A/N: Dear Reader, This story is RATED M FOR A REASON! Sexual assault, rape, rape drugs, childhood abuse, implied paedophilia, and abortion are main themes this chapter will touch upon. It will also describe a totally fictional political attitude towards such questions. This story is wholly fictional, and so are all the questions and attitudes, policies, and solutions. Also, the listed plants and herbs are NOT able to give any kind of assistance in a safe abortion, their historical use was based on one or another capacity they might had to possessed, but they are all poisonous and dangerous for health. PLEASE NOTE that even the mentioned herbs and potions are fictional!, poisonous, and none of them is fit to be consumed. Ever.
Harry Potter, his world, and his friends and enemies all belong to J. K. Rowling, just like everything else you recognise, I'm only playing with her characters in her world for fun.
USER'S DISCRETION IS SUGGESTED – RATED M – READERS ONLY ABOVE 18 PLEASE
TN
Chapter 12.
From 3rd January (again) to 29th June
(15)
Bad premonitions chased each other in Anne's head as she silently hurried through the halls and corridors of the darkened castle. It was minutes after curfew, so most of the torches and candles were yet to blow out, but the shadows still seemed sinister, and the silence misleading.
Or perhaps it was only about Anne's perceptions, for she couldn't decide if she was unhappy about having to turn back time or about Madame Pomfrey's invitation to be out at such an hour. She also couldn't shake off the absurdity of Snape's dealings. On the one hand, his demeanour was almost humiliating, punishing her for a sin she had never committed. But his attitude changed so much through those hours of working together, showing even a spark of – dare she say it? – respect before saying goodbye, which on the other hand, made it already one of her most wholesome memories about attending Hogwarts. Not to add, probably the last of such experiences, for Anne keenly felt that that goodbye was meant to be final. If only she could just understand, why?
However, the mediwitch's call was no less surprising, and Anne pushed the tall door inside with more than a hint of curiosity when she finally entered the Infirmary. After taking her meals here for years, the smell of various potions and the brush of lingering emotions was familiar and almost welcoming. She knew every small rupture and crack on the wall, the favourite haunt of the spiders, and the webs they re-made tenaciously despite the house elves' struggles. She knew the beds counted from the left by the door and that the storage door hanging open signalled the mediwitch's whereabouts. She recognized that the half-open curtains meant sleeping students and expected Pomfrey's tea on her office desk was already tepid.
Sure as the dawn, the bustling noises from the storage room quieted on her approach, and Madame Pomfrey emerged, already raising an eyebrow at her.
"Why, I didn't expect you so late, Miss Rosier! I thought young Mr. Stuart must have lost his way."
Anne thought about the boy leaning against the wall helplessly watching her dorm's doorknob and had to agree.
"He must have, Madame Pomfrey. When he found me, he said you wished to see me."
The mediwitch wiped her hands on her apron and motioned them into the office.
"It's not a discussion to have standing around. Would you like a cup of tea, girl?" – she asked, strangely hesitant for a second, before Anne shook her head and obediently sat on the offered chair. "I realize I should have asked you first, Miss Rosier, but when the opportunity presented itself… Oh, I should rather begin with the beginning," – she sighed.
"You see, I am not supposed to share anything about my patients, but assuming your favourable reply… On the day of Christmas, I received an interesting case of failed human transfiguration. A day before, a possible case of dragon pox; the train had already unloaded a boy with curse bites, two duelling fourth years with the usual mix of jinxes, a seventh-year girl crying for an after-deed potion, and the St. Mungo's warned for an imminent outbreak of the frog-flu. Sadly, I suspect the first case in a long row already sleeps on the fifth bed.
"None of these are unexpected, I have to say. And when the Headmaster asked about our needs for the New Year, I remembered your exceptional interest in the petrified students and poor Sir Nicholas."
Anne opened her mouth to answer, but the mediwitch's serious gaze halted her, and she closed it with a snap.
"Miss Rosier, if your interest was only about the Dark Arts, with self-serving curiosity about such a curse, I wouldn't have recommended you for a Trainee. But I recall your observations about Mr. Filch's condition, the empathy I witnessed when you examined the victims, and I happen to be great friends with Pomona, who reported your devotion to raising the Mandrakes. She told me you were preoccupied with their condition as much as one would show care for the youth of any other species. Irma admitted that she knows you to be an exceptional young lady, who can hold her tongue, and your scores in Potions, Transfiguration, and Herbology make you an obvious candidate, even if you're a year younger than my former students.
"Now the question, Miss Rosier, is whether you have already thought about your future because, for the second time since nineteen seventy-five, I'm ready to offer a chance for a thankless life with minimal rest, abysmal hours, and little pay. In exchange, you will probably never suffer boredom and gain the self-confidence and knowledge you seem to appreciate. The Headmaster already gave his blessing with your Head of House's consent, so here we are, girl, and it's solely up to you."
Anne later suspected her face must have shown utter confusion, or maybe even blank dumbness, while her faculties worked overtime. She couldn't even control her features and just stared in the air, with a mouth hanging open, while she returned to her safe haven within her mind to find any pointers about such a decision.
Of course, she loved to learn. And it was also true that she had these reoccurring thoughts about alleviating Madame Pomfrey's workload for her care. However, it was more a wish than an aim. She'd never taken Ephsos' evaluation seriously when he suggested an Empath be a natural Healer. Professor Snape must have thought about that more than she had, for he had challenged her for betraying her natural abilities to win such a chance.
Was it a chance? She was born a Rosier; she was taught to expect a life of wealth with minimal work. Albeit she was also Rachel's niece, taught to value hard work, precision, and being of use for others… was her Muggle heritage to decide her choices as a witch?
She almost laughed when she realized that was precisely the way she lived. She was preparing to make herself a choice by learning Muggle science, history, and trice cursed geography too… to better herself in the Muggle school system, not only to make her Aunt proud. To make herself a choice. She played the guitar the Muggle way and she chose her friends by their attitude towards Muggles. Even her first kiss was with a Muggle, for goodness' sake!
She wouldn't have to rely on marriage if she had a profession, even in the wizarding world. She had already decided she should stand on her feet and leave her childish ways behind. Not that her transfiguring the Carrow girls was in line with such a decision…
But could she hide her being an Empath, a natural Legilimens, without hiding her possible talent anyway? Was that what Professor Snape strived to make her ready for? But then, why was he so angry about it? Had Filch told him that she enjoyed her little revenge?
As if a box popped open in her mind, Anne suddenly remembered her hazy wish to help Filch, maybe even find him a remedy that worked for him as a squib. Professor Snape proved with Arithmancy that it could pose a problem. Madame Pomfrey unquestionably had no time to research it, and she doubted if Snape did, but perhaps now she could. With Poppy Pomfrey teaching her about magical healing, maybe she could read up on the Muggle ways… because she had the time….
Anne finally looked at the mediwitch, and with slow and deliberate moves, she pulled out the Time Turner by its chain. Madame Pomfrey looked anything but surprised.
"Could I keep this if I agreed?" – Anne hesitantly asked. "I could be of more use, with all my classes, if I kept it."
