They took me to the Infirmary Wing, the adults, where an increasingly weary Madam Pomfrey harrumphed about me always getting 'the oddest injuries'. But it was her very grumbling that put my fears of having permanent eye damage to rest, as I could still remember how she'd reacted to the curse on my leg, earlier in the year. Back then, she hadn't scolded me one bit.
And sure enough, a quick 'Episkey' fixed the cuts and gashes, and some more delicate variation of the cleaning charm took the last traces of blood off my face and eyes, leaving me with a clean bill of health. And yet, I wasn't too surprised when the matron insisted I remained there for the night, giving me some vague excuse about wanting to be sure there would be no side-effects. I half-suspected that was Pomfrey's subtle way of punishing me for making her life more interesting, but for once I didn't protest; which goes to show how exhausted the night's events had left me.
My sleep was restless, though; maybe because my eyes kept drifting to the drawn privacy curtains at the very far end of the ward, where I knew the frozen bodies of both Longbottom and Sally-Anne Perks rested. Or maybe because for all I knew, Potter and his friends might have become by then little more than a snack for the basilisk, slowly digesting away inside its belly.
And no, the memory of the horror in Lockhart's eyes as his face turned ashen and lost all vitality had nothing to do with my sudden bout of insomnia. Of course not, how dare you.
But I didn't waste time come morning, fatigued and all from my lack of sleep, rushing towards the Great Hall at the earliest opportunity. There I joined my friends —well, the two of them remaining— and I discovered that indeed, both Snape and the Golden Trio had survived the night's events, none the worse for wear.
I had expected to feel relief at that, the burden on my shoulders, the fear of the creature haunting these halls finally lifted. And that was the prevailing sentiment among the student body, a clear sense of freedom invading Hogwarts like a breath of fresh air; one that exploded into cheering and wild applause when Dumbledore made his reappearance later that afternoon, the wizened Headmaster taking his customary central seat upon the high table with a calculated calm, as if he'd never been away at all.
The Slytherins didn't clap, obviously, Draco very visibly puffing and rolling his eyes. But it was more performative than anything, as I could read the plain relief even in my housemates' faces: the easy conversations, the relaxed stances. After living for the entire Winter and much of Spring under the looming shadow of the Heir and their bloody monster, a return to normalcy was exhilarating.
Not for my circle, though. Both Daphne and Tracey sported long faces as they filled me in on how Prefect Farley was furious about my escapade last night, and the girls' role in distracting her to make it possible. Farley wasn't as oblivious as one could wish for, it turned out, and the three of us would have detention next Friday. Not only that, but she'd also confiscated my broom after one of the paintings snitched on me having flown it indoors, and would only allow me to use it for Flying lessons and nothing else until the end of the year. Plus, we just cost our house another thirty points.
That would've been justification enough for the low spirits. Combined with Dumbledore's generosity towards the Trio for ridding Hogwarts of the basilisk, it meant Slytherin would not be winning the House Cup this year. And given all the points that my little homework sharing scheme had lost us, suffice to say that if we had wished for our circle to gain in standing in our housemates' eyes... well, that ship had surely sailed.
That was bad enough. But in truth, it was Perks' absence that was hurting us the most. A void that none of us felt confident speaking about, and that we didn't know how to fill. Not even physically, as her empty spot on the bench stood out like a missing tooth, and none of us were brave enough to scoot over and spread ourselves around; perhaps out of a shared fear of what that would imply. That if we acted like she was gone for good, it would somehow become true.
So I wasn't really surprised when we each started drifting away, each of us seeking solitude in our own little ways, now that the threat of the basilisk wasn't forcing us to always stick together. We still shared classes and time in the common room and Great Hall, but outside of that we each sought our own little haunts to escape to. Unhealthy perhaps, but none of us were Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors, and so we had to deal with the loss —temporary as it was; as we hoped it would be— in whatever ways we knew how to.
Tracey took to the skies, and would spend her entire afternoons at the Quidditch pitch; sometimes flying her broomstick, others simply staring at the clouds as if searching for some answer up there, like an elusive Snitch. Daphne focused on her studies, that she claimed all the shenanigans from the year had conspired to distract her from, and would shut herself away in the Library, wrapped in its soft hums and the echoes of rustling parchments. Not a bad idea actually, as there was indeed a new pressing menace in the horizon: that of our yearly exams.
Me, I would wander. I'd walk the corridors of Hogwarts freely once more, passing by its colonnades and balconies, noting like a tourist all its unused and dusty classrooms and its narrow, hidden reading nooks. But eventually I would always find myself outside, sitting by the training grounds, my back against the castle's powerful stone walls, my eyes roving over the grassy expanse.
