TN_Chapter 13.
May 30th 1993 – 2nd September 1993
Summer 1.
(15)
By the lake's colour, Anne estimated it must have been early dawn when she woke up shivering, and she sent an Incendio to the grate of the hearth before she even gathered her bearings. The Common Room was quiet as a grave. Anne was tempted to brave the corridors just to steal a glance at the Infirmary wards or nick some breakfast, but Snape's gaze was disheartening enough to let it go. Instead, she'd spent hours alternating between reading and meditating until all gathered again in the Common Room to hear Professor Snape's news. By then, the School Board had already restored Professor Dumbledore as a Headmaster, and the Chamber of Secrets had been closed for good.
Snape looked like a ghoul, and Anne ran heedlessly to the Infirmary, where she found Poppy exhausted but happy and the heroes of Gryffindor chatting with their parents. Weasleys everywhere. It turned out that the youngest, a redhead girl Anne hadn't even noticed before, was taken to the Chamber, and his brother with his best friend, the infamous Harry Potter, saved her. They even talked about a mythical creature, a basilisk, they had killed, which made their whole tale shaky for Anne, but no one else seemed to care.
She hadn't had much opportunity to contemplate her doubts because the air about the students woken from their petrified state in the morning preoccupied her senses. A lingering fright and a strange touch of darkness surrounded their forms like a veil. Poppy's charts detected what the mediwitch called a disturbance in the readings, and she refused to let anyone leave until the healing charts cleared up. That took about a week, which Anne spent on autopilot between her various chores and without conviction.
When the Headmaster announced that the exams were cancelled, even those chores lightened because no one bothered to open a book anymore except the fifth and seventh years. The OWL and NEWT exams were held with Ministry officials and weren't the school's responsibility, but with the leniency given to others, Caleb hated every minute of swotting even more.
The one exciting case at the Infirmary was Professor Lockhart, which Poppy insisted that Anne should see. He suffered from a failed Obliviation, which rendered him in a child-like state. He must have been once an exceptionally agreeable toddler; Anne still found him annoying and could never agree with Poppy when the mediwitch said she couldn't hold his former deeds against him if he couldn't recall them. Anne wholeheartedly disagreed and was glad to get rid of the moron when St. Mungo's accepted him to the Janus Thicky ward.
The last worthless weeks in Hogwarts were only good for getting some rest. Without duties, as she'd lost interest in the Infirmary work after Professor Snape denied her presence in the thick of it, and having her brothers sitting their NEWTs, there was little more to do but to study for her Muggle exams.
To return the Time Turner never came up, she believed probably because she didn't change her requested classes-list, or in the end of year problems Snape must have forgotten. Anne didn't know, and honestly, didn't care. Snape wasn't in her good books any longer with all the injustice of denying her place at Poppy's side.
Repacking and tidying her trunk, Anne found the essential oils she'd once bought from J. Pippin to cheer herself and now spent time looking up recipes for soap and hair products to brew for entertainment in the summer. Sophie liked to sit by her in the dorm sniffing through her collection of scents with delight.
"I swear, if Potions were this delicate, all the girls would have straight 'O'-s, and Snapey wouldn't have fun mocking us anymore."
"D'you think?" – Anne looked up from the umpteenth book explaining the rules behind matching fragrances and making concoctions. Her bed was covered with them in these last few days.
"Well, if you want to take it so seriously…" – Sophie hesitated and lifted a cover to read the title on an old tome. "The Art of Ensnaring the Senses – Magical Guide for Purposeful Brewing," – she read. "Who the hell is this Maurice Tightwood?"
"A fellow from the eighteenth century who would have a word with you about those straight 'O'-s," – Anne giggled. "The funny part is at the end," – she gestured towards the book, "where he offers boards to estimate your expenses and sheets to calculate an income if you launch a business. Turns out the Apothecaries didn't cover these ingredients back then. And the prices are ridiculous!"
Sophie looked up those sheets and had fun looking through them before she asked: "So what? Are you about to try your hand at the forgotten art? Pippin would go nuts with the competition. Or you could just make him invest in your brewery. Soaps for all occasions!"
"Nah, I have a business already, thanks to you… But it's fun to see why Pippin insisted on packing that vanilla essence," – she looked up a section in another book. "See? There's a lot to make of these. And Arithmancy suggests -"
"You are the only one who would approach a sodding bar of soap with Arithmancy!" – Sophie roared up with laughter.
"Maybe you don't know enough nitwits," – Anne suggested pulling out another tome. "This says it's quite common. Even this one," – she lifted the black and silver Five Hundred Years of Potioneering, "gives examples. And Salweick wrote for the everyday brewer."
"All right, so we didn't mix with the right crowd," – Sophie agreed after reading Anne's chapter. "Hey, I would rather try rose water with something fruity. That seems more modern than these here… like wild berries… What do your books say, would that work?"
It called for two days of happy researching together and an attempted Arithmancy equation which Professor Vector was game enough to correct for the promise of a sample. They only had to convince Snape to let them down to Hogsmeade for more ingredients – where all their efforts ended up stuck, receiving a short and dry refusal. All Sophie could coax out of him was an indifferent shrug when she asked to be allowed down to the village some hours before the Hogwarts Express left on the last day.
The girls took it as silent permission, whatever he intended, and Anne said her farewells to Madame Pomfrey a day early and arranged a visit with Madame Pince for their last day in Hogsmeade. Mr. Filch had already promised to expect her owl in the summer, and she was reluctant to disturb him since he was so sweetly preoccupied with Mrs. Norris. The cat had returned from her death as far Filch was concerned. Witnessing the gentle care and the swirling happiness in the caretaker's kitchenette almost made Anne feel like a fifth wheel among them. It was still a memory she treasured. By one of her meditations, she'd noticed a picture framed on the wall of her imaginary cottage in her mind, about Filch rubbing his cat's torn ears. It also wore her mother's brush moves and was delightful.
Sophie had known Mr. Pippin by his first name since she was a little girl, and the shopman was happy to see Luis Borgin's niece so well-entertained digging through his shelves. He offered them his ideas and warned about some usual mishaps when brewing. He also offered his thoughts on their choices and suggested additional, usually more subtle, scents for balance.
After that, the girls were in an excellent mood when they visited Madame Pince. Even if the witch took a completely different stance on the matter of toiletries.
