Chapter Three

Fleamont's arrival at Potter Manor was quickly succeeded by the familiar smells of home. Assorted herbs tickled his senses, paired with a woodiness and freshly picked flowers. He smiled softly, inhaling as his eyes fluttered shut.

A force of nature, his wife was. Without fail, she pottered in her extensive garden, which included several greenhouses, and always collected several new arrangements of flowers which were scattered carefully around the house. One elegant vase was perched beside the fireplace he just materialised in, holding a collection of roses, jasmine, carnations and peruvian lilies. She always incorporated hints of herbs in her arrangements for Fleamont. She knew of his fondness of potioneering, and hoped the scents of familiar herbs brought cherished memories whenever he smelled them.

"Monty? Is that you, dear?" A voice sweet as honey called through several walls. Her call was followed by gentle padding across polished hardwood floors.

"Yes, it's me," he replied, stepping carefully from the fireplace as to not track ash onto the sparkling clean floors. As he dusted his robes, a figure entered his peripheral vision. Looking up, he saw his loving wife beaming at him as if they hadn't seen one another for months.

Euphemia fluttered across the sitting room, her crimson robes catching in her own breeze. Euphemia was a dainty woman with a small frame. Her hair was unapologetically peppered with silver hairs, but she was undeniably a dark-haired woman. Her face was smooth and fair, only gentle creases of age permeated at the corners of her eyes. Beyond that, she had aged wonderfully; albeit it was credited to her fortunate life with little stress. Her hair was intertwined in a loosely elegant braid that brushed between her shoulder blades. Stray hairs had fallen free from the knot, however, between her activities as an energetic Lady of the house.

Her dazzling smile revealed tell-tale dimples and iridescent brown eyes. Even after decades of marriage, she never ceased to take his breath away.

Euphemia descended on her husband with three kisses – one on his lips and two on either cheek, before she drew him into her embrace. She smelled much like her bouquets of flowers, mixed with honey and earthy soil. Fleamont lightly kissed her neck as his arms looped around her waist.

"What might you be cooking, my dear?" Fleamont murmured as he continued nuzzling the crook of her neck. "I'm absolutely famished." It was only as he said it that Fleamont realised he was indeed starving. His stomach made noises of agreeing contempt.

Euphemia laughed lightly, leaning backwards to peer up at her beloved husband.

"You always did have the nose of a Chimaera," she mused fondly, rolling her eyes and patting his broad chest. "As luck would have it, Willy and I just finished baking a treacle tart."

Fleamont straightened brightly and grinned down at his wife with boyish charm suggestively.

Rolling her eyes once more, Euphemia nodded with a laugh. "Of course," she responded to his unsubtle gesture, "Let me cut you a slice."

With their arms still looped around each other, Euphemia guided her husband to the kitchen.

"So, mind telling me where you've been for the last two days?" Euphemia piped up casually.

Fleamont whistled lowly. "Ah, yes," he hesitated, "I have something to discuss with you."

Euphemia parted from Fleamont as they entered the grand kitchen to fetch a knife and the still warm treacle tart, while Fleamont beelined to the stool at the island bench directly opposite her. She busily set to work cutting a generous slice of treacle tart as Fleamont began reeling off his most recent adventure as an Auror.

Euphemia listened silently, furrowing her eyebrows throughout the story with trepidation. She stood in front of the tart with her arms crossed comfortably with a sad grimace as Fleamont finally finished the story. He watched his wife for a moment, before choosing to allow her to collect her thoughts. As he did, he forked another piece of tart and deposited it in his mouth, chewing slowly as to savour the delicious dessert.

"So, Monty, what exactly is it you need to discuss with me that concerns this poor girl?" Euphemia enquired, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Fleamont hesitated, avoiding eye contact as he swallowed the tart audibly. "Well, er," he began nervously, "I was thinking of taking Eloise under my wing – er, making her my case… It may involve having a more… hands-on approach to her care for a while." Fleamont pushed the last piece of treacle tart around his plate with the fork.

