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Chapter 10.
(14)
From 1st November to 17th December 1992
Hogwarts was like a small village where everyone knew everything about everybody. Or so most people thought, and this was usually decidedly annoying. However, Anne found it exceptionally useful for different reasons.
One of those was that she could easily hide her ways behind the mask of being an average albeit boring swot. She left the school every single weekday for two whole hours with the permission of her widely loathed Head of House, who was considered the foulest teacher in sight without a lenient bone in his system, to spend some fun time with the witch considered to be the strictest and most boring of them all.
She had teas with the feared and hated caretaker and poured faith into his cup with the double loads of sugar and heartened him to keep vigilance and try to catch his companion's attacker on the second floor, so he had less time to brood alone and more to drive every student to distraction with his un-merry ways.
Just to show up in the Infirmary, visit a petrified cat daily, have lunch to conceal her private times in her turret, and have delicious five-hour naps. At the same time, everyone saw her translating ancient texts, solving Arithmancy problems or charming teapots to sing old ballads with accuracy. No one dared to even mention it because Miranda Fawley would curse them. In a word, she bent the rules to their breaking point, even helping out in the Infirmary and the Library to cultivate friendships her housemates admired, avoided, and made even her brothers freak out.
The other benefit was that she could process all the reactions to the caretaker's cat's sad fate and re-evaluate all her acquaintances by the results. Most of those were not surprising.
Like the Carrows unabashed glee and bathing in someone's misery, Sophie Borges' polite disinterest, or Gavin's wariness, which resonated in the air around him whether he was studying or playing Exploding Snaps the same. The boys in her year and most people around her were more concerned about the match against Hufflepuff being cancelled than about the cat's fate, and with all her love for Mrs. Norris, she couldn't even fault them. They didn't know her as she did.
It was more surprising that Madame Pince offered her a slice of cake the day after the incident and assured her of her sympathy for the caretaker, which she said she'd better not convey in person. She still felt that sympathy keen enough to offer help to Anne in any way she deemed fit in assisting, even showing texts about growing Mandrakes. Anne did make use of those when she talked to Professor Sprout twice a week, and they won her a special place in the herbologist's good book.
The most astonishing, however, was Professor Snape's blatant stare she remembered had fixed on her when she spent that awful night in Mr. Filch's office, offering kindness he so sorely lacked, attention without judgement, and a shoulder to cry on. The closest thing to what she had seen in her Professor's eyes that night was envy, which had thoroughly confused her.
And that hadn't even been the only thing that had made Snape look wrong-footed and out of place in the small kitchenette that night. After offering some measured and half-finished sentences of consolation, repeatedly promising to brew the medicine that would help the cat, Professor Snape resolved to only standing there and watching Anne helping Mr. Filch take his tea and enumerate his pleas. He didn't go away, though, neither did he stop her. At one point, he mentioned curfew but didn't admonish Anne for impudence when she replied she would be found in time in her Common Room with the others by some miracle; she'd been sure.
The reference to the Time-Turner went flying above Mr. Filch's head. Unlike Snape's grave expression that eventually reached his threshold of awareness, so he asked about the message on the wall:
"You surely want to inspect that Chamber, Professor. I know you. It was kind enough you've stayed and kept us company."
Snape's gaze flickered at Anne, but he answered with enough ease: "No one knows about that Chamber, Argus. You've heard the Headmaster yourself."
"It's not the first time either. I heard that too."
"All the more reason not to lose our heads, old man. The Heir was never caught," – Snape reminded.
"That son of a giant–"
"Was never caught," – Professor Snape repeated, giving no place to dispute. Mr. Filch, however, was not in the mind to let others have their way in the matter:
"He keeps you all by your balls with those favours. I wonder what would remain of his oh-so-holy-ways had anyone –"
"Argus," – Snape warned, glancing at his student.
Mr. Filch quieted and grudgingly fished out a pocket of Muggle cigarettes from the table's drawer. He offered one for Snape and let Anne inspect the lighter after he used it.
She lamented the last words… the gatekeeper was big enough to be called a son of a giant. Everyone knew he was the Headmaster's man, and Caleb just told her that Snape owed the Headmaster a huge favour. At least, that was the gossip. Should she rely on gossip? Did the Head of Slytherin House owe the most Gryffindor Headmaster of Hogwarts anyone could remember such a debt? Was his debt so grand he would betray his Squib friend and let the cat's attacker go unpunished? Did they know who that Heir was at all? Or was she just making things up by mixing two pieces of gossip that had nothing to do with one another?
The two men mostly only stared at each other and into the smoke, rarely sharing a word. Nothing to go by.
Mr. Filch finally said he would keep vigil, and since that night, he has done just that. And the Mandrakes were growing nicely in the greenhouse. The trust she childishly felt in Filch's reliable gloominess or in Snape's hidden benevolence still vanished with the havoc and the unspoken words. Mr. Filch needed her more now than she needed his friendship. She'd never lied about it; it was hard work, even if pleasure, but unnecessary. And Professor Snape was straightforward about his preferences. He did his job and wouldn't befriend a student.
He said he was a bad friend, and Caleb's tale reinforced this statement: he would no doubt be a horrible friend for a Rosier if he had been a Death Eater and now owed to someone like the Headmaster, his sworn enemy. Especially if he thought the Dark Lord would somehow return. Which Snape seemed to have believed, so Anne probably had better avoided him. Even if she owed him her sanity.
Oh, it was such a mess!