Poppy Pomfrey's slow smile was of the cat who saw the birdcage open.
"You're not the first one, duck, who uses that to be of use…" – she pointed at the device and nodded to some ancient memory she must have recalled. "I told Irma that you were one of us. It is quite an exclusive club, and no one leads the register. But we recognize each other now and again. Would you mind showing me your schedule so we could find the right place to squeeze in some additional turns?"
Now Anne grinned too, relieved to be honest at last, in most aspects of her life. Pomfrey's glee and nostalgia bothered her a little, but her enthusiasm was infectious. They agreed, leaving her helping out Filch and Madame Pince untouched for now and replacing her yoga classes with Training at the Infirmary. She had already scheduled nap time before that. Madame Pomfrey also suggested replacing one of her Prep periods with her Traineeship and the entire Saturday afternoon. Adding a night shift so she 'got used to the demands' of this life was sufficient to show her new station to anyone who cared to look, even if the mediwitch didn't expect many to notice the change.
"We are invisible, duck; you will notice that soon enough. All that matters happens elsewhere, and people are ready to forget they've ever been here as soon as possible."
"I always liked to be unnoticed, Madame Pomfrey. It always seemed safe; I only had doubts before Christmas…."
"Your little cursing spree?" – the mediwitch mentioned as if it was common knowledge. "The events of that day overshadowed your deeds, I assure you. Call me Poppy, duck. Some fire never goes amiss, and we all lose our temper now and again."
Anne had to laugh. This was a whole different approach than what she'd contemplated and one that soothed her instead of her troubling thoughts about power. Just like Poppy was a different witch to Madame Pomfrey. She was ready to smile, while the other was more uptight and rigorous.
"I like Anne better than Annabella," – she admitted after thanking Poppy for the offered friendship.
"Have a good rest then, Anne! I'll expect you in the evening, but you may still come at meal times, of course. These will be your quarters soon enough."
Anne returned to her dorm strangely happy with her long day, not even giving a mind to Peeves, who laughed at her breaking curfew and hurried to find Mr. Filch. She almost hoped to meet the caretaker just to share her news, but it so happened that she reached her bed without anyone to care.
Sophie was happy for her but wasn't astonished. She thought Anne had already spent enough time at the Infirmary to belong there, and the Carrows didn't matter. Gavin was happy for her, and Anne felt Caleb's support too, even if he only warned her against posting their father about the change.
"What he doesn't know cannot hurt you, sis," – he deemed, and Anne had to accept the wisdom.
Her next letter to Rachel was filled with all her new experiences and joy about working with Poppy. She couldn't elaborate on losing yoga and Professor Snape's not-friendship for it but could well tell how much she regarded the mediwitch and all she could teach. She also asked about the Muggle approach to arthritis. They might have had some ideas a squib could use.
After a fortnight of training, they were in the middle of warring the frog flue, and Anne conjured beds without a qualm. One moment she treasured was returning the stolen bed from her tower and conjuring one with a clear conscious for herself. The hardest was not to laugh with Sophie about the Gryffindor girl still coughing up furballs behind a curtain. She could well feel the second-year's struggles, devastation, and fear of lagging behind her studies, but she was one of Potter's friends, and no Slytherins ever them forgave for their stealing into the Common Room.
The joint efforts of Professors McGonagall and Snape closely monitored Granger's recovery. Poppy explained the theory behind human transfiguration before she asked Anne to stay away from the girl. Thinking about the Carrows, she was now glad to have had McGonagall around when she'd lost her temper. These musings led to a surprising turn in Anne's interest when she asked her brothers and Sophie to teach her some duelling spells and jinxes. For the first time, she valued this approach against her mindless spells. Jinxes had an easy enough remedy: the Remedy for Common Hexes and Jinxes, which Poppy used daily, and she had to learn to brew.
For brewing was an unexpected quirk of working at the Infirmary. Rather grudgingly, Professor Snape let her into the small lab behind the storage room after strengthening the walls against possible explosions and establishing an alarming spell in case Anne started some poisonous vapour. No pressure there, she thought and refrained from rolling her eyes when all she was allowed to brew were Cure for Boils and that Remedy for Common Hexes and Jinxes. Even those could only make it to the shelves after the double checks of Poppy Pomfrey and Snape. It still felt nice to see them there, as she faithfully told in her following letter to her aunt.
Unfortunately, Rachel had to disappoint her: Muggle doctors only offered prescriptions for remedies after seeing a patient, so she had no way to procure any Muggle solutions for arthritis. All she could gather were Muggle medical texts and descriptions of their strange pills and potions, and Anne hardly understood those without a dictionary.
February rushed upon them with unforeseeable speed, freeing the Infirmary of the Gryffindors' repeated presence, making it easier not to gossip about them, and with Anne's struggles with Muggle Science and Geography. She tried her best, but the latter didn't sit well with her.
Help came from an unexpected source; Mr. Filch called her simply dumb and revealed his latent talent as an Instructor from Hell. When making a mistake resulted in a strong hit on the palm with an ancient ruler, Anne quickly learned to avoid any errors, and her outlined maps became detailed within a few short weeks. She also learned the use of Murtlap juice.
Argus Filch only knew one form of love: the tough one. When he found Anne's knowledge lacking in one field, he asked about the rest, and although he couldn't brag about being exceptionally well-read, his basic Maths and Physics skills proved good enough to make a girl's life hard. He also obtained some books on Muggle Chemistry, which must have been second-hand because the inner covers stated those all used to belong to some 'Half-Blood Prince,' Anne was delighted all the same.
"No tea for you, lass, until you learn more about Thales. Silly bints don't get my brew," – Filch lay his small table with only one teacup, but he produced a small bottle of pumpkin juice with a conciliatory sneer. "What the kneazle's whisker do you need it all for anyway? There's your Sacred Geometry, or what the thingumajig. A witch like you could be well-served without busting a gut like this."
"I know, Mr. Filch, I just thought…" – Anne looked around by habit and lowered her voice – "there must be life beyond magic."
The caretaker laughed so brazenly and loudly that Anne saw his fake teeth jiggling in his palate.
"And what gave it away, lass?" – he finally asked, still wheezing and dabbing at his eyes with a greyish cloth.
Betraying her annoyance was a lamentable choice, but at this point, Anne couldn't really help it. "Well, I've noticed you're still kicking for one."
"Oh, you insolent lowlife, I'll give you what for!" – Filch roared, still laughing, and stood to retrieve an egg from the little cabinet he used as a pantry. "Here, if you're such a smartarse, you can stand this on your head."
Anne turned the egg around her reddened palm and tried to hide her bafflement. It was rounded like all eggs, smooth, and when she tried, it slipped against her hair. She stared at Filch. "I don't understand."
"I can show you, but you're not to complain!"
She nodded and let him retrieve it, only to feel the shell breaking against her head. The egg stood there for seconds, probably proudly, albeit doubtless half not as proud as Filch looked with his prank.
"Egg of Columbus," – Filch told her when he could stop the sniggers and the coughing. "Go wash. You'll hate me less."