"All your efforts will be for naught if you remain dirty under that fancy smell," – she deemed, giving cause for mirth. Then the girls had to convince Pince they took her advice seriously.
"I might as well dig deeper into brewing a useful base for soaps anyway," – Anne added after they managed to placate her. "Professor Snape doesn't seem to support the idea of having me at the Infirmary."
"Is that so?"
Madame Pince rose with rare disapprobation of whatever their Head of House thought to say or do. She walked to a cupboard and unearthed an old box from the lower shelves, and soon the girls looked at various old parchments with ingredient lists for soaps and washing soaps, and all kinds of household brews one might need for a luxurious lifestyle from candle making to perfumes.
"I don't even remember the last time I opened this chest," – Madame Pince mumbled after half an hour of admiring the relics.
"How did you find it?" – Sophie asked, watching the family insignia on the parchments. "My uncle always wondered how the Prince heirlooms never appeared in the shop."
"Did he, really?" – the librarian raised an eyebrow, and Anne could sense the air suddenly changing about her. Unlike Sophie, who happily went on:
"Sure, the family line extinguished with the last heir dying so young. I heard he poisoned himself. Such a sad story. Interestingly, even Mr. Burke doesn't seem to know the particulars, but we have never seen so much as a piece of– What?" – she stopped abruptly when Anne nudged her under the table.
The savage stab of pain from Madame Pince's direction alerted her to their host's discomfort even if the witch's measured smile didn't break.
"It's always sad to hear about the end of an ancient family," – Madame Pince offered, packing everything back into her box. Anne noticed she practiced the same deep breathing technics she had taught her to help keep her composure.
"Maybe the female line inherited," – Sophie tried to console her, finally noticing her mistake.
"Who knows?" – Pince inclined her head with what Anne perceived as a modicum of challenge. "Maybe the female line perished even sooner."
Now the stab of pain was again strong enough for Anne to risk asking if she had known the family. The older witch appraised her with a long look before she answered.
"Maybe. For a short time. She was… such a naïve girl. Headstrong too, which never mixes well," – she deliberated all the words before she uttered them. "But we'd better finish before you miss your train, young ladies! Tell me if the old recipe still works," – she Geminio-ed the last parchment, put it with the rest, and closed the box.
The girls beamed at their copies like happy clowns.
"Thank you, Madame Pince!"
"Thanks, Madame Pince! We'll even get you samples!" – Sophie promised.
After such a lunch, the ride down to London was full of daydreams and discussions of scents and possibilities. Even Miranda joined them, and she recalled reading something about bases for finery in the Fawley Family Almanac and promised to look it up in the summer.
"All the established families used to have their signature brews," – she chatted. "The wizards were not the only ones to keep track of their potions. Of course, nowadays, everyone buys ready-made… I'll ask my gran; she'd be delighted!"
"Must be the same way my aunty speaks of spices," – Milan laughed. "Once, my sister asked her to teach her about them, and she was over the Moon. She pronounced her a mature witch, and she's been her favourite ever since!"
"Well, I'll write you all as soon as Gran calls me mature!" Miranda giggled. "That'll be the day!"
"Why not?" – Sophie asked, still with a dreamy expression. "You'll be the seventh year now; she has to recognize it! Only one more year at Hogwarts… and also-"
"Also OWLs for you!" – Miranda reminded.
"Ewww," – Sophie grimaced. "Annie, what do you think?"
"I think you'll be alright," – Anne laughed.
"Really, you must also have NEWT schedules now that your brothers are through it," – Milan's eyes showed up with playfulness and greed.
"Are you aspiring perhaps to take NEWTs in CMC?" – Anne pulled his leg.
"No way, but hasn't Caleb also tried for Charms?"
"That he did," – Miranda cackled in. "I'm already expecting those notes you made for him!"
"All right," – Anne threw her hands in the air with mocking theatricality. "I will not repair what's working. But wait until you hear his scores too!"
All in all, despite her disappointment at the end of term, the summer couldn't have begun on a better note. Even the Muggle revisions with Rachel were now less of a chore after countless hours spent with Filch and his old ruler. Rachel found her advancement more than encouraging.
Then, just a few days into the holiday, an owl landed on the breakfast table.
*/*/*
Dear Anne,
I've just had tea with Irma Pince, and she mentioned that your Head of House discouraged you from pursuing a carrier as a healer. As much as I am not about to decide for you, I have to say, I am appalled.
Whatever insightful Professor Snape might believe himself about the ways of the world, at the end of the day, he is also just a wizard. Don't take this as if I was disrespecting him, I know very well his worth, but facts are facts.
After considering various aspects of the situation, Irma and I recommend you for St. Mungo's summer programme. You may be a wee too young compared to the usual attendees, but we believe a talented witch always deserves a chance. In the case of St. Mungo's acceptance, you will receive their owl within ten days from yesterday. (Tuesday)
Please don't consider this mandatory, even in case of a positive reply! It is only an opportunity to choose. Whatever any wizards might believe about their places, a witch should always have such an opportunity, in our opinion.
Irma is sending her kind regards too.
Take care, dear, and think about it,
Poppy Pomfrey
Head Mediwitch at Hogwarts Infirmary
Certified Healer, 1st class,
Decorated in Magical Diagnostics and Remedies,
Paracelsus Scholarship,
Three times winner of the Alcmaeon Prize
*/*/*
After the first read, Anne stared at the parchment, astounded by the winding way her mentor told her House's Head to kindly sod off… or did she misunderstand something?
Two more reads, and she presented her aunt with a rare chance to look into her correspondence. Rachel took the parchment and seemed to chew all the phrases with brows running together before she looked up and asked:
"What are your thoughts about this, Anne?"
She tried to pour her confusion into words about her mixed memories of working with Poppy. On the one hand, it was the most satisfying thing in the world to be challenged at the limits of her capacity, especially in the busiest hours of the Infirmary work. She also loved the silence and the focus in demanded, and Poppy was an exceptional witch to be around. However, on the other hand, the whole experience was humbling, sometimes disturbing, forcing her to face parts of her personality she wasn't sure she liked.
"I have never been so angry in my life! Or feared more…" – Anne remembered – "and she offers no consolation or solution, just accepts my feelings as they are. Which is nice, but sometimes… I don't know. It all just feels so unfinished. Watching people hurt and touched by dark spells or potions, and then sitting around until others get to finish months' work, and then hearing Snape about the need to keep to myself – it made me feel useless in a way I haven't felt before knowing what it was to be of use!