"You mean to say," Euphemia stated slowly, "You would like to bring the girl here. To our home," she added. Fleamont glanced up apprehensively, nodding. Euphemia made a small noise under her breath as she mulled over her husband's predicament he brought to her.

"Let me get this straight – you wish to bring home a young girl that you met two days ago in a Muggle orphanage whilst she was pinning another girl to a wall and suffocating with uncontrolled and dangerous magic, where she would be with our family, our son."

Silent, Fleamont offered another weak nod.

"She is dangerous, Monty," Euphemia chastised, eyebrows knotted. "She is unstable. What she needs is professional help."

"Mia, you haven't met her. She's just lost. She doesn't understand who she is, or what she is. These last few years I've been an Auror, I've always felt one step behind the rest, stumbling through jobs while trying to convince myself I'm trying to help fight this war. Helping Eloise, protecting her – it's the only time I've felt like I've done any good. She deserves a chance."

Euphemia watched her husband carefully, analysing this new display of passion and fire. She'd seen it years ago but looked on as it slowly dissipated in his Auror career. He'd lost his way, she knew, and he struggled with it mostly alone, too proud to let his wife in.

"What about James?" She finally said, raising her eyebrows.

"Summer holidays are next week, so we'll talk to him when he arrives home. If he's uncomfortable with the idea, Eloise won't stay."

"Oh please," Euphemia snapped exasperatedly, "James will jump at the chance to have someone to bother for the summer."

Fleamont's lips twitched slightly and he released an amused chuckle. Despite herself, Euphemia offered a small smile, thinking of her son affectionately.

"He will, won't he," Fleamont agreed. "Perhaps the more important thing to discuss with James would be the importance of treading carefully around Eloise. She's plagued with terrible memories, none of which will disappear overnight. If James were to say or do something to upset her, I'm unsure he'd be able to fend her off." Despite himself, he added with wonder, "She really is a force to be reckoned with."

Euphemia gave a heavy sigh. "Monty, I understand your desire to help her – that she feels like your… purpose. But this is a living child we are talking about. It is a huge commitment to bring her into our home." Euphemia edged around the counter until she stood in front of Fleamont, her hand brushing up his arm until it rested on his shoulder. "But I will help in any way I can."

Fleamont almost sagged in relief, enveloping his wife in a tight hug. She rested against his chest, sighing.

"Besides," she murmured, "We always used to talk about having two children."

Fleamont chuckled lightly, kissing her peppered hair. It was true, many years ago when they began attempting to conceive they spoke of their dream family. Two children to keep one another company, to grow up together. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans. After over fifteen years of trying to get pregnant, their miracle was conceived – a baby boy. After his birth, they never spoke of another child, both seemingly grateful to finally have one child and unwilling to go through the long and emotionally draining process of doing it all over again.

"Thank you, Mia," Fleamont pressed his lips to her forehead.

Abruptly, Euphemia stepped backwards and brushed herself free of remnants of flour.

"Well, I best go prepare a room for Eloise." Euphemia began muttering to herself an extensive list of supplies she would need and tasks she needed to complete before Eloise came to the manor.

Fleamont smiled at his wife with amusement as she tottered out of sight. Checking his watch, he rubbed his eyes wearily. He best get back to St Mungo's before Eloise awoke.

Back at St Mungo's, it was even busier now than when he left.

Healers milled around in twisted ribbons of green robes, dancing between one another with smooth synchronicity. There was a sense of urgency to their hushed tones and exchanges of information.

"… Attack…"

"—Three fatalities."

"I'm running out of beds—"

Fleamont quickly decided it was best to get to Eloise and keep out of the way of the triage Healers.

Making his way up flights of stairs and weaving down hallways, he eventually found himself at Eloise's door in Melisande Malfoy Ward for Mystery Maladies.

Only, it was not Eloise in the bed. A woman in her thirties laid in the bed instead, blood tricking from the corners of her mouth and eyes as she wailed in agony.