Anne doubted that for a moment or two, but the yolk was sliding already towards her ear, and wisdom took over the pride.
"It's a child's game, lass; that's what you're missing," – Filch called after her, standing outside his bathroom. "What had you been playing? Broomchase? Flying blocks? Those aren't to teach you much but magic. You can't know the world if you sit at textbooks for the rest of your life."
"So what is it then?" – she called back, trying to dry her hair with a towel before charming it back into place. "How to learn about the world?"
"Aren't you too young or old to ask?" – Filch giggled. "There's an old remedy, but I wouldn't suggest you use it. And, of course, there's no need. You're a witch at Hogwarts. What more would you want?"
Anne emerged from the bathroom and looked him in the eye.
"I haven't the faintest. That's the point, Mr. Filch."
The old man grumbled under his breath, and she finally felt they were on the same page again.
And then Valentine's Day was already upon them in a blink, with Lockhart's pink cards, rose-coloured lies, and heightened feelings around the castle. Anne wasn't the only one who pulled her neck shorter when they looked at Snape. Filch was beside himself with annoyance for "That prized berk using the elves like this."
Anne had known for a long time that all Hogwarts elves reported to the old man. The castle couldn't go without a human caretaker because Elf magic needed a strong bond with a human since various treaties of ancient times, and the Headmaster couldn't mend all the broken plates and windows. But Mr. Filch was not brought up to demand anything from a subordinate he wouldn't or couldn't do himself, and so he worried Anne working himself to near-collapse without magic.
There was nothing to do there but to hold him up, and so she walked up to the Infirmary instead after having her homework done and turning back time. She found a different kind of havoc there. The Infirmary was abuzz with common mishaps, sobbing lovers, and raving lunatics who had consumed some botched love potions. Students came in a relentless flow since breakfast.
"That's not yet the worst, duck. Go grab a bite where it's less noisy," – Poppy suggested sometime after noon.
There was no such place at Hogwarts, so Anne decided to enjoy what was left from the Hogsmeade weekend and walked down to the village. It was late enough for most already heading back to the school, and when she saw Malcolm panting uphill with Miles and Terence, the boy didn't even look her way to say hello.
"Happy Valentine's," – Anne mumbled to herself.
Then she shook her head at the idiocy of feeling hurt when she finally had what she wanted. The problem was that being left in peace came with losing more people than she'd expected: the Carrow girls didn't matter much, but Urquhart connected her to Vaisey and Terence, and she had never been even remotely close with Miles Bletchley, to begin with. That counted her whole year. So now, if she thought to chat with someone, that had to be an upper year, like Sophie, Miranda, Milan, or her brothers. It was also true that she talked more about her thoughts and feelings to Filch and Poppy, even maybe to Madame Pince than any other. Rachel wouldn't have thought it healthy, but lately, she seemed to have given up on her niece ever having a social life.
Grumpy and discontented, Anne avoided the Three Broomsticks. She was hungry, it was true, but also strangely irritated and dissatisfied with the world. J. Pippin's Potions looked just the thing to cheer herself, and she entered the shop hoping for a distraction.
"Ah, Miss-knowing-her-wormwood," – Mr. Pippin exclaimed behind the counter, already luring a small smile to her face.
"Good day, Mr. Pippin!"
"Good afternoon, miss, I have received some scented oils," – the shopkeeper went on, remembering her last inspecting the shelves. "Could you find something to your liking?"
Anne followed him to a corner shelf and obediently looked through the scented oils and essences, finding her mood improving by the minute. Maybe the problem was that she might be an oddball, but she still was a girl. And if she was completely honest, the inane chatter connected her to that aspect of her life. Now she sorely lacked that, and even if she wasn't about to peruse Hestia's paperbacks again, she felt ready to do something for herself.
She smelled the feminine fragrances, vanilla, strawberry, rose, and jasmine, and they reminded her of the Muggle girls' toiletries back in the music camp. She wished for something more unique, something to soothe her but also to express the way she felt. She aged almost a year within a few months and was nearly fifteen. For someone who'd already been the oldest in her year and struggled to hide her curves every day, the prospect of beginning her next school year with maybe her sixteenth birthday, missing the fifteenth entirely somewhere along the way, felt an absurd pressure.
She wished to feel pretty just once in a while. The boys in her year couldn't help with that, and she suspected it wasn't even their place.
"Is there a book about if two scents mix well, Mr. Pippin?"
The shopkeeper politely bit back a smile.
"There would be a library to fill, miss, but why don't you peruse this chart?" – he held out a thick parchment above the counter, and Anne submerged gratefully in the intricacies of a new realm.
She'd always liked verbena and lemongrass the best. Lanolin would make a lovely soap with them for the everyday… she wished for something fancy. The chart colour-coded generally used mixes and unique concoctions, even offering lower prices for matching scents. Like orange blossom and ginger, lavender and honey… At the bottom of the parchment, she found some advice:
For the most exquisite and daring mix, we suggest matching the fragrance with one choice from the opposite side of the chart. The result will prove unique and sensuous, and the most charming concoctions will receive a prize. Please apply with your –
Anne had no patience to finish; she only looked up the scent opposite to orange blossom and had already gathered her various choices to present at the counter.
"I'll take these all, Mr. Pippin," – she grinned with newfound excitement. "Please pack these three together," – she placed her everyday choice on one side, "and these also, but separately if you can," – she put the four other phials on the other side.
Jarvis Pippin lifted an eyebrow but obediently packed orange blossom, ginger, lavender and honey with the chosen sandalwood.
"Are you maybe ready to join the competition?" – he offered.
Anne couldn't help giggling as she shook her head.
"Not yet, Mr. Pippin; I should test my mix before embarrassing myself. Do you think these will work well together?"
The old potioneer considered the question, and Anne was glad he took her seriously.
"They might miss. I would pack a small phial of vanilla essence. On the house, until your later choice," – he pulled out an exceptionally small phial, probably a sample, and slipped it into the larger pack. "This might balance the effect," – he smiled and counted a price little short of twenty galleons.
Anne thanked all the spirits that she didn't need to clutch her non-existent pearls hearing the number. Luckily, her homework business thrived, and she hadn't had time to spend a Knut from her allowance. Now she spent enough to make up for months of frugality giving herself presents for a birthday that would soon happen unnoticed.
Mr. Pippin showed even more respect when she produced the money without a qualm.
"A pleasure to see you every time!"
The tiny bells above the door seemed to have jiggled more cheerfully than ever. Anne found she was starving, and this time she didn't hesitate to enter the Three Broomsticks. Madame Rosmerta's porkpie was legendary, and she even asked for a takeaway for Poppy. Not that the house elves couldn't make anything one would fancy, but now and again, something new would cheer even the strict witch, she was sure.
And the cheer was sorely needed, as it became apparent as soon as she pushed into the Infirmary's door. She felt the pain and anguish sooner than she heard the cries. They were strangely subdued, coming from behind a closed side door at the back of the ward. The physical pain of cramping muscles and throbbing abdomens joined with the nauseating taste of panic in the air, and Anne felt a shiver running through her entire body.
