23: Retreading my steps
For once in a long time, I wake up leisurely in my own apartment. I've missed the old place, how I had scrubbed toilets and washed dishes to finally reach a point in my life where I had worked with my hands to build up from nothing a place of my own. The bed, I had salvaged from the dumpster outside the fish'n'chips and was the most recent acquisition. I had grown used to the scent of urine emanating from it, despite vigorous efforts to try and expunge the smell, including various labels of Frebreze, culinary spices that I borrowed from the various establishments that had utilized my improving polishing skills, and finally trying to just blow cigarette smoke into it, because that would be a greater improvement. Despite all that, I feel hesitant to actually Scourgify the scent away. It's not that I'll be detected for unregulated magic. From what I've observed, low level spells in the muggle world is hardly even noticed upon due to the excess of magical devices flooding out into the open. Somehow, I am just feel a welling anxiety of existential absurdity at the situation.
Take my blanket for instance, an rainbow colored extravagance of alpaca bought off a Peruvian street vendor for a bargain, rather nouveau bohemian, if you will, in contrast to my juvenille predilection for white lace. One can argue that my entire setup is the color of my poverty. But I was self sufficient and rather content until the night that I left my cigarette lighter in the meat freezer. No, I don't think i need to return to fish'n'chips. I am definite that that part of my life is over. With great power comes a great lack of daily responsibilities. Of course you still had to find food. Gamp's law clearly showed that you can't work without actually eating something; to which the muggle's Maxwell would interpret it as the first law of thermodynamics (the other muggle laws were questionable in the Wizarding world, but the first law was verily universal).
I pull out a stick of my unhealthy habit and light it in my bed, pulling aside the drapes and reaching for an empty soda can that I had used as my make-shift ash tray.
Hogwarts. Gryffindor. Lavender Brown. Horace Slughorn. Institute of Advanced Charms. Ministry of Magic. Hogsmeade. The Leaky.
I go over my acquired memories as though flipping through a page of an old year book. I linger on my memories of Hogwarts, and it is there; not fresh or anything, but it is there. I recall the sorting hat, and even the words that it said, and even the memory of the feeling.
Another Patil, we have here.
Daughter of a Serpent, and the Bird, its Prey.
One to be light and one to be grey.
But you don't care much for wizarding greats,
nor wish to be famous for intellectual heights.
It's not your fault, nor a great boon,
but you're a kind hearted soul,
innocent and true.
In the end you'll find questions,
and may seek rewards,
but true to your nature,
you'll find what is truly yours... Gryffindor.
Half assed prophesy, I sigh. It's alarmingly fresh. And yet distinctly apart from me.
"You still aren't going to tell me what sort of magic you used to make me forget everything?" I ask.
Yes, I had to drag Eloise Midgen to my place. I wasn't going to reveal Slughorn's secret lair to them, I wasn't going to obliviate her, or kill her; for Heaven's! Still, there was no kind little soul in my heart to have a good night's sleep, and having strapped her to a chair in duct tape, I left her there to boil over in the corner.
A muffle angry mumble escaped her mouth. Oh, yes, duct tape. The magic muggle solution to everything.
I pick up my dear wand and flick the tape off, a bit forcefully.
"You were saying?' I drawl, like a villain. Tee hee.
"You'll never-" Okay. Duct tape back on, then.
It wasn't a desperate situation. I had my wand. The wand is like a brush to the painter. No doubt, those adept at art would able to draw masterpieces with just throwing pain on a canvas, but to the general commercial artist, the brush was nearly the entire medium through which you performed it. Hence, noobs like Eloise Midgen who hadn't been privy to the arts of higher charms still found it impossible to perform basic magical feats without it. And to someone like myself, who had spent nearly most of my adult life trying to master it with greater depth, it was a great ally.
First thing to do was to check up on Blaise.
As I recall, Blaise had a private clinic in Hogsmeade, in addition to his responsibilities at St. Mungo's. And as I pick at that memory, more and more resurface, some with deep emotions, sleeping over, good times, and some weird ones, too. But at the end of the train of memories I recall spraining my ankle at the bottom of the stairs, crying, while trying to run away. I review those memories, and I'm unable to fully commit into the emotion. It doesn't pain me, it doesn't shame me, and it only leaves me only vaguely contemplative. This realization jerks me into a worrying fit.
The Blood Moon had threatened that I would have to sacrifice the promise of recovering my memories. Despite that, I had been able to crawl out of that situation alone. Or had I? The vision under the Blood Moon's promise felt far more real than any of my memories I had recovered. Was it possible to mend the rift between my lost memories and who I was?
Primal forces are tricky. Despite being mostly bound by the Words, which are the center of Magic, it isn't necessarily so. The Patils, for instance, and many major Wizards in the ancient homeland of India, depend on chakra magic. Likewise, eastern sorcerers and quasi religious magic users depend on ki. Only the west this over dependence on non verbal magic has been focused into blood magic, and through subversion of those magics by the Dark Lords had they been considered taboo, and thus withered away from the mainstream practice. However, the primal forces themselves, are undeniably there. They are present in the blood curse of Lycanthropy, who are bound to the Moon; they are present in the blood hunger of Vampyres, who are bound to the Shadows; there are a plethora of other creatures, like the Dementors, who are bound to the primal magic of Fear, and Unicorns who are bound to the concept of Purity. They are there, but in modern magical life, their use is bound by taboo, or only considered under the inquisitive eyes of peer reviewed research.