Anne long had known that adults were not omnipotent, but somehow she'd hoped for that mountain Trelawney had mentioned. It was time to give up being childish: She was a Slytherin with family interests and allies, not friends. And so she made time for an extra homework session in her side tower and used the capacity she freed to delve into some private research about elemental magic to finally finish with Ephsos and stand on her own two feet.
Then on Saturday, it was suddenly all for naught because, at lunchtime, she found a small Gryffindor child at the Infirmary, frozen into an unnatural pose, as if he was holding something in his hand, cold and unmoving.
Anne reached out from the meagre safety of her mind to feel the boy in magic. The air around him was silent and frozen. It wasn't like Snape's void; it was present, just unmoving. She risked stepping out of her house in her mind to use everything she had and touched the memory of excitement, hunger for acceptance, and fright so forceful like a strike of lightning. A wave of worry washed over her from the side, and Madame Pomfrey stepped next to her.
"Are you all right, dear? It's not an easy sight to behold. Come," –she gently tugged on Anne's robe's sleeve. "Come, child, you'd better stop watching!"
Anne felt everything about the Infirmary, hope, pain, fear, suffering, and struggling…. The determination and care the mediwitch radiated whenever she got to work was also palpable, like a living, breathing entity. Anne looked at Madame Pomfrey and could almost see her care. There was no love here but devotion, which fought the fear and devastation like shadows of memories she had never had, but the mediwitch knew.
"Why, you look like you've seen a ghoul, dear? Have I forgotten to fix my hair?" – Madame Pomfrey joked, but Anne couldn't laugh.
"Who will help out here if more victims come?" – she heard herself asking without thinking about the words.
"Me, of course," – Madame Pomfrey smiled. "No need to worry, Miss Rosier. I'm used to it, even if it taught me the value of a good night's sleep. Such things are rare, but Mr. Creevey cannot use my vigilance, even if I wish he could. That's not too high a price."
"He was so excited… he craved to be recognized and got frightened and frozen…."
"Miss Rosier, are you feeling all right? You're talking like poor Sybill on her worse days…."
Anne suddenly remembered she was not to share what she could sense and looked behind her back. Professor Snape could turn up there any moment, pushing her into the madness she fought to avoid.
"I– I'm sorry, I'm needed somewhere else–"
"Soon, girl. I will just run a check-up before you go."
Madame Pomfrey tried to guide her to a cot, but Anne could sense her suspicions and worry. She couldn't let her learn what she promised to keep a secret. Especially if her Professor had been a Death Eater, he was not likely to forgive betrayal– forget his reasons; she made a promise and received a time turner, the deal was done, and she couldn't afford such an enemy!
"NO!" – Anne screamed and ran.
Her schedule forgotten, she didn't give heed to her bracelet shining or people staring; she needed to hide to calm down, but collided with some fourth-year Ravenclaws on their way to their tower and could not slip behind the tapestry of Nimue on the fourth floor. She panicked and ran by the Ravenclaws, then one more flight of stairs up to her old friends in the Ladies at a Picnic on the sixth floor, where she finally collapsed by the wall and hugged her knees to her chest.
She needed to calm down! With deep breaths like Madame Pince had taught her, she regained control, sought her centre, and visualized her little house like so many times before. She couldn't believe she couldn't get through this phase! She knew she must master better protection before she risked too much and made an even graver mistake!
With a sudden decision, Anne closed the door of her little house and shut the window too. She'd read Liedgeselle about half a dozen times, she must have missed something important, and this abandoned corridor must be as good a place as any to get to the bottom of this mess. She hoped she would sense if she needed to be aware and boldly closed the shutters on her mind's window.
Peace. Anne walked around in her little house. Now it was organized nicely. She had everything she'd ever read, all the notes she'd ever taken neatly packed away on shelves – a product of almost three months of daily meditations. Her hopes and dreams were in one room, music in another, a massive trunk for fears and nightmares, and the latest addition: Elemental Magic, all she could find about it in the Library that week and Liedgeselle.
She wondered why people forgot about this approach. She filed through her recent readings as she mused, and a thick package fell off an upper shelf. Water? The parchment was filled with pencil-drawn waves; they moved if she looked closer. Waves and waves of peace and care – Snape's mind's projection of defence. How could a Death Eater have such peace? If she focused close enough, Anne could also see a swimming kelpie. Just like in the Black Lake!
Slytherin Common Room at its finest, at dawn, when nothing disturbed the spectacular sight from the windows on the lake's depths. The kelpie shifted into the shape of a gorgeous snake. A friendly snake, at least friendly to her, blinking like an affectionate cat, crawling around a winged wand he found somewhere- like on Madam Pomfrey's uniform….
Anne gasped with recognition: Elemental Magic could not be forgotten if they used it for signs and marks around… it surrounded her. Slytherin all but lived in water, Hufflepuff on earth on the ground floor, Ravenclaw reaching for the skies with towers high up in the air, and Gryffindor closest to the sun, the eternal flame. The Houses resembled the elements. Hogwarts carried elemental magic!
If she combined now Hufflepuff with Slytherin, earth and water made mud explaining her struggles with Amelia. However promising a material it was to build, assisting each other with their studies had been worthwhile, but not enough for the soul, for understanding. What does water do to air or fire? They both nurture each other and change faces when combined with water.
She remembered other sources listed wood as an element but finally understood why Lidgeselle did not. A tree rooted in the earth, watered to grow, reached through the air towards the sun. It also could be destroyed by too much water, fire, an earthquake, or a windstorm. Wood was all other elements' responsibility. Thus, Lidgeselle thought about it as a secondary shape. An occurrence, an effect, and not a cause, but shaped by the others' presence, like metal and stone. Anne noticed with mounting excitement that she was thinking about seven elements instead of four!