She looked along the ward and noticed the new beds closest to the office. The petrified victims and twelve new patients were lying out here, and she could tell apart at least two girls' cries from behind that closed door. A fourth-year Hufflepuff boy she'd assisted in stabilizing a fractured ankle some hours ago now hid his ears into a pillow; another boy, maybe a seventh-year, with symptoms from various curses, silently wept, watching the door. And there were others too. New wards, mostly hexed as she could gather by the shapes of the empty phials by the beds or the now familiar disfigurations.
She wasn't sure if she was supposed to enter the private ward or wait outside, so she just put the porkpie on the office table and stepped to the seventh year boy with a hesitant wish to give him a calming draught if Poppy agreed. He didn't look at her, only watched the door, and the only emotion Anne could sense from him was guilt…. No, on closer observation, there was a vast amount of fear, too, with a sense of pity… and some self-pity… and… love?
Anne frowned at the boy and recognized a Ravenclaw tie which he kept twisting in his hands. She knew nothing about him, but the boy was a mess, and she wished Poppy would come out and tell her what to do. She was yet to touch here anyone but a first-year girl with an ugly pimple and that fourth-year boy this morning who fell on the stairs…. She was to ask the boy if he needed her help when the side door flew open. Professor Snape rushed through the ward and disappeared into the storage room behind the office.
"He's going to get me expelled…" – the boy sighed on the cot beside Anne. "He's right, I didn't… oh, shit…."
Anne leaned closer and, by instinct, lay a comforting hand on the boy's arm. He stopped twisting the tie in his hands and shook his head.
"I didn't mean to…" – he looked up into Anne's face as if he expected something. She had no idea what. "I wouldn't believe it if someone said that, but I swear to Merlin's name that I didn't mean to!"
His tears fell in excess, and Anne could sense he yearned for something so strongly it almost broke him. If only she knew for what! She stared back into his eyes, with all the benevolent helplessness of a newborn lamb, and struggled to find her bearings between her desperate wish to help and the boy's desperate wish for… whatever it was.
"I'm sure they will forgive you if you didn't mean what you did…" – she tried, but the boy suddenly shook off her hand and sobbed.
"I wouldn't! I don't want them to!" These were all the words she could discern.
She felt his pain, guilt, and finally, the desperate wish for forgiveness, and she couldn't comprehend this sudden outburst. Thankfully, Madame Pomfrey must have heard the sobbing, and she peeked out to see what could be the matter.
"Ah, Mr. Clutch, please stop the waterworks! Anne," – she gestured toward the potion cabinet with her wand, which popped open so a Calming Draught could fly towards the boy's bed. "Please make sure Mr. Clutch drinks the whole dose this time!"
Anne caught the phial and quickly recalled that the rounded phials stored four doses, the lean ones only one. This was lean. She could do this.
"Yes, Poppy."
"I need a hand inside here after that," – the mediwitch threw a quick gaze behind her back, and Anne could hear someone throwing up in the side room. "We'll get to know today if you're peevish, duck."
The mediwitch retreated, and Anne tried to hand the phial to the boy, who suddenly seemed somewhat reluctant to take it.
"No, no, I deserve this! I deserve the whole weight… I…"
"How dismal, Mr. Clutch. Yet another witch you chose to cause difficulties. Tsk. Some never learn," – Anne heard the silently disparaging voice from behind and felt her Head of House's steps passing through the ward to the side door.
The boy took the phial and obediently drank up all the contents.
"Sorry," – he whispered but didn't exactly look up at Anne. She didn't mind that; she was confused enough.
After deposing the phial in the storeroom, she saw the strange boy curled up on the cot who didn't need her presence. The fourth-year boy still held the pillow to his ears; the other six boys and four girls were resting, judging by the curtains that arranged themselves accordingly, half closing around their beds. There was nothing more to do here but brave the side door.
She found four girls inside, one shivering above a bowl, pale as a sheet; another curled up around herself and emitting that familiar pain she knew in her lower abdomen once a month; one deeply asleep at the back of the room; and a girl, perhaps in her seventh year, who kept retching and wailing while Madame Pomfrey held her hair behind her back.
"Here, take this," – Poppy instructed before Anne could get insecure, and the next moment found her behind the retching girl, holding her hair, with the mediwitch's strict instructions to empty the bowl whenever needed and to watch the bed if there was anything else to vanish.
In a shorter time than she was ready for it, there was. Anne counted in her head any kind of illness that caused such pain, diarrhea, vomiting, and shivers, and adding it all up with the washes of panic, guilt, and anguish, she concluded within the hour that it must have been, instead, the remedy. Blue cohosh, thymbra, birdlime, whitethorn... those all could cause such symptoms and were used to avoid pregnancy. She was only sure when Snape gave the seventh-year girl tutsan when she stopped retching, which had her nicely silent and curled up on her bed.
It took about an hour and a half, the longest period she'd ever had to live through before all the four girls were sound asleep, and Snape billowed out of the Infirmary with marked annoyance he didn't even attempt to hide. It swirled around and after him even long after the Infirmary doors closed on his heel, and Anne had the impression they reverberated on the corridors.
She watched Madame Pomfrey placing warning charms around the girls before they left the room, then she watched again as the mediwitch looked at every sleeping patient in the ordinary ward. Anne finally remembered to collect the empty phials by the bedsides and deliver them to the container in the storage room for cleaning and reuse. When she was ready, she wanted to sigh with relief, but just then, the door flew open with a bang, and two sixth-year Hufflepuffs carried in a third, a girl in torn robe and strange marks on her throat, chest, and wrists, and dried blood between her thighs.
Pain. Fright.
Anguish.
All hit her so vehemently she could have howled like a wounded animal, but there was no time for her reaction when another shivered with the waves of shock. Madame Pomfrey's practiced wand opened up a second private ward, this time on the left side, and Anne took over supporting the girl to a bed when the mediwitch ordered her classmates away.
She hardly registered the words around them. The fear that tore off this girl, merely a year older than her, shook the air between them like repeating thunders. It got even stronger when Madame Pomfrey tried to touch her torn robe, and she was lost to panic.
"Miss Green, I'm sure you're through a lot already, but I need to see clearly to help you."
The sixth-year Hufflepuff shook her head and clutched both hands tightly around her pulled-up knees. Anne found it curious that she didn't cry.
"Miss Green, if –"
"I'm sorry," – Anne whispered as soon as she looked into the girl's eyes. They must have been blue, but now they almost looked transparent with her distress. Her pupils seemed too small compared to the iris… punctured dots, like a doorknob… "I'm Anne. Who are you?"
Those small doorknobs moved upward, maybe with surprise.
"Lettie."
Anne took a deep breath to say something silly to soothe her, but those doors suddenly opened, and she felt as if she was falling through a swirling whirlpool of emotion and chaos into a tiny, dark room where someone was weeping.
"Lettie?" – she asked tentatively.
Out of the darkness, she could slowly make out a shape… it appeared as if it was unmoulded from the room's walls… a form of a little girl clutching her knees close to her chest, sobbing.