"And I know that Madame Pince missed our yoga classes as much as I did. He'd already taken those from us! And Poppy is a rock. But I also know that I'm supposed to listen, and he'd never asked anything from me that didn't benefit my… studies," – she finished catching herself and probably choosing the wrong word before she told her aunt about the Empath-thing and all she knew to hide.
Professor Snape had his reasons to make her stay behind, she was sure, even if Anne had no idea why her being an Empath should still be concealed. She was used to following his lead, whatever he demanded, and it saved her from insanity, even knowing not his reasons.
"He is a complicated dork," – she cited Poppy. "Sometimes I don't know what he truly wants. I made peace with making soaps in the summer and trying to forget it all. And perfumes are nice too, I guess."
Rachel watched her for a long minute before she slapped the letter on the table, huffing with anger Anne also felt in the air between them.
"You know, I believe I'm also appalled."
Anne tried to find out if she meant it by her words or Poppy's letter, but Rachel only went on after pouring more tea: "So here is this 'wizard,' a man of your backwards little community telling you what to do, and you don't even contemplate if you agree? The hell with being in the upper five percent at this cost!"
"I am in the five percent, our GPA is counted by our evaluations throughout the year in lack of the end-of-year exams, but they do count it!"
"If that makes you learn to silently obey, then I'm telling you, it's worthless. You seem to have unfinished business with what you can learn and achieve at this Infirmary, so you should pursue that with all teeth and claws. I wasn't about to raise a puppet."
"He'd helped me a lot!" – Anne weakly protested.
"That's his job, darling. And now he is holding you back."
Anne tried to make sense of it all, but she was more confused than ever. "Why would he do that? He must have his reasons…."
Rachel leaned closer. "And those are?"
"I don't know," – Anne shook her head in defeat.
Rachel huffed at that, but then fell silent, and Anne tried to explain what happened:
"There was some havoc at the end of term…. We were all sent to the Common Room, not just me. He wanted us to be safe, I get that. And Caleb said I shouldn't tell Father about working with Poppy anyway… he thinks he wouldn't like that."
She also considered adding Caleb's suspicions of Snape playing on the Dark Lord's team, which seemed illogical after hearing his ill opinion about the old Malfoy. Or the gossips were wrong about old Malfoy's involvement, too… although she couldn't believe that. The Malfoys' alliance was quite evident by their youngest's behaviour. And Filch liked Snape. And she liked Filch, he was her friend.
"It's hard to know your way around him. Professor Snape is not great with explanations. But he's always just there when one needs him,"- she finished, hoping Rachel would understand.
"Well, as I see it, you should find out what boils your blood and makes you want to jump," Rachel said silently as she stood from the table. "If those are fineries and scented oils, you should thank your mentor's goodwill and step back for another to take your place. But if not, you're a fool to give up such a feeling for anything or anyone in the world."
Her words sank deep into Anne's thoughts and bothered her for days. It was, yet again, the case of what she wanted, and somehow Rachel's reminder of 'another' who would eventually take her place by Poppy at the Infirmary hurt more than her aunt's disdain for playing around with scents and brews.
What made her blood boil and made her jump? Well, a Valentine's Day at Hogwarts' Infirmary definitely did. Also, her Head of House's mad persecution complex and unexplained demands were on the list, shortly followed by an unknown and loathsome individual who would even try to share her place in Poppy's, Pince's, or Mr. Filch's good graces! She would fight that shadow with all she had!
She had to contemplate if she was also ready to fight someone who made an exceptional perfume, and she had to admit that she wished Sophie's or Miranda's success as much as her own. But playing around was safer than asking her father's permission to join a summer programme. Also, a soap would never remind her about things like Uncle Evan… so her father could also have a point.
Then Anne realized she had put words into her father's mouth because she'd never discussed her woes or desires with him; she couldn't know his stance. A part of the problem was that she didn't wish for him to ever become more involved with her choices. But could she join the summer programme at St. Mungo's without her father's consent? Or could she live a happy life in Slytherin without her House's Head's approval?
When, five days later, a second owl landed on the breakfast table in the morning of her Muggle exams, Anne was so nervous her hand trembled when she reached for the parchment. However, the short letter carried only a few words in well-known, knitted handwriting:
*/*/*
Up with the chin, lass! Death or Glory
Argus Petronius Filch
*/*/*
This time Anne laughed up without restraint, and the knot in her stomach finally eased enough she could eat some toast.
Rachel escorted her to the gate of the Muggle school, despite the fact she already knew her way around here and had to be begged to return home because the weather was too hot for her to linger. Anne took Mr. Filch's advice and lifted her chin as high as possible when she entered the school. The crumpled parchment stuck into her fist throughout the ordeal.
After the exams, she ran to the Leaky Cauldron to reach the Post Office at Diagon Alley before it closed.
*/*/*
Dear Sergeant,
Happy to report, We Did It!
I'll wait for the result card to share the particulars.
Please give my love to Mrs. Norris too!
Your faithful 'tommy,'
Anne
*/*/*
Popping into Fortescue's after that was only natural, and Anne was halfway through her ice cream by the time Gavin found her on the famous terrace.
"Hey, Aunty's in a right state to hear about you!" – he greeted Anne and got himself a seat.
She only grinned at him.
"Good gal!" – Gavin laughed. "Now you'd better tell her too!"
"I know," – Anne played with her spoon, "I just needed to celebrate, and... erm… I meant to ask…."
"Shoot it, this is your day!"
"Was it hard for you after the fifth year? With first time in the Ministry and all?"
Her brother's glee vanished as if the wind had blown it away. "Not as hard as now," – he mumbled. "At least we knew it wasn't forever… and also… Now I have better things to do... like being with Kelly. She's out and about with those friends of hers, enjoying the summer while I'm stuck at the Beast Department. I can only hope she won't hook up with some jerk while I'm counting copies in the Centaur Register. Have you known that even the squibs used to belong to us? It's nuts!" – he shook his head. "And Scamander would go berserk knowing most still call it the Magical Creature Regulation like that fifty fucking years after his book! But no! We cannot step with time, not even with our snail-slow time, never!"
