20: Not like this
"So," Slughorn settles down, excitedly at the table. It's been well over a month since he had recovered me from the tea house where I had been left to die by the hands of, supposedly, Eloise Midgen, one whom we suspected was the last member to join the Memory Witches. Most of these days Slughorn would pore through the trash over and over again. It tickled his memory when names popped up, and rereading the discarded memos peeled back more hidden memories for him. I tried his technique at his suggestion, but most of the time I felt bored and uninspired. "the Ministry of Magic has actually been contracting outside muggle help, primarily through Squib agents and a handful of specialists at W, just like you've said!"
Slughorn, despite my vigorous feeding efforts, continue to grow thin, day after day. It was odd that an old man usually seems to shrivel and weaken when he loses weight, but Slughorn definitely seems to have aged rapidly. I tried to put some extra goodies into his food, and he responds by showing off a healthy appetite. But despite this, he seems to be loosing weight. He's pale and slightly anemic, and sometimes I worry if he's working himself to death.
I tell myself that a man like Slughorn, whom I now remember, can be singularly attached to his past. Perhaps he wants to rehash some of his old glory? Perhaps he wants to be recognized by his friends one last time before his twilight years? Perhaps he's just the same old pompous self he used to be, the one that I hated so much so long ago.
His eyes twinkle as he tells me the tale of how Hermione Granger gave jobs to the usually marginalized Squib society by employing them primarily as the liaison between the muggles and the Wizarding world. He tells us how Hermione Granger pulled the ostracized House Slytherin back into the functioning Wizarding society by out reaching to Draco Malfoy to let him fund the Squib charities, thereby unifying the Wizarding community.
"So it's all daisy and rainbows," I comment cheerfully, egging him on.
At least, I can give him some happiness letting himself get preoccupied by our 'research'. To tell you the truth, I sort of gave up on it. It's not because I don't want to return to a life I would have led, nor do I feel that the Memory Witches cannot be allowed to run rampant. But, in utter honesty, place yourself in my shoes and imagine that all you remembered had evaporated before your eyes. And sometimes, these memories trickle back, but they're not integrated.
I remember Padma Patil, and how we used to be inseparable, until the Sorting Hat finally separated us. But they're all pictures.
Mention Padma to me and I recall a face that looks like mine, sometimes bespectacled, sometimes haggard and tired. I recall a sisterly conversation and a montage of fleeting images. But it still remains aloof. Mention my nephews, the cute little faces. I remember how much I loved them, as though I were reading a passage off the page of someone's diary. I sympathize, but I can't appreciate it as much as I would like.
My memory has become something of a phantom limb to me. I am recovering some senses, but it remains alien.
Can you blame me when I feel like I cannot go back?
It would be hard enough if I were merely amnesic with the support of my family trying to help me recover. But something has rendered the World to forget about me as well. And now the whole world and I are like an estranged couple living uncomfortably in the same house. Can you blame me?
Can you blame me that the only tangible human relationship I have is with this crusty old man, whom I remember hating so much. So I let Slughorn fancy piecing together his impossible jigsaw puzzle. He looks happy.
"Listen to this!" he reads, "It's an excerpt from one of the new housing projects to relocate a band of squibs to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. And I quite, 'as per Department of Housing Memo 224-15 squibs and Wizards training with the Civil engineering department of W must be signed authorizations through Home office under Director Granger'. The section of non magical personnel within the Ministry Personnel office has to pass through Home office for authorization. Another memo states that a major housing facility will also be subject to, and I quote 'Health inspections of waterways and reservoirs with St. Mungo's until squib engineers can be specialized and reassigned'."
"Why does this matter?" I pass him a toast I had just buttered.
"Hence, to access these civil plannings, we have two focal points within the Ministry," Slughorn explains, "one which manages the plans, through the Home office, which is natural as all Squib related activities are essentially considered muggle based until deemed magical, and another through the health department. Now which department do you think will be more essential to our devious little witches to contaminate?"
"So," I try to wrap around his suggestion, which seems rather far fetched, "you think that the Witches introduced some potion form through St Mungo's health inspection?"
"It's the best possible theory that fits, my dear!" Slughorn claps his hands, settling down the memos and stuffing himself with toast.
"It's also possible that someone in the ministry, who regulates the water supplies to also tamper with them as well," I point out.
Slughorn frowns a moment. "St. Mungo's is far more accessible at this time than infiltrating the Minsitry."
"Why?" I scratch my head, "I though you snooped around all over the place as a janitor."
"I used to," he shies away.
"Used to?" Did he get caught?
Slughorn avoids the question, suddenly turning grumpy on me. "Pass me a smoke. I seem to have depleted my stash of tobacco. Did you use my pipes, young lady?"
He's avoiding something. I fish my pack out and toss it to him.
"You look tired." I begin warily.
"Well, I have that much to do since you're entirely inept in helping me sort through the memos!" he snaps.
"Fine," I concede. If that's what it would take to pry him away from his precious documents. "I'll sort through the memos. I want you to take a breather. It's not like we'll be forgotten more than we already are."
That's the problem when the world doesn't know you exist. You can go out and buy groceries. You can survive a bit with a little magic. But essentially, you lose the safety of society. And with the Witches prowling about, we remained in hiding too long.
That night I am awakened by a violent coughing fit from the other room. I find Slughorn reeled over his pile of garbage. He had been reading up well into the night. A candle toppled over, but gratefully avoided catching fire, drowning in the wax.
"Lumos" I command to the wisps of magic that still obey my voice.
Slughorn seems more anemic than usual. And I'm a little late in noticing that he has a pool of blood spilling out of his mouth.