The first insane idea, to offer her a hankie, was not something Anne would have planned to do, but as soon as it occurred to her, it also materialized in her hand. Anne sat by the girl and put the cloth in her hand. Lettie finally looked at her.
"He hurt me," – she complained. Her childishly small lips pouted and trembled with imminent tears. "Why did he hurt me? I didn't do anything bad?!"
Anne stared into her eyes and remembered her fright when Chris became too taken. She disappeared then, just like Lettie would surely wish to… but Chris never hurt her, unlike Uncle Evan, with that smile… when his hand slipped up her yellow skirt. He whispered she was a pretty little mongrel and deserved someone to play with… when his breath hit her neck, and when his teeth showed in a snarl after she told him she didn't want to play like that! The door opened then, Gran stepped through the threshold, and little A-bee ran screaming!
"You didn't do anything bad; none of us ever did!" – Anne found herself gabbling, desperately trying to hold on to her better senses. "It's never our fault, we don't have to play, we don't have to stay, we don't…" – another memory surfaced about a pair of lips, their colour was darker from closer, and they smelled like some strange fume and something else she didn't like. They were dry, and she was glad about that at least… Why would someone do that? Was it a mistake? Did he just miss her cheek? Was she to apologize?
"NO!" – Anne shook herself back to reality and to another girl's mind. "No, it's none of your fault, Lettie. I swear it wasn't! It was not an accident, and he had no right!" – she almost screamed and wasn't sure who she was referring to anymore.
Strangely, the little girl seemed to have aged with her sudden outburst. Now she looked older and taller, and some light returned to her eyes.
"No, he hadn't!" – older Lettie repeated. "I didn't do anything! I sent him away!"
Anne did her utmost to focus on her instead of any memory she might have had to trap her. She didn't want to know.
"You did well," – she assured the girl. "We are stronger than them. We can live."
Now Lettie looked just like on the Infirmary cot. She shuddered in the small room.
"I hate the way it feels," – she complained. "I hate I still can feel it! I don't want to feel!"
Anne remembered her pitiful state when her friends brought her in, and the tore appeared on the girl's robe, and blood showed between her tights. She realized Lettie was herself again. Her new self, she suspected. She reached out her hand for her and stood up.
"Come, we'll wash it off."
"Can you?"
"I'll do whatever I can," – she promised. "Help me," –she added because the girl was still reluctant to take her offered hand. "Come!"
Lettie took her hand, and Anne was no longer surprised to find herself standing by the Infirmary bed again, holding the Hufflepuff's hand in hers. She held onto it when they both heard Madame Pomfrey's sigh, when she mumbled with relief, she was glad the shock relented.
She held that hand while Lettie took her wand and added another Tergeo to the mediwitch's cleaning charms. She still held it when Poppy explained the need for an after-potion, and when with her other hand, she was holding up a bowl, and only let go an hour later when a Calming Draught weakened the girl's grasp, so the hand slipped from her fingers.
Anne wanted to stay in the room, but Poppy directed her into the office with a firm hand on her shoulder. She peeked towards the main door, half-expecting it to burst open again with some other horror, but the mediwitch pushed her onto a chair and put a small cordial glass into her hand.
"Violet liqueur. Drink up, duck, you deserve it!"
She had no questions, and the drink was surprisingly smooth and fragrant. It recalled better times, celebrations in the dorms, friends, and laughter. Anne stared oddly at the carved crystal in her hand and wished she had something like that in her mind's hidden house. How different her house was compared to that dark room in the other girl's head! – the thought flew through her mind without impact.
"What's next?" – she asked warily from Poppy, and her voice felt strangely calm.
The mediwitch rewarded that with a wide and genuine smile.
"Nothing for you, duck. That's enough for a first."
"A first?" – Anne stared at her. She wasn't here for the first time, although she had never entered into anyone's mind before. Snape didn't count; she didn't see a thing there…. "I thought–"
"A first time in the depth of it," – Poppy explained. "I told Severus we were probably through for tonight. I was wrong. But you were thrown in and swam without drowning, which is more than most can brag about. Good job, duck," – she smiled again and emptied her measure of violet liqueur, putting away the bottle and the glasses.
She noticed the porkpie, and Anne felt it must have been there since a former lifetime. She would have hated to explain and was glad when it got swiped to the side.
"What was it that you thought?" – Poppy conversationally asked then, seeing Anne didn't make a move to leave.
"I – I don't know for sure, I'm just… surprised, I think…?"
"You did understand what we did just inside there, didn't you?"
Anne swallowed hard, but she nodded.
"Have you been in the Great Hall this morning, Anne?" – Poppy asked.
"Yeah. It was ridiculous. And the house elves… Mr. Filch was in a rage."
"Oh, yes, Argus likes to follow the old principles."
"He told me about them a lot," – Anne almost smiled as she remembered. "People don't know that he demands as much from himself as from the rest of us."
"People know jack shite, which sometimes counts as a good thing," – Poppy sighed. "You make me philosophical, Anne, and that isn't becoming on me."
Anne contemplated the turn of their talks and couldn't stop herself any longer:
"They should know. They should see what they are doing! How the hell could someone do this to Lettie?! Or the other girls? People should be made aware how vicious and disgusting these people–"
"I thought you'd been talking to Mr. Clutch," – the mediwitch interjected, and this time she looked Madame Pomfrey and not Poppy at all.
"Yes, why– What does that have to do with any-" – Anne stopped with her mouth hanging open. "How could he say he didn't mean to?!"
Poppy nodded with dark satisfaction.
"Love potions, Anne," – she said grimly. "You might recall that our distinguished Professor Lockhart encouraged the students to brew them… in his short speech in the morning."
"WHAT?"
"People are aware, Anne. They just don't know what it means. Now you have seen it. The magical community is small, and the pureblood clans are trying to enforce strict rules upon their female offspring to ensure that any possible infants come from the "right" line. But without extensive breeding, our kind would vanish, which is something I assume Salazar failed to foresee.
"Love potions cannot be regulated, for they encourage to assure our future, even if their impact is hardly controllable. Or so the Ministry of Magic seems to believe. Then comes a pompous fool and invites teenagers to celebrate – and the results are lying in my ward for a day or two until none of them would wish for anything but to forget. Because that's their only course of action in our backwards little society."
Anne stared at Poppy like she killed kittens on the desk between them.
"But that's horrifying! How can you let this happen? How can anyone just go on–"
"Yes, it is," – Poppy agreed silently. Her tone reminded Anne not to yell when a dozen people were sleeping on the other side of the door. "Understand something before you continue your training! I am not a politician or an oracle; I am a mediwitch. I have much enough to do without banging on closed doors while I could make an impact, as small as it is, on some lives in need.
"Do you know what is more horrifying? Hogwarts has almost a thousand students, about two hundred and fifty per house, in each house about thirty students every year, although lately, we don't receive as many as we used to… That adds up to about two hundred and some students for the two upper years, half of them female, which makes about a hundred and twenty possible victims on a day like this. Assuming, of course, that no one risks Azkaban trying to deflower a younger girl," – she added in a merciless, cold tone.