Anne felt all his emotions, and her mood turned gloomy too. It was a mistake to ask. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be silly; it's none of your fault! I came here to celebrate. That's the least after Gratis Copies for the NEWTs! Must have been a rare gift!" – he nudged Anne.
"C'mon, you're my brother! I'll make you pay for everything eventually!"
Gavin finally laughed and ordered an ice cream. "So what, gal, are you going to be wealthy? Even pay today?"
Anne snorted. "Dream on, Gavin! Although… I wonder if father's putting my dowry aside. D'you think I would see a Knut of it if I never got married?"
"Dunno… Wait, where did this come from? Is it still about that guy? What's his name? Urquhart? I can teach him a lesson or two!"
"No need, I've already told him he would be done in if… you know, warned him off. It's not like that."
"Good," – Gavin nodded and finally tried his caramel ice cream with grillage. "Cause he's way too close to them, you know," – he added, chewing on a walnut.
Anne sighed. "Yeah, an Avery by his grandmother, who used to be a Black girl, blah, blah…. Are we also supposed to count these things?"
Gavin shrugged. "Well, they do. And so do the old hags and father and the lot."
"Quite hypocritical though…"- Anne deemed.
"So what's new?" – Gavin contemplated her for a while before Anne felt he'd made a decision. And also that he worried more than he'd let it on. "They count it so much that there's even a half-blood at the Magical Equipment Control, who keeps telling Caleb how he reminds her of our dearest uncle. She'd even offered to pay off his debts if he–"
"What debts?"
"Don't you mind that! That's another story! So–"
"Gavin, what debts? I have money if you–"
"Don't even think about it! He would just gamble it away! Don't give him money, okay?"
Anne gawked at him. "He's in debt for gambling? But how?"
She felt her brother's discomfort even while Gavin laughed bitterly. "How? Well, we're not in Hogwarts anymore, that's how! He could hex Flint or Warrington, but not these thugs. But I promised not to tell, so don't get me started!"
"How much?" – it slipped through her teeth without a thought, and she sensed a fleeting gush of appreciation before Gavin's distress returned.
"A lot. Don't–"
"What thugs?"
"A-bee!"
"You may tell it either to me or Mum!"
"Bloody hell, would you play a snitch?"
"Would you give a straight answer? I surely won't flip out as hard as she would!"
"Merlin, you wouldn't really go and tell her? It wouldn't serve anyone anyway; these guys are playing next level! Would you even drag Father and the Macmillans into this?"
"Well, surely not if you just told me as it is!"
Gavin pushed the ice cream away and leaned back on his chair. "Shite,"- he sighed, but Anne didn't stop staring at him until he spoke: "Are you into some bloody traineeship at the MLE or what? I thought that was Caleb's curse!" – Gavin's annoyance was slapping around her like the wings of an invisible bird, but she could also sense his gratitude – she suspected for not leaving him alone with this mess. "It began when the witch cornered Caleb by the lifts. She seemed… well, you're a girl, so you wouldn't understand… but she was very…"
Anne rather sensed than figured out what he couldn't say. She helped him out: "Sexy?"
"Wha- Well… you know… for a witch about Snape's age… Well, she doesn't look like him, that's for sure!"
"There's nothing – Wait, WHAT?"
"Well, Caleb was sore after that Ravenclaw chose Phil instead, and Lucinda kept on and on about Rosier family traits and Uncle Evan's… I don't think you want to hear that. It's enough that she saw her old lover somehow in Caleb. At least that's what she told him. Then things started to happen. Like the old Malfoy offering some help for us to get by, and–"
Anne's jaw slowly dropped, but now she couldn't take anymore. "And did you just accept that? Are you nuts?"
"He convinced Caleb it was about Lucinda. That's the witch, by the way, Lucinda Talkalot. He used to be into Quidditch and was the same year as Snape, while Uncle Evan was three years older, just a year under old Malfoy. So it came up that he could give Caleb some contacts at the Magical Games and Sports for ancient times' sake, but those guys are playing really big! Caleb thought it would impress that witch if he joined in for some wager, and here we are.
"The problem is that Lucinda wants to talk to Father about some business, we don't know what, and when Caleb mentioned it to Father, he totally flipped out! Which is crazy because otherwise, he doesn't mind if we play nice with the old farts; he even praised Caleb for befriending a Malfoy… and Lucinda doesn't talk to him until he arranges a meeting with Father. It all stinks."
"You think it was a trap," – Anne phrased what she felt in the air, and Gavin sombrely nodded.
"I don't think he likes her anymore, though, which is good… And sometimes he even wins, so we figured…."
"You figured? After all of this? How long is this going on anyway? You couldn't dig this deep in two weeks or so?"
"Well, no, it began last summer and worsened with every month. Especially after Phil… you know… took the girl. That's why Caleb and Father didn't really talk around Christmas."
"Oh, god!"
"Exactly."
Anne watched Diagon Alley's traffic under Fortescue's terrace and silently counted her thirty Galleons a month allowance through the three school years and the money she made with Slytherin homework. Of course, she had also spent on ingredients and books and never cared about the balance.
"So, how much?" – she finally asked.
"One thousand two hundred and forty-seven Galleons and the interest." Gavin's face showed no emotion, but the air about him vibrated with dismay. "I've tried to pay off some of it, but we're lucky to escape just under two thousand if we're not quick enough."
Anne's mouth hung open without a sound.
"He sometimes wins, but no one pays him, so it's just mounting. We're guessing people are too afraid to pay… those guys are worse than Bumfold, and Caleb sits at the MLE, which must be handy…" – Gavin added, then he jerked up his head when his sister suddenly jumped up from the table. "What are you doing?"
"Well, I'm going to find two thousand Galleons for you dimwits, but first, I need to speak to Rachel," – she huffed and paid the bill for Gavin too. He didn't seem to like it.
They were well on their way in Muggle London when Gavin risked asking if she had any idea where to get such money, and Anne told him about the competition she saw at Pippin's.
"It seems I have my priorities sorted for me," – she said bitterly. "Pomfrey would have liked me to go some programme at St. Mungo's, but that doesn't pay a debt. You should find out how he wouldn't do this again if we freed him. And please tell it to Father! He might also help."
"No way, A-bee," – Gavin shook his head. "If this whole mess was about trapping Caleb, Father is the last one we should drag into it."
Anne rolled her eyes spectacularly and entered Rachel's house without saying goodbye.