And psyche to combine them, to lead them – she remembered. Which made eight… but eight didn't seem right even with her meagre knowledge of Arithmancy. It resembled eternity all right but seemed somehow lacking for true understanding… Nine should have been easier to count with. Two whole sets and one to lead them. Three times three. Probably there were systems more perfect with even more to count with three sets. Three times three and one made ten, which was God's number, as she recalled
.
What could be the third set of three?
Her gaze slowly fell on the floor and slipped through her sitting form, and she noticed something shiny peeking out from under her robe.
Time!
Time linked all else together just like wood. Time, however, worked the other way around them. It was needed for all to be effective. And space. What could she miss here… something that linked all elements together, needed to shape their effect? Magic!
Anne counted again: water, earth, air, (fire was sometimes taken as an effect,) then wood, metal, stone; and time, space and magic? Was that right? Who could she ask? Madame Pince? Professor Snape? She somehow doubted Mr. Filch could help. What was of matter that needed nourishment, all the four elements to assist or destroy it, neither good nor bad, and having a connection with the psyche, the soul?
That's me – Anne realized, wondering why she failed to list Madame Pomfrey among those who could guide her. The mediwitch could have told her: it was living tissue. The tenth element. And soul the eleventh to crown and serve them all with magic. Twelfth if she counted the wood... or fire at the beginning, for wood was very similar to tissue… or was it?
Anne's mind was stuck at the revelation about tissues as an element. It felt almost creepy, giving a reason for the Dark Arts for the first time in all her reading. Dark Arts and Healing. All those she had listed had dark and light sides, usefulness and potential to kill and destroy. All had light and shadow, placing the Sun and the Moon, the colours black and white on the strange enneagram that formed in front of her in the colours of the Hogwarts crest, and four more shades, now spinning in the room, time, space, magic, soul, and the combined sign of light and the lack of it marked around it with runic symbols, to give it all dimension. That was her answer, not four times three, it was three times four!
Anne laughed so hard she found herself lying on the floor; the joy that filled her made her house swim in the sunshine. She did it; she understood! Elemental magic finally made sense!
Then her mood crumbled back to feeling dissatisfied and awkward because that wasn't what Ephsos suggested. None of this helped to decide which element she was supposed to choose to protect her…. No matter how hard she tried, she ended up in dead ends, making mistakes. Perhaps she was just an evil witch. Or a bad person. Obscure and Pagadow would have thought so; no wonder the only wand that was dark enough to choose her had been the ebony one. She liked it, but she also felt some shame.
Her father hated her wand; she wasn't even supposed to have it. It told what had always been wrong with her, but Mr. Ollivander said that having a black wand did not make someone evil; only intent could do that… but whatever her intention, she'd never wished for any of this.
The disappointment was so profuse Anne found herself wide awake on the sixth-floor corridor, facing the Ladies who gathered at the edge of their frame to giggle about her falling asleep across them on the floor. The fact she managed to get to her senses without the humiliation of Snape entering her head to find her was not enough to share their amusement.
She struggled through the weekend and did all the homework for her classes and for various others, amended her notes about all the subjects in the twelve notebooks she now composed about any possible research and essay material the Hogwarts curriculum could offer, and did her daily yoga practice on autopilot. It was the middle of December, and she was too tired to care.
Because she failed.
She gave her very best to figure out what Ephsos wanted from her, and she couldn't deliver, and the knowledge of this failure poisoned her days and her thoughts and took away the joy from every other endeavour.
She was good, but not good enough. Even if her classmates, housemates, and teachers couldn't see that. Surprisingly, Rachel understood the problem.
*/*/*
Dear Anne,
I will not waste time on niceties because I'm touched by your letter. The sentiments you share are so similar to mine that I was perplexed to read them.
Darling, measuring your worth by nothing else but your own scale, your own expectations from yourself, and your wish to reach your full potential is probably the characteristic of a mature mind and a proper scholar. I could burst with pride when I think about you, even if that may still be less than what you wish for now. We are always dissatisfied with our achievements because we keep looking for the next hill to climb.
I admit it's probably unhealthy in a way, and also that it's normal for our kind. Yes, it's a struggle. And it's the loneliest life because you won't ever lean on others' opinions to soothe you when you wish for more. What can I say? I believe in my heart of hearts that it is worth it. It must, dear. Else, I have also ruined my life with this disposition for nothing. But let me tell you one more thing I believe in: there's no sense in nonsense – if something is not enough or doesn't make sense to you, go and search on! In my experience, the breakthrough is always close when I despair.
Hold your head up, girl, and besiege that intellectual fort you crave! You'll find rest after. (A short rest, I expect.) I wish I could offer more than sympathy and words.
Love you, my dear girl,
Rachel
*/*/*
Anne treasured that letter because it gave some company in the loneliness and went on with her schedule to practice at Pince's cottage.
Snape didn't look up at her short knock when she entered his office. Anne was already used to seeing him leaning close to the parchment he corrected, his hair almost sweeping his desk on one side and the candle burning on the other, his hunched shoulders and annoyed grimace as his quill ran over someone's text. Imagining whose homework he might be correcting was disconcerting, so Anne just turned to the hearth, and when she sensed no wards, she threw some Floo-powder into the grate.
In Hogsmeade, the scene was only mildly less intimidating. Irma Pince was a meticulous witch, which showed in her tidy home, and her no-nonsense approach to everything was plain to see in her attitude since Anne's first visit. There were no redundant words or niceties; the furniture in the living room already stood by the walls, and two practice rugs waited parallel for them to begin.