St. Mungo's is not far. Closer to us that Hogsmeade, in the hidden Wizarding district of London. Emergency apparition areas are always open, and without much fuss I am able to arrive at the Emergency Entrance with Slughorn's wand.
Healers rush out to greet us, and within some hectic moments Slughorn is hauled off to one of the twenty odd beds crammed into the hectic bustle of the Emergency Ward.
"I found him coughing up blood," I explain to one of the masked Healers, a tall dark skinned Wizard, after he had settled Slughorn down into a stable sleep.
"And you're his..." the Healer trails off.
"I'm his... stepdaughter." for lack of preparation. We hadn't exactly planned on anything remotely plausible. I was barely able to put my robe over my nightgown before I apparated over here, to say nothing of conjuring an false identity.
"Right..." the Healer nods knowingly. "Well, your Father's stable now. At least he's not coughing up blood. But he does seem to have contracted a muggle disease, which is really odd."
"I thought that was impossible." I frown. Wizards weren't supposed to get muggle diseases. Muggles weren't supposed to get magical diseases. "Are you sure you haven't missed anything?"
That came out wrong, and the Healer looked positively annoyed.
"St. Mungo's is the best hospital in all the wizarding world, Miss..." he trailed off. "I didn't get your names."
"Patil. Parvati Patil," I sigh. What's the use, no one remembers me, anyway.
"Any relation to Padma?" the Healer asks.
"No," I snap. "There are a lot of Patils."
"Well, you certainly look like her." he shrugs. "And your stepfather's name is?"
"Slughorn. Horace Slughorn."
"I haven't heard of a anyone named Slughorn, before; not recently at least," the healer squints. "Are you sure he's a Wizard? Because, if he's actually a muggle... or a squib, for that matter, it would explain a lot. Far more than believing he's actually a Wizard with a rare case of muggle disease."
"This is his wand, okay?" I snap at the Healer, waving Slughorn's wand before him. "Shouldn't you be trying to find out what's wrong with him? He's been loosing weight rapidly, lately."
The healer shakes his head. "Assuming he is a Wizard, despite the fact that no one's known of any Slughorns for a century or so, I'd say it would be some sort of rare form of curse that slowly petrifies you bit by bit. If he were a squib, or a muggle, I'd say he has something called 'Cancer'. But I'm not much into muggle diseases."
"Cancer?" I roll the odd language in my mouth. "Crab? He has Crab disease?"
"Look," he sighs. "I'm not much of a muggle disease expert. But don't worry. We have someone who specializes in muggle diseases. I'll have her come and look at your father."
"Why?" I glare at him. "I told you he's not a muggle! He's not a squib! He's a perfectly respected Master of Charm..." I catch myself... "...ing things... You know. He's masterful at charming things."
The healer squints at me. "Right. I'll be back in a second."
The healer paces away, shaking his head. I haven't felt so lost; not even when I was alone in the muggle world. Back then, I didn't care. I had felt numb and drained, and while I was afraid of shadows, I wasn't afraid I would lose someone; I only had to fear for myself. But now, the only person who knows me is suffering from a blood coughing crab curse and I'm not sure the healers know what they're talking about.
"I'll be back, Professor," I pat his arms, and I imagine to myself that he's conscious and tells me off. It's a habit of talking to myself, imagining conversations.
I get up to take a breather. Fishing my pockets for my pack of cigarettes, I walk out into the cold empty night. Unfortunately, I just remember that I had tossed my pack of cigarettes to Slughorn, and all I have in my pockets are the two vials of polyjuice I had concocted from the hairs retrieved from Roger's flat. I am desperate for a smoke, and it takes me to dissipate my anxiety to inhale something.
Then an idea strikes.
What if I could pass myself off as Roger. He's a respectable figure in the Wizarding community, an employee of the W. Perhaps the Healer could give me a straight forward answer if I vouched for him.
"Here goes nothing." I pull out the two vials. The one from the closet is not my first choice. I had to pick odd strands of wool from the mess, and who knows what other strands Roger had carried on over. The second vial from the bed looked better. I walk into a sufficiently hidden corner around the entrance.
Polyjuice. How I hate the smell. The disgusting concoction of dissolved hair enters my mouth. I only take a small sip, just enough to pass an hour or so. Wincing, I close my eyes as my body aches and groans under the transformation. I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to feel odd man parts dangling about. Ignoring the sensations of the new body I just hurry back into the Hospital building, hoping I can catch up with the Healer.
The dark skinned healer is at the station, chatting up with the nurses. His mask is loosely dangling from his ears, and to my surprise he looks rather charming, unlike his annoying first impression.
"... I have no idea where these vagrants came from." he's complaining, obviously about me.
"Well, we'll have the test results soon, Healer Zabini," the nurse informs him.
Zabini? That name sounds familiar.
But before my mind can try to fish up any names, the Healer notices me and turns around. His unmasked face sends a shockwave down my mind. I stagger back, as though the wind was knocked out of me. Suddenly memories of this man surfaces like a giant Tsunami, rushing forward with horrible force. My heart leaps to my mouth and I feel faint.
We were lovers! I can't believe I forgot! Blaise Zabini! Blaise! My heart is pounding.
I stumble. He catches me as I sag backwards.
"Hey!" he looks at me with endearing eyes.
Oh, I don't want him to look at me like this. Not when I look like Roger!
But suddenly, his hands are on my cheek. His hands are softly stroking me. And his tender eyes look at me lovingly.
What?
"Hey! Tracey! I was looking for you. I have a patient you need to see, if you're feeling alright."