There the mood was the polar opposite of what she came from. Her gran greeted her with high hopes and offered a slice of cake hearing about her success at the exams, and Rachel pulled out a pamphlet about a First Aid Course, just a few stops away with the underground.
This course is for young people between the ages of 7 and 16 to give confidence to do the right thing in an emergency. With slow-paced, playful activities, students will learn to make an emergency call and the basics of emergency aid (…) – Anne read. The course also had second and third levels for the basics of treating common injuries, recognizing symptoms which require emergency calls, the basics and purpose of CPR and defibrillators… It would take weeks of the summer to sit it all through, even more if she took it seriously.
"In the summer, there's an opportunity for students to participate. I thought it might be a good reward for your efforts," – Rachel told her. "We Muggles have our way with healthcare too, you know," – she reminded in a tone that made no doubts about her preferences in case of trouble.
Anne felt her face gradually getting cold as if the blood ran out of her cheeks. Only five minutes ago, all her concerns were Caleb and finding the best base for fineries to mix. Rachel had already paid the fees, and the air in the living room sparked with joyous anticipation and of her enthusiasm. She tried her best not to disappoint her aunt.
When the following day, she received Miranda's owl telling about her astonishment at how supportive her gran was about their little project, she felt it was the last straw and fled to Russel Square. She leaned back on the grass, finally seeing the summer sky above her, and recalled Ephsos' meditation techniques to calm down.
Two days later, she ran there again after the St. Mungo's owl assured her that the summer programme's staff wouldn't go against Madame Pomfrey's evaluation of a student, and she was wholeheartedly welcome to take the course. The utter respect for Hogwarts' mediwitch was so pronounced that Anne had to wonder if the witch with the annoyingly familiar surname, as she was called Ulfhild Rookwood, had written the letter hoping to get mentioned to Poppy. Anne doubted she would ever fulfil such aspirations in her present state of mind.
Like the whole world gathered against her to force a choice! It was horrible! She was too vexed to even try to meditate, instead played idly with her friendship bracelet until she managed to tear it off her wrist! Bugger! She had problems enough without needing to replace it and all the charmwork she had applied!
Then the realization finally hit her: if she only found a way to be at three places at once, figured out traffic and transportation, and found a way to get sufficient rest and meals…. Sweet daring Nimue, could she run amok around London like she was used to at Hogwarts?
The test day soon came, for Miranda had invited her and Sophie to meet her gran and have some happy plotting that Saturday. So Anne gathered all transport maps she could find and noticed how the Fawley matriarch's house at Knightsbridge was on the same Piccadilly Line as Russel Park. She wouldn't tell Rachel she was to leave the house and would try to be at two places simultaneously, with a five hours turn. If that worked, she was ready to figure out how to take the tube from Tottenham Court Road towards Paddington for the Muggle First Aid, and from there onto the St. Mungo's.
She already counted that having a break in every three or four hours or so wouldn't seem too peculiar for anyone but would present her a chance to ride the hell out of the underground system, turn back time at destinations, and return with another turn, if needed, by the end of her break. God damn the Ministry of Magic for restricting the magical practice of the underage, and damn them twice for not allowing Apparition before the age of seventeen! She was still ready to try it. She will not choose.
She figured she could get everywhere on time if there wasn't another trouble like Bishopsgate in the spring. Her stomach tightened by the thought, but Pince's breathing technics yet sufficed. The last problem was posting her father and getting his written permission to go to St. Mungo's, and the prospect defeated her best efforts to calm down.
Gavin received her owl before the end of his workday, and he was quite alarmed by her request to take her home for a day before he understood Anne's intentions didn't involve Caleb.
"The worst of it is that he would have the same problem within weeks after we paid off those guys," – he told his sister after taking her back to the country by portkey.
They walked the path politely to the gate. "He's at the MLE. Thugs like these would always need losers like he is. See, I'm buried at the Creature Regulations, and no one gives a shit about me," – he shrugged, and Anne felt there was more to his woes than just Caleb's problem.
"I can leave some flowers by your tomb on level four, if you feel you're buried there" – she offered.
"No need, sis. I doubt they even know my name."
"I still treasure your memory, even if your grave is signless,"
"And I'm luring your owls into my afterlife to help you from the beyond!" – Gavin finally grinned and opened the iron gate. "D'you want to hear something funny? There was a case last year about an alleged dragon escaping school grounds! Those nutters went above and beyond to discover a thing about it as if anyone could pull off a prank like that!"
Anne giggled with him. "Yeah, surely some kids just hatched an egg and went along raising it!"
"Then taught it to fly in the dead of night!" – Gavin added.
"Probably even breached the wards to get it out for hunting."
"Then those pranksters would be Gryffs, so the Headmaster wouldn't blink an eye!"
"You see, you've solved the mystery in less than two minutes. I think they should give you a raise," – Anne laughed until Gavin's mood turned sour again.
"About two thousand as an award, what d'ya think?" – he asked grimly.
She patted his arm and didn't tell him she already had half of that sum. She didn't dare to raise her brother's hopes before she found out how to gather the rest. Having slept on it, she now doubted if she should rely on winning Pippin's prize.
Sara set up her easel in the back garden, but her children knew too well not to disturb her. She liked working in a haze; it would give her a healthy appetite for a change, so they could talk at dinner. Gavin was ready to seek out his girlfriend in the village, and in the meantime, Anne had to brave her father's study alone.
Monty was yet to arrive from London, which was apparent by the wards on the fireplace. Anne felt the old tomes emitting their ominous vibrations, luring her closer, but she knew better than to touch. One in particular, The Humids and Fluids of the Living, was quite obstinate in its attempts to catch her attention and even seemed to move at its place.
Anne hesitated. In their family home was the least risk of getting caught doing underage magic… she eventually pulled out her ebony wand and focused on calling the book from the shelf. A short reintroduction of her magic so it wouldn't bite her in any way, and the tome popped open for the slightest nudge with a disgusting smack, showing the last paragraphs of the second chapter:
(…) thus we may sum up life as the constant flow of bodily fluids, in general, as change and movement. Without this flow, the state of a creature cannot be considered 'living.' Anne had a disturbing memory about discussing the petrified victims' state with Poppy. No wonder the mediwitch recoiled, so what could Snape have done with those Mandrakes?