Madame Pince didn't smile but nodded when Anne occasionally did something right by her measure. She sat down while the girl shed her school robe and began their usual breathing practice and warming up. Then her movements chased each other fluidly, only stopping to correct Anne's stance once and again with rare words and unfailing attention to detail. It was hard to decide if she was improving, but Anne felt she did, even if Irma Pince wasn't a witch to offer praises. She also hadn't admonished her once her since their first attempt at a lesson in the Library.
That day, when Madame Pince poured two cups of her usual after-practice tea, Anne couldn't feel the familiar comfort of the evening and the exercise. In the silence, the old witch treasured so much she'd lost all conscious thought, and only the nagging feeling of being inadequate remained, and her tears just fell without a dam to hold them.
"You must be tired," – Madame Pince noticed, gazing at her above the rim of her cup. Anne shook her head; although she was probably right indeed, that wasn't what bothered her, and she was afraid of telling the truth.
"Have you ever found, Madame Pince, that sometimes what seems right is just not what it should be…" – she mumbled as an explanation, too far gone in her emotions to sound coherent – "and then when you try to grab what's important, it just always slips away?"
Pince watched her longer than Anne would have liked it, and the emotions that swirled around the older witch changed from the now-familiar mix of regrets and discontentment to old pain and bitter amusement.
"Tell me about it, Miss Rosier," – she sighed. "In my experience of the world, it never goes the way it should. Right, and wrong is artificial; only intent matters and even that doesn't carry weight in others' eyes."
Nothing was soothing in her words but Anne's tears were still drying. "I should hate my wand," – she blurted out. "My father wished for me to use another, but this is the one that works."
"Aren't you too young to dismiss such a piece of your being a witch?"
Anne frowned in confusion. "Is it even possible to forego a wand?"
"I did," – Pince told her with a bitter smile. "And with good intent, if there's such a thing when one denies her true self. I wouldn't recommend to anyone to copy my mistakes."
"What happened?"
"That's… private, Miss Rosier. Enough to say, it didn't go down well. I found that my person was… would have been important to someone other than me. Which turned what I chose for myself into a fatal decision… failing another…."
Her words explained the ever-present guilt and regret Anne could sense around this witch but were difficult to apply to her situation. Would a decision she made for herself impact others? Her brothers came to mind, and the promise they made to each other… a wand oath… she wondered if it still counted made by mere kids.
She was so distracted that when Madame Pince asked what was wrong with her wand, her mouth ran away with her:
"People think ebony wands are dark. I don't want to be a dark witch."
The older witch watched her with a peculiar interest in her eyes, then she produced a book from her shelf.
"Read it!"
Anne reached for the book with mixed emotions, it wasn't an old tome, but the cover was weary from overuse. Colourmagic by Arnette Dubter. She'd never heard the like of such a thing, but somebody must have been into it at some point because the text was decorated with various notes and highlighted lines, even in the Introduction.
The first sentence underlined came on the second page: Healing the soul is the hardest earned achievement. It necessitates autognosis and a deep understanding of the sin as much as the self. Also, the religious approach commonly demands regret, which is undeniably the shortest, albeit most painful, way to fix what was broken.
There were various lines underlined about methods of acquiring knowledge of oneself, then: Those having a problem with seeking their true self oftentimes wish their magic helped them. However, one way of gaining knowledge from our untouchable magical core comes after discovering the language it speaks to us.
Anne looked up, mystified by such a decorated book in no other's possession but the strict librarian of Hogwarts! The handwriting was similar to Professor Snape's, perhaps a little more hectic. And she was surprised by the wording too. Magical cores were only commonly used allegories. To point out where magic lodged in a magical creature or person was about as hilarious as looking for the organ that held the soul. Was Pince serious?
Madame Pince impatiently took the book from her hands and turned about a hundred pages, searching out another entry.
The colour and nature of ebony are misunderstood and often misrepresented by dabblers in colour magic. Although the dark tone is undeniable, it does not represent darkness. The colour's use originates from the Ancient Cultures of the Orient, embodying elegance, timeless grace, and luxury. (The person with that strange handwriting thought it necessary to cross out the word "Orient" and replace it with "Egypt.")
Those who find themselves surrounded by this colour in their quest feel empowered and comforted by it as soon as they accept the quirky traits, stress relief, and the colour's ability to dispel fear and doubt. Those who struggle with these should accept ebony as a gift in their life, showing a way for growth. Ebony is stubborn and gives Divine Energy that enhances the profound understanding, the value of transparency, and maturity. It helps the reserved to bloom. (The handwritten side notes gave two question marks to the word "quirky.")
A person influenced by ebony can be described as self-aware, good in intentions, and pessimistic in their outlook on life. They endure a lot and soak up and pass knowledge throughout their lives. Characteristically are prone to have unique insights and wild ideas, stubbornness, and a flair for the dramatic. They are wise, warm and markedly private persons who usually come across as strange or annoying to their fellowmen. (To this last notion in the book, the familiar handwriting replied with a hasty and remarkably obscene drawing.)
"I hope I have convinced you, Miss Rosier, that those things people believe and rely on usually have precious little connection to facts, even less to the truth. Always read before you despair."
Anne had so many questions she could only gawp for a valuable moment, which sadly was enough for Pince to take and put away her book and leave the room with a short farewell so she could turn back time in solitude.
She stepped out of Professor Snape's hearth ten minutes after she'd left but hurried up to her side tower instead of choosing the Common Room. What she'd read about the aspects of ebony matched her character… was she finally on a clue?