Fleamont's heart began to race, his eyes darting around with panic. Where was she? Had she run away? Had someone taken her? The endless possibilities filtered through his mind with no end in sight.

"Mister Potter," his trail of thoughts was interrupted. The familiar voice belonged to Healer Lopsick, who appeared noticeably more flustered. Sweat beaded on her hairline and brows, her chest rising and falling with vigour.

"Eloise?" he voiced, taken aback by his own tone of dread. Oh Merlin, why did he leave her alone? This was all his fault.

"She's been transferred to the Janus Thickey Ward, fourth floor," she responded with a nod, "Didn't wake at all when we moved her – I would say she's still sleeping." The Healer shook her head with bafflement and sympathy before getting called to a patient's bedside.

With perhaps more urgency, Fleamont wasted no time in heeding the directions to his new young charge, skirting around busy medics.

He couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief when he finally found Eloise. As predicted by the Healer, she was fast asleep.

Dozing in the hospital bed, she looked peaceful. So much so that, if Fleamont didn't know better, she appeared to be like any other child, without a care in the world. But Fleamont did know better.

Her golden curls tumbled over her shoulders in an unruly tangle. He spied the healing bruises on her collarbone beneath her hair, and the scabbed over cuts that lashed her bared arms. Studying her with more attention, Fleamont noted the slight sinks between her cheekbones and jawline, and the obvious sternum as her chest moved with each breath. As he became mesmerised watching his respiration, he noticed it begin to increase. It was subtle at first but after several minutes it became hitched and quick. A frown formed on her previously peaceful face. Scattered twitches occurred throughout her body: her neck jarred to the side, her brows furrowed, her fists slightly curled.

Her breathing soon became nothing short of panicked. A nightmare.

Fleamont reached out gingerly, carefully touching her forearm with soft fingertips as to not frighten her awake.

Eloise's eyelids flutter open sporadically, her large doe eyes of azure blue darting at her surroundings until they settled on the wizard standing beside her. Her breathing began to relax, as did her tensed limbs.

"You had a nightmare," Fleamont gently supplied, although he was quite sure she didn't need it. The images of her dreams seemed to continue to haunt her beyond waking – he could see as such in her eyes.

Eloise murmured incoherently as she gathered herself, propping herself upright against the dense pillows.

"I didn't think you would still be here," she softly confessed, ducking her head. Fleamont observed her for a moment, his chest swelling with sympathy.

"I promised, didn't I, young Schatje?" He smiled slightly at her.

Eloise cocked her head somewhat, unfamiliar with the nickname he'd apparently coined for her. But it didn't sound awful and deprecating, like all the other nicknames she'd been given in her life.

"When do I have to go back?" She suddenly asked, dread laced in her voice. "To Hopkins?"

Fleamont blinked, almost owlishly. "Go back?" He repeated. He pursed his lips and moved closer to Eloise, lowering himself onto the chair beside her bed. "Schatje, you're never going back there. Not ever again."

It was her turn to blink, shocked. It twisted at Fleamont's heart as he watched her deflate with relief. She actually thought he'd make her go back to that horrid orphanage? He couldn't fathom a world in which he would ever allow that to happen.

"… Sir?" she asked in a small voice, fiddling with the bedsheets.

"Yes?"

She swallowed heavily, chewing at her bottom lip. "Where will I go, then?"

Fleamont paused. It was at this moment that he truly realised the magnitude of what he was about to do. He was taking full responsibility for this girl, whom he barely knew. She had a questionable history, unknown scars, and needed plenty of patience and nurturing to put her childhood in the past. He honestly had no idea what he was getting himself, and his family, into. What if she proved truly dangerous?

Another thought occurred to him and was perhaps even more concerning. What if she flourished in their home? What if she developed into the young witch she was supposed to be, but was somehow torn from her life? What if he grew attached, as well as Euphemia, and James, only for it to be short-lived.