There was always a textbook in my hands —Transfiguration sometimes, Astronomy others— and I would take my writing kit with me to advance my homework —the very same kit that Sally had gifted me. But most days my eyes drifted away, and I simply... observed, watched the people around me, as they went on with their lives.
Like the upper-year students returning from Hogsmeade, all jokes and friendly shoves; or the group of first year Ravenclaw boys sitting by the lake, startled when the Giant Squid splashed water at them, demanding some bread.
The squid had survived the basilisk's invasion of its home turf without any complaints; but the same wasn't true of the merpeople living in the lake. Some of them had been petrified by the beast, and now they were collectively making a loud stint, demanding both help and reparations from Hogwarts and the Ministry. I wouldn't like to be in Cornelius Fudge's shoes right about now.
Sometimes I'd glimpse some of the adults too, from my vantage point at the top of the hill: Filch, still looking lost and as if a piece of him was missing, each day closer to becoming a spectre himself. Or the downcast figure of Hagrid, mourning the loss of his friend Aragog.
From what I understood, the giant spider had been the one to deliver the cup de grâce to the blinded, wounded basilisk that had barged into the acromantulas' lair; but not before sustaining grievous damage in the process. A damage that resulted in his death too. The remaining acromantulas had allowed Potter and the Trio to depart in an uneasy truce. According to Hermione it was because they'd wanted to honour Harry's courageous role in the battle, though I quite suspected they must have been decimated by the beast, and didn't fancy their chances against Snape —who found the Gryffindors right in the aftermath of the fight.
It was all a reminder of my role here, of my own impact in this world. Odd then, that sitting there, observing the comings and goings of everyone else made me feel more like an outsider, like the foreign presence that didn't truly belong; the impostor. Even now, after all this time.
And as if merely thinking about those words was enough to summon him, I startled when a shadow fell across me, rising my gaze to discover Severus Snape towering by my side. His eyes weren't on me, though, instead lingering on the very spot near the lake where Lockhart had fallen.
"Professor?" I said after a beat had passed and he remained silent still.
"The Headmaster asked me to inquire about your emotional state... having borne witness to death, as you have now." He paused, his gaze turning on me, scrutinizing me as in search of some clue known only to him. Then he added: "You will, no doubt, find yourself able to see thestrals now. So please, spare us any unnecessary dramatics or childish outbursts when the creatures finally make their presence known to you."
I had to pause, blinking like an idiot as I waited for my brain to reboot. Because... was that concern? Somewhere in there, wrapped and suffocated under layers and layers of condescension? It couldn't be, now could it?
"I could see them before, y'know," I replied. Because apparently Dumbledore hadn't told him all the details of what I'd witnessed last year under the Forbidden Corridor. Or perhaps it was the Headmaster himself who hadn't made the obvious connection.
One of Snape's eyebrows quirked up, a shadow of interest briefly crossing his features before the mask fell back into place. "I see," he said, in a cold tone that betrayed nothing. He then turned towards the castle's entrance and gestured me to follow. "Come with me. There are, unfortunately, further matters concerning you that require my attention."
That sounded ominous enough. He didn't wait for me, though, so I had to hurry to gather all of my belongings that were spread around me, shove them back into my bag and run after his cloaked figure, catching up to him by the time he was already crossing into the cool shade of the Entrance Hall. He didn't acknowledge my presence, simply descending down the spiralling staircase that led to the dungeons. I suspected he was guiding me towards his own office.
"Um... sir? I already did my detention."
"This has nothing to do with your unnatural talent for acquiring detentions," he explained. "The Headmaster has reminded me of your scheduled appointment regarding the injury you sustained in your leg. We will be using the Floo in my office to take you to St. Mungo's Hospital."
Oh.
That.
I froze at his words, my heart skipping a beat as he opened his office's door, his back to me, and stepped inside to gather some Floo powder.
Meanwhile I was left there in the doorway, wavering as I fought the conflicting torrent of emotions that flooded me, ranging from the deep fear of what Healer Cross might have discovered about my nature —what he could reveal to Snape— to the eager, ravenous and desperate hunger for some answers, at last.
It was the hunger, the thirst that won out in the end, and I walked forward without any prompting, seizing a good spoonful of powder for myself and following suit in Snape's example, as he spoke aloud the name of our destination and stepped into the green flames.
St. Mungo's main reception area still looked as worn down and outdated as last Summer, when I was there with Astrid, but it was much busier at this time of day, almost all of the benches taken up by wizards and witches sporting different afflictions —from the invisible ones to the very visible, like the old gentleman with a transfigurated trunk for a nose, making soft, sad trumpeting noises with each breath he took.