"We had six cases, Anne. That's about seven percent, which is a little above average, to be honest. Comparing this to the country's average, we are not even special. Unfortunately, without our magical society's bad habits, the percentage would also be lower in the outside world. The Muggles count slightly differently. However, they also don't have semi-legal breweries and insipid witches and wizards to blotch up a potion that makes both parties a victim in the end.
"Mr. Clutch is as much a victim as the inane maiden on the fourteenth bed, who poisoned him but hoped against all reason that he would stop before too late. They are in love. The girl was insecure. That's what suggestions like Lockhart's call create in a school that should have nothing to do with these horrible aspects of life! The flow of the victims ranges from scammed young men to raped girls with or without their own hand in their anguish, and I am no judge, no minister, not even a clown to yell it from a barrel. So don't you dare to imply that it's in any way my fault!"
Poppy's chest was heaving, but her voice was still low, even when her eyes turned perilously grey. Anne felt the storm, and it matched her outrage, even perhaps exceeding it in some aspects, and there was nothing to reply but to hang her head. She also wasn't either a judge or an oracle. God damn into pieces all the rubbish and insanity of those who are!
"I didn't mean it that way…" – Anne mumbled to the hands she folded on her lap. "But somebody must be at fault!" – Her fire threatened to return. "Somebody is! The Ministry? Or Lockhart?"
When she bothered to look up, she saw Poppy's inspecting gaze. The mediwitch slowly licked her lower lip as if tasting her reply. Her frowning brows suggested she didn't like the taste.
"Yes," – she simply admitted. "Anne, if that eases your burden, I stand up on my chair here and roar into the night that they are. And that you are right, and it is, in fact, one of the most horrible things to witness, not to mention experience in life."
She stopped then, waiting, and Anne didn't know what to answer. Watching Poppy making a fool of herself wouldn't ease any burden. Also, it wasn't even the question; she didn't mean to discuss her experiences; she was horrified on behalf of others, but… She watched Poppy and realized she already knew that all.
"This is not about me," – Anne whispered.
"Well done, duck," – Poppy nodded again, this time with a bitter grimace. "It took you shorter than it had taken for me."
Eventually, it was Poppy's bitterness that did it. The rage of anger burning in her eyes, and the bitterness in her lip curling up. And Anne finally could let her tears fall down her cheek, and Poppy let her cry. This wasn't the modest and forgiving mediwitch, not even the strict but caring Madame Pomfrey. This was Poppy: Tired as a dog, angry and calm at the same time. She made Anne wonder if someone could be calm by rebellion?
"And now, we will do the most outrageous things of all," – Poppy sardonically said after a long while. She pointed her wand at the porkpie and heated it with a charm. "We are going to eat, Anne. Because as hard as life may get, we are all still living," – she conjured two spoons and held out one for her trainee.
She obediently dug in, even if the pie tasted like ash. Poppy sent her to her dorm soon after, and Anne found it astonishing when she realized she had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
The coming days, weeks, and months seemed to Anne as if they flew by in silence. She hid all thoughts and memories that bothered her into imaginary trunks until there wasn't much in her head but daily duties and her schedule. She was grateful for the mechanical job of cleaning the phials in the storage room and stoically accepted it when Lettie didn't return her greeting in the corridor a day after she'd left the Infirmary. She saw the boy called Clutch with a Ravenclaw girl, and he seemed tender and attentive. She watched Lockhart, and he was obnoxious and vain like any other day.
And she was quiet.
And she did her homework.
And she washed the seventh-floor windows when it didn't rain and learned about Thales' theorem until Filch poured her a tea. That also tasted like ash.
The whole castle seemed quiet through the silence in her head until one day before April, Professor Sprout stopped her before she left the Mandrakes to continue her day in the Library.
"Spring is coming, dear. Have you noticed?"
Anne stared at her Herbology professor as if she told her that the skies were green. Of course, it wasn't February anymore! She nodded.
"I just sat under the Wiggentree in Greenhouse Five the other day and let my thoughts roam a bit. I found it refreshing. You should try it, Miss Rosier. I won't close up until dinner."
The last thing on Anne's mind was letting her thoughts roam anywhere, whether it was spring or a greenhouse for advanced plants or not.
"I have classes," – she said. "Thank you, Professor Sprout!"
The pudgy witch stepped in her way.
"Which class?" – she demanded.
Anne felt a strong will and determination from her Professor, which she couldn't really place. There was also benevolence, which still didn't explain Sprout's strange behaviour. She finally told her that she was to pop into the Library before her Charms class and was in the process of promising to return to the Mandrakes that week when Professor Sprout cut into her flow of words:
"That's all nice, I'm sure, but also all can wait. Go to the Fifth Greenhouse, child; you may cross to the Charms corridor later. I will know if you listened because the drunken friars always gossip with my Persephone portrait," – she added as if that was all deciding and returned to Greenhouse Three to spray water on the weeping leanders.
What else was to do then but to find the fifth greenhouse? Anne entered there, expecting less than anything special, and found herself among trees so high she couldn't see the ceiling. If she could just recall what a Wiggentree was supposed to look like, she could be done with this insane chore and move on with her day! She wandered in this untidy' forest,' stumbling through roots, and leaning under branches, trying to remember more than that. She was supposed to find a rowan which may or may not be defended by bowtruckles, and sit under it, so Sprout would be pleased.
What came over that insane dumpy witch, she couldn't fathom! And the humidity was almost suffocating! When she noticed an open window above her head, her sense of direction finally returned, and she suspected she must be somewhere in the middle of the vast greenhouse. Then she heard a strange chirpy voice from her right. The bowtruckle sprang from twig to twig on a tree that could be a rowan.
"Hey, I'm not more chuffed than you are, but Sprout said I should sit here," – she told the green creature, and it took a hesitant step back upon hearing the name.
Anne gathered her robe and tried to find a less muddy spot before she sat down. The little creature kept chirping and waving his two fingers, gesturing for her to sit closer to the tree. She only moved to silence him, but the bowtruckle wasn't satisfied until her back was pressed to the trunk. Pain, confusion and hurt stabbed Anne that instant as if the resentment that kept them all at bay evaporated with the contact.
As soon as her feelings softened, she almost gagged with the force of the blow, and she gasped for air, her defences deflating and leaving her without her darker emotions, anger, bitterness, and artificial coldness. She thought those were her friends helping her through the worst of life since that day… but the Wiggentree didn't allow darkness. It was to protect anyone from darkness who touched its bark… But darkness was her only defence, and Anne tried to stand up in vain, to flee– That didn't work anymore!
She wanted to curse Sprout for entrapping her like this, but that must have also been an idea the Wiggentree refused because the thought flew away as it came, and her body collapsed back onto the trunk with her head rolling back to lean against it. She just sat there, tearing up for the first time in weeks, helplessly living through the agony of the wound she tried to hide. Her eyes felt warm and prickly, so she closed them, only to find herself in her own projected forest, forced to meditate for the first time since that night….