Perhaps it was selfish of him. Moreover, maybe it was ignorance. Eloise was sure to have family, and it was possible they hadn't been the ones to deliver her to a Muggle orphanage. What if she became a member of their family, only to be ripped away?

Despite every thought reeling through his brain, he smiled at the girl in front of him.

"You are coming home with me, Eloise."

Her eyes widened with genuine shock. Shock that a perfect stranger would take her into his home. Shock that he didn't think she was a freak of nature that needed a beating

"You're not like the others, are you?" She pondered aloud. "You really don't think I'm a monster?"

Fleamont offered a kind smile. "You are not a monster, dear girl. You're just like me. You're just like all of us." He gestured around, beckoning her to look at the levitating chart at the bed end, the tray holding a cup of water also floating in thin air and the animated paintings on the walls.

At his words, Eloise hesitated. She still had tremendous difficulty understanding a whole world she belonged to had been right here all along. There were all these people that were like here, yet she'd never crossed paths with any of them before?

Fleamont noticed the distrust in her eyes. He reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew his wand.

"This is my wand," Fleamont told her simply, holding in his palm. "We – wizards and witches – get a wand chosen for us as a child. Well, the wand itself chooses the wizard," he corrected. "The wand is used to harness magic in the most… controlled and powerful way. It centres one's magic, I suppose. Wands are how we perform magic." He offered the wand to Eloise, who carefully took it. Curiosity shrouded her blue eyes as she traced the wood with her fingertips.

"I can do… things without a wand," she hesitantly said, her eyes knotted with faint confusion.

Fleamont nodded in agreement. "Ah, yes, you most certainly can." His mind filled with the recent memories of her summoning a storm and pinning a Muggle to a wall. "Some wizards – or witches, in your case – perform what we call 'accidental magic'. It usually happens in childhood, before a child learns to control their magic. Since you never went to Hogwarts, the wizarding school, you have not yet learnt to control yours."

"How is it a wand?" Eloise questioned, eyeing the slender piece of wood suspiciously. "It just looks like… wood."

Fleamont offered a low chuckle. "Every wand is different, but I can assure you it is not just a stick of wood." He watched as she twirled his wand gently in her fingers. "Mine is Applewood, with a unicorn hair core."

"Do you think… Would, um, would I get a wand?" Eloise's expression was a mixture of hopeful and nervous, as if waiting for a quick dismissal.

"Of course," Fleamont was swift to ease her mind, "if you want one."

Eloise made eye contact with the greyed wizard and gave an appreciative nod. "I would like that."

Despite the guarded demeanour of the young girl, he was pleased with the progress she was making. He knew it would take time for her to fully accept her new life and become comfortable.

Eloise had apparently become more daring with the wand she was holding, because gave it an experiment flick.

Quickly thereafter, the century old painting of a renowned Healer on the wall opposite her burst into flames.

Eloise gasped, dropping the wand in her lap as she stared wide-eyed at her destruction. Fleamont was quick to reassure her as he picked up his wand.

He intently flicked it in the direction of the fiery painting. "Glacius."

Eloise watched from under her lashes nervously, guilt evident in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, sir," she whispered. Tears pooled in her eyes, daring to fall. Fleamont paused to study her, saddened to recognise fear.

He reached his hand out, careful to slowly touch her forearm as to not frighten her.

"You have nothing to apologise for, young Schatje." He smiled, "It was an impressive show of magic."

Eloise was shocked to hear a quiet chuckle leave his lips. "You are very powerful, Eloise," he pursed his lips with a moment of hesitation, "but you have a lot of work to do to control your magic properly. It will be difficult."

Eloise nodded, slightly tilting her chin upwards. "Yes, sir." She welcomed the challenge.

"Please," he waved his hand light-heartedly, "My friends call me Monty."

Eloise gave a small smile. "Monty," she repeated.

He returned her smile with a warm one of his own.

"Now, how about we get you prepared to come home?"

Ever so slightly, the smile on Eloise's lips widened, revealing one dimple to the right side of her chin.