, inclining his head to the door they'd just exited.

Dawlish snorted loudly, rolling his eyes. "Oh, please, Potter," he spat, "she's not your child. She's nothing but a dirty orphan – we're waging a war more important than her beauty sleep."

Fleamont glowered dangerously, perhaps the most anger he'd shown in his new career as an Auror. He gripped his wand, stepping towards Dawlish as his lips pressed white. If he hadn't become consumed by Dawlish's insult, he would have registered Shacklebolt's cautious movement forward.

"That girl in there has been stolen, dumped in a Muggle orphanage, beaten, bullied, broken, and is nothing but a shadow of what a child should be. The war, as far as I'm concerned, will continue tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that." He stepped closer to the younger Auror, who glared back defiantly. "But that little girl's life may not. I will not have her killed, or Merlin forbid, commit suicide from her torment. Not under my watch."

Shacklebolt placed his large hand on Dawlish's shoulder, silently beckoning him to back down. He did, but he was by no means happy about it.

Dawlish turned and stalked down the hallway without another word. Shacklebolt eyed Fleamont carefully, as if procuring a whole other idea of who Fleamont really was.

"Potter, I will file you as lead on Eloise's case, and give you the rope you need to help her, but I hope you don't hang yourself with it," Shacklebolt paused apprehensively, "she is indeed a troubled girl, and the responsibility of helping her should not be made impulsively."

Fleamont sighed, giving a slight nod.

"Talk to your wife, Potter." Shacklebolt briefly placed a hand on his shoulder. Unlike the interaction with Dawlish, this gesture was done warmly and supportively.

Shacklebolt bid farewell with a sharp nod, and followed the track Dawlish had just taken, leaving Fleamont in the hallway.

Motionless, Fleamont finally began to realise the implications of what he was intending to do. To take Eloise under his wing could eventuate to bringing her into his home and his family. Before he became entrenched in his trail of thought, he knew what he needed to do.

Glancing through the door window to the frail young girl, he watched her doze for a few moments before being satisfied she was properly resting. He knew she had drained much of her magical core and rest was imperative for replenishing her magic. Her body would demand rest, regardless of how much she fought the urge to listen.

Finally, he tore his eyes from his young charge and left the wizarding hospital swiftly by means of one of the fireplaces. Floo had always been his least favourite mode of travel, but it was mightly convenient. Stepping inside the large fireplace, he scooped a handful of Floo powder in his palm, confidently tossing in the fire beneath him.

"Potter Manor," he announced clearly as the Floo powder ignited a blossom of green flames.

*Author's Note: Heya everyone! I hope you're enjoying this new story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Please review, favourite and follow! :)