Using the practice Madame Pince taught her, Anne sank into deep meditative breathing and focused on the aspects of colours and angles of an enneagram.
In her mind, she felt at peace. She could call for a shelf if that was what she wanted. She had found shutters when she thought she'd needed them; she'd imagined a chandelier, a music room, trunks, and her mother's voice - she was timeless. Time was only another dimension, another angle on the enneagram – layers of squares holding the elements.
She finally recalled those coloured shadows in her "music room" and entered to investigate. This time the song was different.
While John Lennon's voice repeated the Norwegian Wood on an endless loop, Anne found a bath in the corner and submerged into it, only to discover it was a lake. There was a 'bird' under the water that 'had flown' away to the air the day before, and 'she was alone,' so 'she lit a fire.' It illuminated a hearth, grew, and shed its flickering light on the room, this time from the outside. Anne noticed the windows just then, and hurried to peek through them.
A forest of ebony trees surrounded her house! Finally, the shadow of leaves pattern waving on her room's walls explained! She should have known all the way! Of course, she couldn't be sure; there was nothing special about the trees if she looked at them with their trunks intact and growing. But somehow, she knew.
Anne felt lost in these woods and wished to find a path, so the trees stepped aside, showing a way among them. It was the easiest to walk it, and soon Anne found her eyes open and her awareness back in her tower... Unfortunately, also the Bloody Baron's hovering presence above her.
It took almost two weeks before Anne's joy quieted after solving Ephsos. However, two weeks of classes without her schoolmates' exuberance bothering her, library time when she didn't feel threatened by sudden emotions, yoga with Madame Pince letting go of all the knots and cramps she used to hold onto to protect herself and visiting Madame Pomfrey with some hazy aim to relieve her – those two weeks were like regaining parts of her life she thought had vanished a year ago.
Her smug satisfaction held strong with all the improvement already shown in her classwork. After months of extensive research and various struggles, she finally had no problem focusing even in DADA or Transfiguration, and she could brew a flawless Shrinking Solution with an arm tied behind her back. Listening to Trelawney's mildly threatening rant about witches who deliberately closed their third eyes was a low price to pay, especially when she could bathe in Professor Sprout's appreciation whenever she made time to help her around the young Mandrakes.
Hogwarts didn't share in her good mood. The students bought smuggled talismans to protect against a monster no one had seen. Slytherins had difficulty going anywhere without hearing whispers behind their backs. As if they had any control over the attacks!
Anne secretly hated the Malfoy boy for threatening Mudbloods under that trice-cursed wall, because, without his silly words, the message wouldn't have pointed to the identity of an heir or the place of a chamber. Whose heir anyway? People somehow decided, Slytherin's, even if there was nothing in the message to suggest that. But the blood, of course.
"It's because the Dark Arts are synonymous with Slytherin, and that's why blood magic must be our doing!" – Sophie was miffed. "Honestly, there's nothing wrong with the Dark Arts, only with brainless tossers who keep cursing themselves! Bloody amateurs!"
Anne couldn't argue.
"Well, there's that thing about he'd built a chamber!" – Flora Carrow hesitated. "But it surely would have been found in a thousand years."
"Another story just to spur prejudice; I bet they even say he sacrificed their maidens and whatnot," – Sophie huffed.
"Don't worry, at least your uncle would never be out of business," – Flora consoled her, but her sister couldn't like the subject either way.
"It's just boring,"- Hestia said, returning to her bed. "Nothing's happened for a month, and they're still basking in the shit! At least some Huffs think it was the Potter kid," – she laughed.
"Don't say it before Malcolm, or he'd get a fit! It's barmy. A Gryff as Slytherin's heir! Have they lost it all?" – Flora snorted. "Anyway, what's up with you two, Anne? The boy's a mess; he havers about your brothers and some verbena?"
Anne rolled her eyes. "Oh, c'mon, why the hell did you have to lie to that dork? We were just friends!"
"Because that's probably the most you'll ever get out of a marriage, you silly bint," – Hestia defended her sister. "And Urquhart is a safe bet; you should thank her!"
"And he's a fuckwit enough to miss it if you fall for someone else," – Sophie grinned.
"For the last time, ladies, I am not fishing for a beau!" – Anne felt their glee and twisted but basically good intentions in the air; she still couldn't help losing her temper. Since madness was not a constant threat in her life, she felt it harder to control her emotions. "Give me a library and a dozen Kneazles, and let me die and rot alone if you please!"
"Madame Pince would be so proud of you!" – Sophie sniggered and received a pillow into her face.
"I wonder when she will file for your adoption!" – Flora railed her too, then she guffawed when she realized Anne was out of ammo. She almost hit her with a book before she realized her notes would fall from between the pages.
"Same day Lockhart proposes to Hestia!" – Anne resolved to scoff.
"Hey, hands off of my darling!" – Sophie protested, throwing a kiss to Lockhart's poster, who obediently caught it and pressed it to his heart. "He could ride me like that troll!" – she sighed.
"That doesn't mean he can't propose to Hes first," Flora chortled, and Anne's pillow flew from Sophie's hands this time.
They kept up so long that the next day was a torture – especially for Anne, who still doubled on all her class periods, adding five-hour turns for playtime, rest, helping out in the Infirmary, and visiting Filch and Madame Pince like time had no value. Of course, she noticed that her cycle was now biweekly, and her hair and nails grew alarmingly. At least, she was finally practiced enough to mend her clothes with household charms and elongate her robe to cover her ankles when it suddenly fell too short.