The Wiggentree had no issue with her ebony trees as it seemed, but it swiped away her fear and resentment. Only the wound stayed. Black and red at the edges, yawning at her from the depth of the woods like a lake of blood, howling for her to approach, watch, lean over, and submerge into it. There, under the blood lake, stood the trunks and boxes she had filled with memories since she was but a toddler:
Uncle Evan approached, smiled, produced a puppy, and she was hesitantly glad to pet its soft fur before her father yelled and took it away – the memory flew out from the box and fed the lake above her head. It belched and pulled smaller by the edges. But there were more!
Uncle Evan leaned close and tried to kiss her tiny lips – but the Wiggentree swung a branch in his way and saved Anne from feeling the touch. She was finally without guilt or confusion. There was no reason to be angry if the tree stopped his approach! – The memory fed the lake.
Uncle Evan shouted unthinkable words quarrelling with her father, but the Wiggentree didn't allow fear – the scene flew up into the lake.
Mr. Mulciber crawled on the floor tiles, cramps shaking his limbs while he dirtied his robe and the ornaments – he got crumbled into a ball of parchment, which shot into the lake. Her father disappeared into unknown rooms of the Leaky Cauldron upstairs, leaving her alone with hags and vampires in the taproom. She couldn't reach high enough to see the other side of the counter from the table she was left to sit – the whole scene swooped up, and the lake seemed smaller.
Chris danced with her and caressed her face lovingly before he walked away with a smile; Uncle Evan reached for her yellow skirt, but it didn't crease up, and his finger never reached the join of her tights; he never forced them apart, never silenced her, and never got into a roaring fit of rage, throwing curses around, hoping to blindly hit a child's invisible form without aiming properly!
Anne sat up with a gasp, and her eyes flew open!
It had never happened!
She was terrified she once had the same bloody spots and tears she'd seen on Lettie when her classmates had carried her into the Infirmary. The Wiggentree didn't allow guilt, but a vague sense of self-reproach stayed with her. Daring to open her box of memories, she found she had gotten away. He hurt her, but not like that. That had never happened! It surely wasn't a sin to feel relieved! Her tears fell again but tasted differently, and leaning back on the Wiggentree's trunk, she finally saw the old ash tree across the narrow path.
Calming down a notch, Anne realized that such an ash tree should be almost as old as the greenhouse itself. Judging by its trunk, maybe even older. She had no idea how long an ash tree was supposed to live, but this one had a trunk half a dozen students would be too few to measure with their arms, and its branches pushed through the window on the ceiling, striving heavenward.
If she leaned her head to the side, a part of the tree seemed to glow in the midday sun, with the sunbeams polarised on the glass walls and the humid air. With playfulness she hadn't felt for a long time, Anne reached out her senses toward the tree, remembering the old tales about its cousin rooted in the underworld, and reached the heavens. In her odd mood, she almost expected to see a squirrel hasting up or down the bark, an eagle sitting on the branches and a serpent gnawing at the roots. Instead, she felt slowly pulsing life. It pulled her in, fed her with its strength and myths, restoring her failing vitality after the ordeal.
The fear and bitterness that held her captive for months finally relented, and after meditating long enough to miss her Charms class, so had to add an unscheduled three hours turn to return to her duties, the world seemed again a place she didn't mind belonging to. Professor Sprout must have known what she was about when she stopped her in her tracks, and Anne decided if she was to pursue Herbology as her leading subject just to stay close to Greenhouse Five.
At least she could spend most of Easter taking her readings to the ash tree and reinforcing that hard-found calm. The Infirmary life was less demanding with the weather turning warmer. In April, she learned more about Quidditch injuries than anything else. The fifth-years began to panic about their OWLs, so her personalized schedules became very much sought-after, and the greatest challenge was to prepare Caleb and Gavin for their NEWTs.
Care for Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies, and Herbology for Gavin, and the same with Charms for Caleb, ate up most of Anne's non-existent free time, even if she dared not neglect her Muggle science studies so as not to annoy Filch or fall behind on her promises. That led to a series of additional turns she routinely made, using the Infirmary's private wards and, on one occasion, even Filch's kitchenette for scheduled rest time so she wouldn't meet her other selves.
Her life was so full of chores and preparations that she hardly noticed when Professor Snape gestured for her to stay behind after class. He asked if she wished to keep up with all her classes in the next year. When upon her positive reply, she found herself facing the Headmaster, who curiously just popped in the classroom, there was consequentially nothing but her hectic thoughts about NEWT level Herbology, the wand move for a spica-bandage, her brother's love-life's impact on his studies, and a desperate wish for a slice of cake.
She didn't even care to look at Snape when she was dismissed with a promise she could continue the way she kept. The Headmaster's ability to tickle her skull was more annoying than surprising, and she didn't spare a thought to even be grateful about Snape sparing her this experience up until that point. She wasn't into repeating the 'honour' either.
But she needn't be afraid of that because, on her next night shift at the Infirmary, Poppy gave her all the details about the new wards, a sixth-year Ravenclaw girl and a second-year Gryffindor. They both were found petrified just before the Quidditch match, which she'd avoided, so she had no idea about the tragedy. They were about to discuss the victims' needs when Professor Snape stormed in and disappeared into the brewing room after a half-hearted greeting to the mediwitch.
Anne and Poppy stared at each other, then the older witch braved the door behind the storage room.
"Severus?"
Anne tiptoed behind her and warily tested the air about them; Poppy's wariness was dwarfed by Snape's turbulent feelings: reluctance, annoyance, worry, and his usual gloom. She only heard him grumbling, but Poppy wasn't one to easily shake off:
"I only thought you might need–" – she began.
"Nothing but to be left alone, I assure you," – Anne heard the answering grumbling. "And keep that apple of your eye a mile away, for I won't grant her safety when brewing for that schemer!"
"The Headmaster–" Poppy began, but Snape's annoyance and worry flared as he suddenly snapped:
"What Headmaster? The school board just helped the puppeteer get rid of the old man, and I am to convince this barren piece of crook that I'm delighted! So, if you would be so kind…."
Now Poppy's temper rose enough to stand her place against his tantrum; at least Anne had no better word to name the mix of untampered emotions her Head of House didn't even attempt to conceal.
"You blitz in here without your manners and don't even bother to tell me that the Board dismissed the Headmaster? Whose idea? Was it Lucius? Is he planning to step up and revive my patients?"
"Yes, yes, of course, it was Lucius," – Anne heard Snape's voice from behind the door. His tone was not particularly apologetic, but at least she could feel his discomfort. Sadly, also his impatience. "And what he's planning is to celebrate. So I would appreciate it if you let me brew because the sooner he gets his candy, the sooner he'll be gone."
Poppy was perplexed only for a second.
"Severus Snape, you will not brew illegal potions at my Infirmary!"
"As you wish, Madame. Should I then employ the school supplies in the students' dorms? Or would you suggest the use of a classroom with insufficient equipment?"
"Neither, I- Severus, this is dangerous! Why would you serve his whims? He's not your Prefect anymore!"
The sudden bang of something big and hard shattering on the stone floor made Anne jump.
"For fuck's sake, woman, spare the nostalgia! That cad is on school grounds, this very moment. You cannot mean I should let him roam around the students any longer?!"