Ghosts, Ghouls, Dementors, and Boggarts show abilities in communication and the exertion of will, similar to a living being. However, the rule mentioned above, the lack of flow of the bodily fluids, and the inability to change render them creatures of the Dark, commonly known as Non-Beings, or Unchangings.
Anne lamented the word. As much as she knew about Boggarts, the word unchanging would have been the last coming to mind. The text must have referred to the creature's inability to change in itself, as in Transfiguration, which made sense for no one knew the true form of a Boggart, so no one could magically alter it either.
Establishing now that the opposite of life is not death, just like the opposite of the Beings are not the Non-Beings, we must notice that entities of the Light and the Dark coexist in our world, divided mainly through their ability to change with time, and the flow of humid in the material frame.
What the hell did that mean? Anne recalled Ollivander's words about the thestrals, which he said were not dark, only lived in the darkness; she finally understood they had to have physical anatomy with some kind of blood, and other fluids in their system, making it possible for them to change with… time? Did time have an essential function in whatever composed life as a phenomenon? What did that mean in her playing around with it, then?
When she heard her father's footsteps, she quickly pushed the tome back to its rightful place and prepared St. Mungo's acceptance letter with deep breaths. She wasn't about to show Poppy's letter, which would have told too much about her dealings throughout the year or her House's Head's stance on the matter. She wouldn't risk that.
When Monty entered, he first seemed glad to see his daughter until she came forward with her request and handed him a letter. He had no idea how his previous boredom and sudden frustrations whirled around him. He just sat behind his desk, which never promised a good discussion.
"But you're merely fourteen!" he exclaimed, letting the parchment fall on the desk. "And a witch to boots, what were they thinking?!"
"Madame Pomfrey believes," – Anne tried only to get interjected with a dismissive hand wave.
"What does she know? A nurse at her place might accommodate some childish curiosity, but the Hospital is in the real world! There, only knowledge and background matter."
"Father, she is a mediwitch. A decorated Healer who recommended me."
"And how would she begin to know how to evaluate you? Are all underage witches taking now nursing practice? I wasn't aware of the change!"
"Wouldn't it be a welcome change, though?" – Anne balanced around the edge of honesty. "We are supposed to care about our families, after all…."
Monty flicked at the edge of the parchment. "This doesn't mention anything about infants or caring for children."
"That cannot be the only reason to learn," – his daughter argued. "I do recall how my uncles needed healing. You hadn't denied them, and I'm as good at Potions as you had been. I could –"
"There's no need for such a young witch to exert herself. The war is long over. Forget it and enjoy the peace! Your uncles are not with us anymore, Annabella. There's no reason for you to worry."
"But I still have brothers!"
"Brothers to soon start their own families while a witch's place is at the cauldron, my dear. No respected family's heir would accept you're frittering your attention. Now, these so-called skills your school nurse is so keen to mention, you can see how invaluable they are in your life. Your good-for-nothing brothers won't benefit from your devotion but could benefit from your marrying well."
Anne swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat and also against the dozen things she would be unwise to drag up in an argument. Like the gossip about the Dark Lord's attempted return, her lack of wish for a beau, or Poppy's station's repeated dismissal. Telling that Rachel had already signed her up for Muggle First Aid would only have stirred the cauldron the wrong way too….
"I don't like the Malfoy heir," – she decided to proceed the hard way, lifting her chin, and she was glad to sense her father's alarm. "That's right, I've heard you! I've heard you agreeing to the Macmillans' plan, and I do not like him! Not an iota!"
"What are you blabbering about?"
"Christmas. Two years ago. The whole lot came to celebrate you, and you told them and Duvessa that you agreed to match me with the Malfoy heir. I am informing you, Father, that he is a prized berk. He's Snape's godson, and yet I'm better at Potions, and we have never even interacted once, which is the natural way of things between us that I intend to keep up."
"You are way too young, Annabella. Anything can happen… but you cannot refuse a match because you believe yourself the smarter!"
"Father, you haven't listened. There's no match! There's nothing! Which is quite all right because if you don't let me follow my passion," – she showed a finger at the parchment – "I will not get you what you want. I will prove to everyone that I'm an accomplished brewer. I will make washing soaps for Muggles. That's feminine enough, still no one would want me."
"I forbid this madness!"
"Do you? Well, the Fawleys are quite taken with the idea already!" She sensed with satisfaction that her father's alarm raised at that.
"What is this rubbish about?"
"Soaps," – Anne sniffled. "I'm already invited by Eleonora Fawley to research with her granddaughter in the Fawley Almanach. She supports us in brewing together. My wish was to mix perfumes for our childish entertainment and meanwhile see this summer programme as a curiosity. However, if you deny my innocent fun, I can and will make it into business. I have enough connection to make Muggle Land scream for a Rosier soap!"
Monty exploded with laughter at this, which strangely didn't ease the mood in the room.
"I wouldn't call Borgin's niece a connection, my dear, and your worthless aunt had never had a bone for business in her life! This can only be –"
"I meant Aunt Duvessa," – Anne delivered the punch, and the room fell silent. "You do recall she is friends with the Fawleys, do you? Who do you believe she would support in this case?"
In truth, she'd only been following the lead of her father's emotions. The greater the annoyance, the harder she had pushed. But the strike of naked fear now got her unprepared. The following anger seemed only valid compared to that.
"Those lot would only use you, you mad little chit! Don't you dare!"
"Papa, I don't want to," – Anne silently said. "But Potions is my passion. I just want you to support it and let me have some fun!"
"Fun?! Is this" – Monty raised and shook the parchment – "your idea of fun?"
"Would you be happier if it was dating the young Urquhart boy at Lite? I mean, I can. I already know what he likes since he took me out in Hogsmeade…."
She could sense the detonation of rage in the air before her father found the words for it:
"EDMOND URQUHART'S SON WILL NOT APPROACH MY DAUGHTER!"
"I told him the same, papa, but he was quite insistent. Wouldn't it be better if I stuck to mixing perfumes with Miranda and had some innocent fun looking at the St. Mungo's practices?"
Monty grabbed up a quill and slapped the permission under its tip. "So be it. But I suggest you are never caught in a ten-meter radius of that lowlife." He signed his name, and Anne tried not to show satisfaction. "And I warn you against discussing Muggle finery with a witch like Eleonora Fawley or to approach your Aunt Duvessa under any circumstances!"