Who cares about age anyway? She was already doing easier research for the sixth- and seventh-years twice a week, which would only be impossible in Arithmancy and Runes, but no one chose Runes as a NEWT subject in Slytherin, and the only Arithmancer was too afraid of mistakes to let his work slip out of his hands.
Most shared the girls' opinion in the House about the attacks; only the second years seemed uncommonly preoccupied with the events. However, that was the same year of the Gryff's wonderboy, so the upper years forgave their childish exuberance. Snape's unexpected crusade after someone pilfered ingredients from his storage ruffled more feathers than a cat and a boy at the Infirmary. Anne even could sense that they didn't bear his suspicions, only his bad mood. She had no time wondering which idiot they owed for the 'pleasure.'
However, the mood changed three days before the end of the term, and one didn't need to be an Empath to feel Snape's calculating glee. Frankly, it was terrifying. That evening even the upper-year Slytherins hung up their pride and rolled into the Great Hall to see what kind of Duelling Club Lockhart thought to start.
"A fiver says that Flitwick's into this," – Anne heard Caleb whispering to Phil behind her.
"Done," – Gozey wheezed. "I had seen him up on the fifth floor twenty minutes ago. He didn't look like coming down here."
"The frick were you doing up there twenty minutes ago?"
Anne could feel the waves of excitement and longing from Phil's direction, and she silently thanked Nimue or anyone else that it didn't knock her over anymore.
"I'll let you figure that out, mate! But I know for a fact that Flitwick won't come."
"C'mon, he could wash the floor with this buffoon; he must do it!" – Gavin chimed in, almost pleadingly.
"Yeah, like Guildy-low had ever written a book on fair play! Last week he made us–"
"Shut up! He's going to speak!" – a fifth-year girl couldn't stop herself from hushing them, making the three seventh-year boys crack up hearing the eagerness in her voice.
Anne didn't hear much of what Lockhart had to say for the most profound annoyance of the fifth-year Ravenclaw, but she clearly recalled the word "assist" before they all saw Professor Snape walking up the Duelling Piste.
"Bloody hell!" – Gavin cried out.
"Fuck, this and five galleons! I don't think I've ever loved a guy more!" – Phil groaned, clutching his hair with both hands in excitement.
The two Professors demonstrated a formal bow before the duel. The hall went so quiet a dropped pin could be heard for a heartbeat, then two… then Snape's Expeliarmus blasted Lockhart all through the Great Hall with a flash and sound of a smaller solar flare!
"Yesss!" – Gavin celebrated.
"This was easily worth even a dozen galleons," – Caleb grinned. "I would pay him to do it again!"
"And do you think Lockhart would let him?" – The fifth-year girl tried to scowl at them, only making the boys laugh harder.
"Even better if he tried not to," – Phil deemed. "Hey, let's skive off before they make us act out," – he wisely suggested, and Gavin quickly stepped closer to the door.
"You go on," – Caleb shook his head.
"What do you want with playing here with def-charms?" – Phil forced, but Caleb was already focusing elsewhere. His upper body seemed to elongate, his moves rounded out as if he was on a hunt.
"Let him; it's about Flint," – Gavin explained to Phil. "A-bee, you come?"
She wasn't sure. Caleb looked strange, and she wished to stay with him but to duel showing her unpractised hand publicly was out of the question.
"What does he want?"
"Flint owes him, and he's a prick about it. Now he can trash him without consequences," - Gavin whispered into his sister's ear.
Phil already left them alone, probably in favour of a Ravenclaw girl's company on the fifth floor, as Anne gathered. She left with Gavin when she heard they were supposed to stand in pairs.
Gavin walked to the kitchen and asked for two butterbeers which they carried to the south side of the seventh floor. Between the two Southern Turrets, he knew a balcony protected with a permanent shield charm against the prevailing south-westerly winds. Only a short flight of stairs, and they were sitting above Hogwarts's grounds, sipping on the butterbeer and never saying anything more profound than that it was snowing.
"Good to see you back, sis," – Gavin eventually said just before they returned to the Common Room. Anne suddenly wished she had found that drawing somewhere he'd gifted her after her birth because she finally believed he was glad to have her around. Without homework, mind magic, or anything extraordinary.
"Yeah," – she smiled. "It took a while, but it was worth it."
"Will you tell what was going on?" – Gavin asked, and she shook her head. Gavin nodded. "It's still cool," – he finally told her. "Would have hated to leave you like that for next year."
Anne tried to imagine Hogwarts without her brothers and felt only glad to have one more term before they left.
"Aren't you afraid?" – she asked.
"From that heir?"
"No, growing up… Apparation is cool, but…."
"Yeah, one of the perks," – Gavin admitted, laughing. "You know, I didn't mention this to Caleb because of Eliza Boot but–"
"Is she the Ravenclaw Phil is dating?"
"Yes, she is," – Gavin rolled his eyes. "He's such a wanker, don't tell him I said that, but I doubt I would want to see him in the Ministry."
"Poor Caleb," – Anne sighed, but Gavin only laughed.
"He dodged a nasty hex there, sis; I didn't mean it that way… but… you remember that girl back home who rode her bike into every bloody tree and lamppost between the Fishing shop and the Swaggerin' Swan?"
"Kelly Smith? I was supposed to go to the Muggle's school with her before Rachel saved me."
"Yeah, well, I hope she won't save me from her…" – Gavin grinned, awkwardly scratching his nape.
Anne could feel his emotions before she saw their shadow in Gavin's ears turning pink. She almost screamed when she realized: He liked her! He really liked her!