Poppy's shoulders sank, and she hung her head in defeat. "I don't know what is right and wrong anymore… First, a rotten apple, then a monster, and now you're just telling me we're alone!"
"Poppy," – Snape's footsteps approached the door, and Anne only saw his hands in the breach as they clutched the mediwitch's fingers. "You knew it might happen. Lucius convinced the Board. He came with Fudge and sent the old man on his way. They've also made Hagrid their scapegoat, but at least Fudge's already gone. Minerva will tell you all come the morning. We are not without options. Now let me brew! I know what I'm doing."
Anne didn't need to strain her senses to feel the tension in the air. Snape's barely contained impatience, agitation, and defined intent to keep his calm for the mediwitch's sake mixed with Poppy's despair and deprecation and swirling in the storeroom. Finally, Poppy nodded.
"I'll let you be," – she promised and turned away from the door.
Snape sighed with relief. "And shoo away your nosy little trainee," – he called after the mediwitch. "Or Obliviate her!" – he added, grunting the words before he shut the door.
Unfortunately, Poppy heeded his advice, and Anne was left to contemplate half-information in her dorm through the night, only to learn in the morning that all was, indeed, true, and McGonagall had taken over the school until further notice. She couldn't mind her housemates' drivel about the Ministry always leaving a Gryffindor in charge because she was too mystified by how disparagingly Snape talked about Mr. Malfoy. It didn't fit with any gossip she'd heard about young Draco or his closeness to their House's Head. Not even with the gossip Caleb had heard in the summer. Was it possible they had been wrong about it, and Snape had nothing to do with the fringe movements supporting the Dark Lord? Or was the older Malfoy telling the truth when he said he wasn't involved? She severely doubted the latter.
However, the NEWTs were upon them, and her brothers needed a firm hand to guide them, leaving little energy for fruitless contemplations. Then the Mandrakes were finally ready to be processed, and Anne sobbed at the greenhouse's door. The anxiety and hurt the semi-sentient plants felt upon their caretaker's betrayal mixed with their panic, rendering Anne completely useless for Professor Sprout, who, after some words about oversensitivity and foolishness, sent her on her way with only asking that she notify Madame Pomfrey and her Head of House.
The first was easier done than the second because shortly after she'd left the Infirmary, she heard Professor McGonagall's magically enforced voice ordering everyone back to their Common Rooms. She followed the crowd as long as she could, turned back time and hid behind armour to catch Professor Snape in his office after class. The problem was he didn't appear after class, and she was lost in the crowd again, struggling to avoid herself and all that had seen her.
She escaped steps before their Common Room and hurried to the abandoned classroom across Snape's quarters. Shaking her head against the bad memories, she turned back time there and tried again at the Staff Room. She almost collided with the odious Professor Lockhart, who seemed exceptionally subdued, and the air around him twisted with confusion and fear.
The stone gargoyles warned her before knocking that it wasn't a wise idea, but neither was willing to confess if Professor Snape was inside. Anne lost courage. What came upon Lockhart she couldn't fathom, but she practiced her senses enough to be wary of the change. There must have been another attack; it was simple enough to catch, however, good old Gildy had always been a bigmouth, using every opportunity to advertise his dubious skills. Why not now?
While she beetled around undecidedly, the Staff Room's door burst open, and Professor Flitwick hurried away with uncommon resolve. Professor Sprout and Vector soon followed him, their faces looked grim, and Anne could sense their fear and grief. She stepped closer to the open door and could catch a nod of understanding between her House's Head and Professor McGonagall before Snape turned to leave and ordered her mutely away from the room with a flash of his unforgiving eyes.
"Was the order to stay at your Common Room too difficult to understand, Miss Rosier?" – he hissed to her, hurrying towards the Entrance Hall.
"No, sir, but I needed to find you." To Anne's surprise, Professor Snape promptly stopped in his tracks. "I've been looking for you for ages, sir. Professor Sprout wanted me to tell you as soon as I could that she'd cut the Mandrakes, and they are ready to use. At the Infirmary–"
"How long?" – the Professor demanded.
"We're within the hour, sir. I kept turning back time so I wouldn't take longer looking for you," – she explained, knowing that the ingredients lost potency every one to six hours after the cut. "I've seen Professor Sprout; she didn't expect to see you so soon," – she added, hoping to learn something about the last attack. She was left disappointed.
"She was… preoccupied," – Professor Snape only grumbled, looking along the corridor. "Rosier, you have no business out here. We will return you to your Common Room, where you will stay until further notice," – he began walking again, keeping an eye on every nook and corner, clutching a hand at his robe sleeve. Anne suspected he must have kept his wand there.
"Professor, may I–" Anne hesitated, seeing the threat in the eyes that flashed at her, but she was devoted enough to risk Snape's ire. "I feel my place is at the Infirmary, sir. Poppy might need–"
"Madame Pomfrey is a highly trained mediwitch with all the skill and experience to handle the void of your presence, girl. Now keep step!"
"But Professor-"
They just reached the narrow stairs after the steeping part of the dungeon corridor, and Snape looked around again before he cast an unknown charm. Anne felt as if it encompassed them.
"Listen here, Rosier, because I will not repeat myself. The school is about to close, and your abilities must remain hidden. Do you understand me? Whatever may come, wherever you go, you are to maintain your defences and hide what you are at all costs. Pursuing a career as a Healer may be too telling. And now you will return to the relative safety of your peers and stay there. I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with any half-baked idiocy."
Anne shivered under his tenacious gaze and tried to sense anything more than what she was already told. Alas, Professor Snape was again closed like a shell, giving away not even a fragment of his emotions. It would have been easier to trust him if he just showed something. Anything would have been done.
"What happened, professor?" – she tried, but only felt Professor Snape dismissing whatever charm he'd used, and he already nudged her along towards the Common Room.
"Mind your own business, girl. I will not stand for any of your rule-breaking this time," – he warned before he opened the portrait entrance and let Anne enter before him. His words to the House weren't less sombre, then he left, only Anne knowing where. And she envied even the spiders on the Infirmary wall for being able to go wherever they wished to, even risk watching him brew.
She didn't strain time and made every effort for what? Now she was only to sit around as the Mandrakes fulfilled their destiny! It was the injustice of the world! Anne stayed close to Sophie and let her do the talking while she grumpily closed herself away within her mind. The house elves catered the dinner on huge silver plates in the Common Room, and one idiot even wound up a gramophone "to give background music to the occasion."
People were nuts. Even the kelpie couldn't cheer her, this time wearing its usual shape of the Giant Squid when it swam to the window, and Anne fell asleep on a sofa, far from the fire.
A/N: By some reason I cannot see if anyone reads this story since 31st August, and since 5th October I received no notifications from Fanfiction net about any of the stories I follow, nor about reviews.
So if you are still there and reading this, PLEASE let me know with a comment. I'm not fishing for reviews, I'm devastated because I don't know whether anyone is still out thre reading. Please, just let me know, and in the meanwhile I'm trying to fix this communication problem with FFnet.
Thank you!
Lia