Anne plastered an expression of compliance on her face and took the slip before she answered. "Of course, Father, I promise."
Monty sighed as if that could relieve his frustrations and shook his head with disbelief. "What on Earth were you thinking?"
"I only wish to enjoy my time as long as I can. Talking to Gavin, it seems I only have until I finish Hogwarts," – she finally told it honestly.
"Fun," – Monty smirked. "You could have just told me this medi-thing was now the vibe."
Anne kept up the farce as long as she got into her room, then collapsed on her bed in exhaustion. Guilt only came after her nerves calmed down. Sweet Nimue, did she really blackmail her father? So much about any doubt she'd harboured about matching into Slytherin… she'd just proved the lowest accusations about the House accurate, reminding her of Amelia Fittleworth, and she could almost hear her last words. A Slytherin? Oh, yes, you are!
Unfortunately, guilt was perfect for subduing her at the dinner table, making her act and behave like the placid poster witches of Hestia Carrow's paperbacks. Her father also seemed glad to have a well-placed Slytherin daughter and found her method in their argument highly entertaining. She couldn't enjoy the irony.
After Anne let her brother escort her back to Rachel's, Flooing to the Leaky when her father opened the hearth, she turned back time with four and a half hours. The only hardship of using the Time Turner was to consume two dinners less than two hours apart.
The next day, when she finally prepared to meet the Fawley matriarch, Anne made sure not to think about her last night again. The whole memory should stay hidden under locks and chains in an unvisited corner of her mind. When she reached Knightsbridge, she added a shawl to her sundress to imitate wizarding modesty before she knocked on the old house's door. It was impossible to miss the address; the building popped into existence only on her true intention to find it.
"Miss Rosier is very welcome. The Mistress and the young Mistress were both expecting her," – an elf bowed in the door and led the way to one of the parlours. "Miss Annabella Rosier, Mistress," – the elf there bowed again, and popped away as soon as the witches in the room turned to greet their guest.
Miranda jumped to welcome her, and Sophie was smiling too, but Anne couldn't tear her eyes off the old witch in the room even before the introduction. Eleonora Fawley was a great witch in every sense of the word. Her robe flowed down from a modest neckline all the way to the floor without much tailoring at first glance, making her a vision of a curious glance above a midnight-blue tent. Although it was a beautiful tent made of the softest silk and embroidered to perfection with its own colour and ecru, the need for it only showed when the grand lady moved towards her guest in her magically enhanced chair. Anne wasn't surprised when their acquaintance began with an offered cake.
After the gluttonous first impression, however, the old witch proved to be a keen observer and an owner of a rigorously trained mind. She was as quick to assess as to judge, and the air around her hummed with more of her attention than her emotions, keeping Anne on her toes. Luckily. Because even before the cake was finished, she tested her guest in all fields related to Potions, brews in general, and constructing bases. Most of the questions she only could answer by having researched homework and exam notes for the upper years.
When Anne repeated her wish to test mixtures by the Arithmantic compatibility of their ingredients, Madame Fawley finally leaned back on her chair and asked Anne to call her Eleonora.
"Finally, you have chosen friends becoming to your standing, my dear," – the old witch turned to her grandchild. "You are growing up indeed. I must admit that getting rid of that awful Patel boy is a great relief."
Anne shot a curious glance at Sophie, but she kept smiling sweetly at the matron, and only her left foot slipped to Miranda's toes under the table, so she could kick into them if needed. Anne almost gawked at that but caught herself and was careful to plaster a similarly placid smile.
"Yes, grandmother," – the waves of resentment flew off Miranda, but her voice didn't break as she replied.
"Such a peculiar attitude he had! And an extraordinary outlook on life," – Eleonora summed up her opinion about Milan, and Anne felt a storm coming after her words. "What are your goals, girl? Are you also lured by these juvenile desires of social change and some misconception of independence?"
Anne had raised her cup to win time but now choked on the tea.
"How could any of us contemplate such things if the best bases and ideas are in old family almanacs?" – Sophie rescued her. "I find it so liberating that this kind of research enables me to understand the efficiency of our world's structure."
Anne saw Miranda blinking rapidly from the corner of her eyes to keep her mirth to herself. "Oh, so true!" – she quickly agreed, making Sophie bite into her lip. "Boys don't sense the connection to their elders as we do. Wizards are such individualists; after all, they protect their spells and other findings while a witch adheres to her knowledge. It is so beautiful."
"Indeed, we are the ones who carry the family lines; the wizards only provide the name," – Sophie nodded to Miranda's words with a straight face, Anne struggled to understand how she managed to keep it, but at least she finally caught the plot.
"I believe it's our common responsibility to preserve, and if possible, to enhance what our mothers and the mothers of their mothers handed down through the family lines," – she finally added. "The knowledge these outstanding witches gathered shouldn't go unused and forgotten. And maybe the nouveau would also benefit, bending more to our traditions if we let them learn it."
"How interesting an approach!" – Madame Fawley deemed. "No wonder. You resemble your Aunt Duvessa a great deal, Annabella. Such an imaginative spirit, with creativity and common sense! I like her."
Anne finally managed to utter a sentence without putting up a farce: "I've always known her to be a force to reckon with. I remember staying up at night when I was younger, only to hear her opinions when she visited our home."
"Well done, Annabella; I happen to know she has great plans for you," – Eleonora graciously smiled while Anne averted her eyes to hide her fright.
"Nothing escapes her notice," – she managed to mumble.
"No, but this time I am one step before her. Pickle!" – she summoned her elf. "Bring in the Almanac, your young Mistress' friends should use the best source for their endeavours!
"Make delicate finery again the fashion! After wasted years of war and dullness, we are finally ready for elegance and grace!" – she rose with her announcement, which sounded as if she held a conference for the Prophet and sailed out of the room showing more dignity than her shape prepared Anne to expect.
Miranda rose too, imitating her grandmother, and led her friends to the far end of the house. Somehow they managed not to giggle before the door closed behind them, and Anne wished she knew more about Snape's wards. As it was, Miranda shot a Colloportus and a Silencio toward the door and windows, then let herself fall back on a settee with laughter finally erupting both her and Sophie.
"Educating the nouveau, indeed!" – Miranda cried and pushed the Almanac roughly onto a nearby table. "Oh, Anne, I will tell Milan so soon and in detail!"