Still...
I pull on my cloak, ready to apparate into the middle of Hogsmeade.
And then, something tugs at the back of my mind. And despite myself, I enter the bathroom, toiling away for nearly an hour until the mirror nearly stains from my intent stares. Satisfied I looked good enough, but not too good to seem like I was desperate, not too careless to seem like he didn't matter, but not too right for him to notice the subtle details of his likes and dislikes cast on my image.
There are still a couple of items I require to bring myself to my most powerful state. An amulet, a ring, some other augmentation trinkets. They had less value before, but perhaps because I hadn't necessarily feared for my life so much. I'm out to
Crack.
If anyone would recognize me, good. I feel confident enough to reveal myself to my friends, and defend myself against enemies.
Hogsmeade. It used to be small, and my memories show me the town when it had been both small and large. I walk into town, mostly cloaked, though I wouldn't mind if someone picked a conversation. I once grew up in a time when fear had stricken the townfolk silent, and suspicious eyes fell unkindly on everyone's neighbors. But the eyes that avoided me was more of a lack of care than of anything else. Everyone was more concerned with their parchments, and their style spoke more of trying to show off where they belonged, as though everyone was trying to say "Look at me, I'm sort of important; really busy, though, so don't actually talk to me."
A lot of folks gathered outside the first WWW shop, where Fred and George had set up their base of operations, and where now, only falsely enthusiastic shop keepers try to imitate the zeal for fun that glowed when the twins had been together. That was the thing about twins, you see, you resent the fact that everyone looks at you as one part of a set, yet when they are gone, you feel that you have lost the whole of yourself. George, unlike his busy younger brother, rarely appears in public. He holds the rights, and he lets Ron do as he please, but he had lost the spark that created the ingenious jokes and pranks.
I don't begrudge Ron, but with Ron, the company went into a more practical direction. Either from Ron's experience with Harry, or his more timid nature, Ron shied away from jokes and more on to more practical things. Perhaps it was from the grim things he had seen. I wouldn't know. I didn't know Ron that well to speculate.
Across from the WWW was Lavender's old place, where her mother had tried to maintain the business. But with Lavender gone, the place settled into just another robes shop.
Turning right, I lead up and onwards to a desolate alley where the recent fad has become to sell smuggled muggle goods. A lot of wizards sport bright red colors, in honor of the Gryffindor heroes, and flaunt their muggle love these days. But even I can spot one or two stubborn Slytherins in their dark cowls, sadly perusing the muggle artifacts with barely smothered interest, wanting to fit in. I spot the man I am looking for. Tall, dark, thin, his wardrobe is obtusely dark and green, and his sharp haughty chin hides no disdain as it directs his long fingers here and there among the cartons of muggle cigarettes. He finds what he's looking for; it's a subtle change of expression, but it leaps out to me from my memory. An arch of the eyebrows, a small distinct curl of his thin lips, and he has found his brand.
"I'll take two of these," he drawls, as though he is granting some great boon to the shop keeper.
"One galleon," the peddler responds.
He's been here often, and he deftly slips out the required, and no doubt prepared, change in a flash, while expertly hiding his treasure deep within his pockets. He is swift to disappear, but I am swifter.
"Your office available for a joint?" I am in his face, just as he turns around. A flash of surprise. And while I had expected it to follow with a break down into a pleasant rare smile, he resumes his scowl.
"You!" Blaise Zabini points at me, accusingly.
"How's Slughorn?" I forcefully take his arms, leading him towards his dingy clinic.
"Parvati Patil," he speaks my name. It's not the first time I've heard someone speak my name since I lost my memory, but it's so refreshing to hear it from him.
It takes a while for my heart to stop pounding.
"Yeah," I whisper, "remember me?"
"How can I forget?" he snorts, masking something with his usual derision. "I see you've grown a habit of jumping on my out of nowhere."
"I've had practice."
We're near his clinic, and as if to show off, I lead the way up stairs. He seems only mildly surprised, following me as though to say, 'let's see how this goes'.
"I can see that," he grumbles.
I step aside for him to open the doors for me. "After you," he bows a mock curtsy.
I throw my cloak on the old couch, noticing a thin layer of dust about some furniture. "Not seeing regulars, these days?"
He ignores me, fishing out one of his cigarettes. He holds a stick before him, as though philosophically pondering its pregnant theme of mortality, before handing one to me. I let him light it for me.
It's something about the sensation of smell, as I have read, that tickles the memory best.
"Your Professor is fine," he finally replies, "resting at my place... which I have an uneasy feeling that you already know where."
I shrug. For a brief moment my mind swims with uncertainty again. What is the value of the past without the strings of emotions attached to memory? Should I burden him with our shared past that we have only fragments of between ourselves? Fuck it.