"Don't be mad; she was supposed to be the same year with me!"
"Really? Well, that must be a Muggle thing because she's past fifteen, and I can wait…" – he shrugged. "She moved to London last year, and I sort of ran into her in the summer. Erm… she said she would visit her gran back home this Christmas."
"Gavin!" – Anne cried, astonished. "A Muggle?"
"You keep dragging up mum and all, why should I… I mean…"
Gavin sounded so uncertain, Anne hurried to reassure him: "No, it's okay, I just never thought- What did she say when… wait, did you tell her?"
"About magic? No! Hell, I don't even know where to begin! I'm stuck at Slytherin with all these insane birds blabbering about marriage and shit, and I– We're just having fun, sis, going to a concert or cinema or some Muggle stuff, I dunno…. What's wrong with Muggles, anyway? She's not a terrorist, doesn't even support their crazy politics and made flyers against pollution with her schoolmates for a protest!"
"There's a fifth year I'm doing research for Potions OWLs, who says they should be managed before they destroy the world, but Aunt Rachel has never attacked anyone either. Did you know her bus just left Humber Road two months ago before that thing blew up?"
"Yeah, mum wrote something about it. Pity we cannot get the Muggle papers; the Prophet is useless when it comes to real facts. Not that we didn't have our own shite to shovel out of the way… the Ministry is the prime example. The Malfoys had another house search. Really, the more they pick at them, the more dangerous they would be."
Anne scowled at that. "You can't just take all heirlooms from a family. Father also has cursed books and earrings."
"Yeah, imagine his face if great-grandmother's consecrated earwax landed at the Department of Mysteries or in the hands of some cursebreaker from Gringotts," – Gavin snickered, and his sister rolled her eyes, mocking with faked horror. "Mum has the good sense not to touch it, and I doubt Kelly would be a fool to go for those crystals if I told her what they'd do to her."
"So you want to tell her," – Anne grinned.
"One day, I think I would," – Gavin admitted with a shy smile. "You won't tell, will you? I just wanted one of you to know. She answered my postcard," – he added a little short of bragging. "I picked it up last time at Hogsmeade."
"You can owl to Muggles?"
"You can owl to add it to the Muggle post. The reply came to the Muggle Section of the Post Office. I wonder if she wrote again."
Anne hoped she did. Gavin seemed taken enough, and she thought one brother unhappy in love was enough in a family. She sighed for Caleb, but she could do nothing for him but swear against helping Phil Goozey with an assignment again. Let that Ravenclaw girl sweat with his homework if she preferred him!
Surprisingly, Miranda Fawley didn't bat an eye when Anne asked her later in the Common Room to exclude Phil from her clientele. One petty revenge arranged in minutes. She'd never felt more like a successful Slytherin. Last day her book lay untouched on one of the deep plush armchairs' armrests until she'd returned to commence reading it, and now this. Anne smugly accepted that her improved state of mind was a tremendous help in socializing and gladly joined her classmates when they returned from the Duelling Club.
Then the news finally hit her: the Potter kid was a Parselmouth! The wonderful evening suddenly broke to shreds.
"Parselmouth? What do you mean, like Salazar Slytherin?" – she leaned closer to her excited classmates.
"Yeah, you should have heard him!" – Higgs whispered.
"Where the hell have you been, anyway?" – Flora asked Anne. "Everybody is talking about it, even the Huffs!"
"I–"– Anne looked around dumbfounded. "Catching up with Gavin… But that's impossible!" – her voice finally returned, "There's not even evidence that Slytherin built a secret chamber! And how could his heir get into Gryffindor?"
"Well, show me a pureblood who's not related to another," – Vaisey shrugged. "I mean, it's unlikely, but…."
"Nuts!" – Malcolm dismissed the idea shortly. "The old farts may believe in his powers, but I will not be caught dead following a Gryffindor!"
"Here, here!" – Miles Bletchley raised his nicked pumpkin juice. "There might be a way to learn Parseltongue, and he just wants people to fear him."
"Well, Pansy says," – Vaisey began, but Miles erupted with laughter:
"Merlin, Vaisey, leave that bird alone! It's embarrassing!"
"She's cool enough," – Vaisey told him. "But that's not the matter. She's in Potions with the little shite and says that Snapey's fed up with his nonsense! The guy's so stuck up he can't shut his gob even when he can't brew a thing if his life depends on it!"
"What are you trying to say?" – Higgs interrupted.
"That Snapey said he loved to be worshipped, and he even mocked him for being such a celebrity," – Vaisey said with an affected grimace.
"Well, if Snapey doesn't believe it, I'll pass, too," – Flora decided.
"But who's the Heir then?" – Vaisey looked around in the Common Room.
The silence was short but awkward before Hestia chirped:
"Here's Anne; she can research it. It's just history, no? So get at it, witchling, and we'll know it in no time!"
Anne coughed with surprise and felt her cheeks reddening with the sudden attention. "And you don't suppose the teachers would have done that if that was just so simple?" – she tried to find a way out.
"Who said they don't know?" Hestia insisted. "Perhaps Snapey does; he just won't tell, or–"
"Now, that's hogwash! He wouldn't let someone summon a beast!" – Anne protested, but her conviction failed thinking about the gossip Caleb told her. But then again, Snape wouldn't let someone curse Mrs. Norris, would he? Surely not intentionally… "He liked Filch's cat," – she added weakly.
"Collateral damage," – Higgs deemed, giving airs like a sage old wizard making Flora chortle.