"She couldn't profess him to be Merlin incarnated!" – Sophie said, choosing a loveseat. "But if this gets you to educate him, it wasn't that bad an idea, hmm?"
Miranda laughed. "Oh, I know. Such an imaginative little witch you are, Annabella! I will snog his individualist wizard arse off for charity with my ancestors' grace and consecrated knowledge of their bloody soaps!"
Anne finally grinned, and no one faulted her if it happened to be wolfish. "I thought you were just friends. But I'm glad if it worked."
"You would have done such a thing for just a friend?" – Sophie gaped at her.
"It wasn't much, just a flea in her ear," - Anne shrugged. "Patel deserves better. And I guess I'm just having a bad series of it… putting fleas into ears with my family and all… But you know how to schmooze! It's so liberating to be enabled to suck up to the efficiency of our world's structure! Bugger me! Where the hell did you get that?"
"Mr. Burke is a great mentor,"- Sophie grinned. "We had these tea parties back before Hogwarts, where we both had to use big words for bites of cakes. He says that all folks love to believe they are about something important, especially the fancy. Cater to their whims as if their arses were of gold and bam, you're doing business. No offense, Miranda."
Miranda chuckled. "None taken. Though if my gran's were of gold, you would know that. The Malfoys would exhume my grandfather for the mining rights!"
"Rather ask a nitwit to do it for them," – Anne deemed bitterly. "Hey, weren't you doing the same when you offered me tea once?" – she turned back to Sophie with sudden recollection.
Her dormmate only grinned. "It worked, didn't it?"
"You're a menace."
"Why, thank you, Annabella! Apropos, what is this thing your darling aunt, whom you happen to so fortuitously resemble, is planning?"
"I wish I knew!" – Anne huffed.
"Probably marriage," – Miranda deemed. "It has that marriage stench, don't you feel it?"
When Sophie nodded, Anne grimaced with disgust. She had long contemplated if it was wise to share anything about her family struggles, but knowing Miranda's secret about Milan Patel, who was obviously more than a friend, covered for a lot. "I hope it's not that hogwash about the Malfoy heir again. I swear she once more says it, and I'll opt for the Ordains of Vesta!"
"Hmm, gold-digger much?" – Miranda laughed loudly. "Don't worry, Anne, half the girls in Slytherin were told the same about the Malfoys. My gran thinks she is a competent witch, so she must have something else on her mind…"
"I'm happy in ignorance, thank you."
"Now, that is absurd!" – Sophie exclaimed. "The least you owe yourself is to know her plan. When will you meet her next?"
Anne shook her head. "I hope I will not. It's not like she's a frequent guest or–"
"I give it two weeks the most," – Miranda cut her. "Duvessa, is it? My gran will owl her tomorrow, and you may avoid her coming here on Monday but not much longer. You'd better up your game, witch, or they will out-hag you. Besides, if it's indeed a Malfoy, you might have some years of peace, but I won't be able to invite you again. Gran hates their guts for some old drama."
That day none of them opened the Almanac, and the new week began with the test runs of Anne's new schedule. She turned back time twice in the morning and twice in the afternoon. Thirty-five-hour long days would not benefit her health; she could recognize this without additional summer courses.
St. Mungo's was a peculiar playground for a curious witch, and the first day she was only showed around. Ulfhild was a not-yet middle-aged witch at the administration, whom the Sorting Hat had somehow misplaced into Ravenclaw despite her family name and all the expectations. The better part of Anne's time ran away listening to her memories and accolades of the Hogwarts mediwitch. She also mentioned she had cut all connections with her brothers and uncles years ago when she received this job.
"A working pureblood witch is no mother's dream, love. But we know our worth and get by," – she intimated. "Quite enjoyably, if you care to know the prospects," – she added when a young mediwizard walked past her office door. She amended her make-up charms with a smile and asked Anne to excuse her. She was suddenly distracted by the need to deliver some parchments to sign. Anne could sense in the air exactly how delighted she was, so she readily hurried to find her group orientation instead of waiting.
The Muggles took their job somewhat more seriously, although Anne didn't find the course pacing very demanding. Perhaps this was why she didn't hurry enough, and after the lunch break, which she'd spent having a nap at her gran's flat and swallowing a sausage roll on the tube, she ended up late and breathless as she sneaked into the back of the classroom.
A boy she'd noticed earlier turned to her and assured her she hadn't missed a thing. Anne tried to return his smile despite the panting, and the boy laughed at her silliness.
"I can save a seat for you every afternoon if you need that," – he offered. "I'm not going home for lunch, so–"
She eyed him suspiciously because the vibes around him somehow seemed distraught… as if he wasn't honest… but why would anyone lie about saving her a seat?
"Oh, well… you don't know me, of course," – the boy whispered, not to disturb the lecture. "Here, Paul Kim, certified in all seat reserving services since 1977. I was born for the job. I can get recommendations," – with that, he offered his right hand to Anne.
She looked at it cautiously.
The boy began to pump his open hand in the air before her as if they were shaking hands. "You have an unusual touch; I can barely feel it," – he grinned at her, and Anne felt he tried to encourage her to do something… she couldn't ascertain what.
"What do you want from me?"
"As I said, I - can – preserve – you - a seat - if – you - are - busy - before - the - class," – he articulated every word carefully, although silently. "Where- are- you- from?"
"Why would you do that?" – she asked again instead of answering.
"Wow, trust issues?" – Paul stared at her. He then rolled his eyes with a sigh and finally talked like a human being, with the air humming with consistency around him. "Because you would have to sit by me then every time," – he admitted. "Jesus, my sister swore I was cute when I was trying to be funny!"
Anne finally snorted a laugh, then apologized to the girl sitting before her when she looked back at them, annoyed.
"I'd rather say creepy," – she told the boy.
"And do you like creepy?" – he pushed with an uncertain grimace.
The air around him was similar to what it would have been around a puppy ready to play, and Anne regretted spoiling this Paul guy's fun. "I haven't yet decided."
"Good!" – Paul grinned. "I'll save you a seat and help you decide. Friends?" – he offered his hand again, and this time Anne shook it.
No matter how awkward this boy was, at least she didn't feel like a stranger at the Muggle course anymore. She even had one more laugh before she left after the afternoon classes when Paul asked her to tell her name so he could tell his sister who debated her opinion.