"I used to live there," I inhale. I notice he barely reacts. "You don't seem surprised."
"I just don't remember. It doesn't mean I'm a moron," he scoffs.
"Still, you're pretty accepting to the fact that someone you don't remember suddenly pops up in your life claiming your past."
"You have no idea what I've been through," he complains, (to me!) "I broke up with Tracey Davis; I've developed a weird preoccupation with your sister; Hermione Granger actually arranged a court order to put a curse on me, preventing me from approaching a hundred paces of Padma Patil."
I can't help laughing.
"What's so funny?" he snaps. "I've been practically ostracized as a creepy Fuck, and Roger Davies will probably set his corporate goons on me the moment he sees me."
"I doubt Roger will ever do that," I snicker. "You know he's having an affair with Tracey, right?"
Yup. Finally got him. He's looking like an idiot right now. He bobs his mouth a couple of times before he stubs out the cigarette he's holding and lights another one.
"You found Tracey's hair for your polyjuice in Roger's apartment?" he asks.
I never doubted that he was smart. I nod.
"I've known she's been drifting apart early on," he remarks, a bit sadly. "With all the muggle outreach programs, she's been working closer and closer with Roger lately. We had a couple of rows about that. But with my penchant for stalking Roger's wife, I really didn't have much on my defense."
"Do you seriously expect me to pity you?" I scowl.
"'spose not." he barks a laugh. "
An awkward silence fills the room. Who are we to each other, I suppose, is the central question. It's as foggy as our memory of our shared past. Relationships are hard enough even without a magical amnesia. I want to ask him what he remembers; but would that mean anything? I want him to ask something, offer up a snippet of his own recovered memories; is he afraid?
"What have you been up to?" he asks, tentatively. Thank you, Blaise, for being you.
I narrate a brief version of my past year or so, ending up with sometime around today. I pause a while, wondering if he would ask me anything, but he only nods me on.
At the end of my tale I share a gaze with Blaise, his expression mirroring my own. Are we anything beyond two people who have unwittingly read a shoddily written story that stars both of them as a main character?
He must have sensed the awkwardness, too.
"Are you going to recover your memories?" he asks.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Well.. like you've said, you're pretty much safe as long as you don't actually pursue those witches. You can live your life blissfully in ignorance."
"Do I look blissful to you?"
"Yeah," he shrugs. He doesn't say anything, but I know what he's thinking. Why make trouble?"
"Trouble?" I am speechless.
"Look, Parvati, no offense but this conversation," he waves about, "just between you and me, is like something between strangers. Do you think how bad it will be if you actually run into your mother? Do you think she'll be fine with it? She's living perfectly happily with Padma and her children, and suddenly she has an unmistakably undeniably but totally oblivious daughter on her hands. Isn't she better off as she is?"
And like the prick he was, the ever so intelligent prick, he distills the essence of the situation and brings the single question that matters up front.
"How can you say that? You of all people?"
"What do you mean, 'me of all people'?" he sighs, "I don't know you Parvati Patil. I'm glad you're okay, and it explains my stupid behavior last year, but still you sitting there doesn't ring a bell anywhere in my mind. You say that when you look at me you can recall memories and stuff. Well I can't!"
That last bit came out as a repressed bit of anger, and I am startled that he isn't really dismissive. He's actually truly angry at me. Me? Why?
"Look! This isn't my fault!"
"I don't care who's fault it is!" he snaps. He shakes his head, massaging his brow, trying to gather himself. "Look. I'm really sorry about you. But let's say that when this is all over... you've defeated the 'Bad Guys'. What then? Do we live happily ever after? Acting like we're old lovers or such?"
"Don't you feel the least bit angry that someone's wiped your mind? And that they're in a position where they can erase anyone they please?"
"Why would they ever care about me?" he groans. "Don't you see? It's you who've gotten yourself in this mess! If you hadn't puttered around everywhere drawing a target onto yourself, do you think they would have cared an iota to who the fuck you were?"
Shit! Tears.
I'm not going to cry. Not for this creep. Not in front of this creep. No. No tears, dammit!
I get up before he can see me, heading to the door.
"Look, Parvati!" his voice echoes after a brief pause; he probably feels bad. He's probably regretting what he said.
Let him regret, selfish prick.
I am out of his clinic before I can't help it any more, bursting into a ... well.. a bawl. Yes. There I am. I'm not the single tear sort of girl. I've crumpled on the street, bawling at the top of my lungs.
Well, what do you expect. I let it all out. All the anger, and the terror, the fear, and anxiety, the loss and defeat. Everything just comes wailing out. I've been a big girl so far, haven't I?
Can't I cry?
Can't I just have one single person to help me to the end? I never wanted a prince charming to come rescue me. But at least the shithead could lend a hand once in a while, instead of choosing to be a total jerk about it.
I know people are seeing me like some lunatic. I can't help it. I'm crying, who gives a shit?
And-
"Heya," someone's blotted out the single ray of sun that shone down on this dark alley. "you okay, girl?"
No. It's not prince charming.