"We would know if you just bothered to research," she told Anne, who fought the urge to strangle her in return. Then her gaze wandered towards Malcolm, and she had an idea.
"Well, alright, but that will cost you dearly. I have no time to play around with genealogy charts, so if you want me to put in the effort…."
Vaisey quickly excused himself but Miles and Terence both nodded.
"I'm in, too," Malcolm said, lifting a questioning eyebrow at the Carrow girls. Flora huffed.
"So, how much do you want?" – she asked.
"I'll let you know later," – Anne smiled innocently at Flora, hoping she didn't need to share her plan with the boys.
Flora had none of it, and she grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the girl's dorms with Hestia in tow. When the door closed behind them, Flora was quickly at Anne's throat:
"After all we've done for you witchling, and you've never been an easy load to carry–"
"I'm sure you would be happy to hurt me but guess what, you already have!" – Anne cut her and screamed into her face. To be sure about her anger, and feeling like herself finally enough to release it, was a new and heady feeling, even if she knew she was testing the boundaries of her newfound station. "I want you to find another date for Malcolm or date him yourself! With your wand in your hand, I want you to promise that you would never ever interfere with my love life again!"
Anne felt stupid for using the word, but Flora gaped and wheezed as if she'd slapped her.
"Wh-what?! With all our efforts to help you–"
"I've never asked for your help!"
"Urquhart is a decent wiz. You could do much worse!" – Hestia shouted. "Have you ever looked into a mirror? You really don't have much but the name to recommend yourself!"
"And what the fuck is your problem with our cousin?" – Flora added, panting with rage. "Are the Carrows and the Averys not good enough for you?"
Anne had never thought about that part. Of course, the Carrows and the Urquharts were related… dammit….
"That's not what I meant!"- she argued. "Malcolm is a decent boy; he's just not for me. I don't want you to encourage him. It's cruel! You're cruel to him, not me! As his cousins, you ought to know better!"
"D'you think you're too good for him?" – Hestia asked with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "With those shapeless robes and your lank hair? D'you think no one noticed how many pimples you would have if you were any worse in Potions? Just because you can brew a good Cure for Boils, we are the ones to see you in the morning, and any boy would run for the hills if they just once saw what you look like!"
It didn't help that Anne's eyes filled with tears. She tried to detach herself from Hestia's venom and hide in her mind to conceal her wound, but it was impossible not to let the words get to her.
"Leave it, Hes, she's too dull to understand," – Flora said with an ugly sneer. "You know what, witchling? I exactly know how to pay for your bloody efforts, here!" – she tore off a corner of a parchment and scribbled up a word before throwing it at Anne. "No one's gonna bother you, witch! Ever."
With that, the Carrow girls left the dorm with their noses in the air, leaving Anne to crouch down for the torn piece of the parchment.
"Volvad apicem," – she read, and a curvy line showed the wand move under the spell. It was familiar; she just couldn't place it. Anne whispered the spell, and her wand began a strange buzz, pulsing in her hand like a heartthrob, quickening as the minute passed while she stared at it.
"Finite Incantatem!" – Anne shrieked through her tears, and her wand stopped its crazy dance, but she had already let it fall and roll away on the floor, breaking down in sobs. "Damn you!" – she panted, looking at the door. "Damn you both to Hell!"
Anne tried to calm her breathing with all the remains of her self-control. She had to get out of their dorm before the Carrows told everyone they left her with a vibration spell from Hestia's books. She found her wand, Incendio-ed the torn parchment and threw a Colloportus at her trunk before she ran madly out of the dorm, rushed through the Common Room, up the stairs, and disappeared through the hidden passages to her side tower to have a good, undisturbed cry.
She knew the others were probably laughing at her in the dungeons and thought she should run to Filch, Madame Pince, or even Snape for help, but misery didn't wish for company this time. How could she tell anyone about – about – …. No, there was no name for such hurt and pain. Flora matched her with a bloody vibration spell because she was obviously too ugly and weird to ever land a boy's attraction. She simply said she should rely on her own wand.
The Muggle experiences, and Chris's fright, when she'd disappeared in the middle of their kissing, didn't help at all. Instead, Anne was only reminded how everyone turned away from her on the bus returning to London and how Chris's friends looked at her suspiciously… easy to explain as disgust. She also remembered when Judy had told her not to let her breasts grow more if she didn't want to look like a stuffed duck. That's what they all had to see when they looked at her: A stuffed duck, and now Flora proposed a stuffing?!
Anne veiled in pain and wished Mrs. Norris had found her. But she was at the Infirmary, petrified. She wouldn't come! Her sobs renewed, and she cried away her hurt and fears, hating them all in return and too exhausted to stop and regain control.
By the time she was stopped by a vicious headache, the castle was eerily quiet, and Anne realized with a fright that it must be way too long after curfew. She was so tired, and her eyes were so sore, it took a while to read the numbers on her time-turner, but Anne was more ready for another three hours of wandering about than to face Snape or that monster out on the corridors.
She slowly descended from her tower, regretting she couldn't step in to alter the events of the evening, and stumbled to the Infirmary to beg for a headache potion. When Madame Pomfrey's care touched her senses, she faltered.
"Merlin, Miss Rosier, what got into you?" – the mediwitch cried out, and Anne's tears fell again.
"I can't do it," – she whispered through a sore throat. "I can't do it anymore."
She had a hazy feeling about being weightless; some moments later, she felt a bedcover sliding up her shoulder. But when Madame Pomfrey reported through the fire to her Head of House that she would spend the night at the Infirmary, she was already deep asleep.