For a moment I feared we would need to wait there for half the entire afternoon before we'd be attended, but Snape had no such intentions. He simply marched forward, moving with purpose towards the main corridor leading deeper into the building, and ignoring the main reception desk altogether. He only paused for a brief instant, to sneer with profound loathing at one of the patients. Or more precisely, to the copy of the Daily Prophet spread open in the woman's hands.
The main headline —taking up the entire width of the cover page— read 'Hero of Hogwarts Laid to
Rest', right above a moving picture of Lockhart's funeral in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. A veritable who's who of wizarding elite society had attended the ceremony, ranging from the Ministers and ex-Ministers for Magic from several friendly countries, to celebrities and high-ranking Aurors, all in solemn respect around the golden coffin. They'd even awarded him posthumously with the Order of Merlin, First Class.
I could easily recognise Rita Skeeter's grubby fingerprints all over this new development, of course. According to the official story, Gilderoy Lockhart had ventured alone from the castle to confront the basilisk —gallantly refusing the aid of the other professors and entrusting them to remain behind and protect the students; the article was very clear on that particular point— and braved the beast entirely on his own.
It went to describe the epic battle —as recalled by some conveniently unnamed witness— with Lockhart blinding the creature and inflicting a mortal wound upon it, but not before being bitten and poisoned himself. The basilisk had then slithered into the Forbidden Forest to die, while Lockhart had collapsed near the lake, exhausted. According to the article, his last words —when discovered by the rest of the faculty— had been: 'Are the students safe?'
It was all calibrated to tug at the heartstrings of the average wizarding parent, the heroic professor sacrificing his life to save that of their own offspring, after everybody else —from the Ministry to the Hogwarts Board of Governors— had failed them. And it worked. It worked splendidly.
Potter hadn't liked it, of course; his first taste of the Prophet's journalistic integrity leaving him somewhat dissatisfied. Hermione even went so far as to send a letter to the newspaper with a detailed recounting of the true story —omitting our visit to the Secret Chamber, she'd assured me. Evidently, nothing had come out of it; maybe because telling people that the true saviour of Hogwarts had been a giant spider named Aragog didn't have quite the same emotional weight to it.
Dumbledore could have set the record straight, if he'd cared to; which he probably didn't. The story painted his hiring of Lockhart for the position of Professor of Defence as a fortunate, inspired decision; and the Board of Governor's suspension of the Headmaster as a mistake that had led to the tragic outcome, leaving the valiant hero without the backing of his mentor when he most needed it. Why Skeeter had decided Dumbledore must have been Lockhart's mentor was anyone's guess. But yeah, I suspected the Headmaster was quite satisfied indeed, and very willing to let the Board stew in their own juices. Or perhaps that was just the Slytherin in me, tainting my view.
Snape hadn't taken it so well, judging by how his hand twitched and moved menacingly towards the pocket containing his wand, as if he wanted nothing more than to rip all copies of the Daily Prophet in the waiting area into smithereens. Perhaps because he'd been the one to 'valiantly leave the castle to confront the beast and defend the students' —even if he failed to kill it in the end, arriving only in time to rescue the three Gryffindors from the angry swarm of acromantulas.
And maybe I should have been bothered too, my own role erased from the annals of Hogwarts' history. But I wasn't, not one bit. I'd rather my involvement remained in the shadows, thank-you-very-much, lest people start asking more uncomfortable questions such as: 'So how did you survive the creature's gaze when Lockhart didn't?' —I was facing away— or 'Which spell did you use on it, exactly?' —just a very focused severing charm, I'd told Granger.
Plus, it helped to diffuse that emotional backlash, part of the guilt I was feeling. I was pretty certain that if Lockhart had somehow turned into a ghost, he would right now be enthused at this ostentatious farewell, at his name being forever remembered as one of the great wizards of magical Britain.
Severus Snape managed to keep his temper in check, shooting only deathly glares rather than deathly spells at the blasphemous newspapers and their readers, and soon enough we entered the maze-like depths of the hospital, walking past the occasional healer in their green robes. We climbed all the way up to the fourth floor, and paused in front of a door with a copper placard reading 'Conrad Cross – Senior Healer.'
"I will retrieve you from the waiting room below in an hour. Do not be late," warned Snape.
"Wait, you're leaving?"
"You might find this hard to believe, Miss Sarramond, but I have more important tasks to attend to than waiting for you by this door; especially given that it's clear your injury has completely healed by now."
With that, he opened the door —without knocking— startling a Healer Cross who was hunched over a mantle of books spread across his desk. Snape guided me into the room, repeated "One hour," then shut the door behind me, leaving the two of us alone.
Okay, then.
"Ah... I had an appointment?" I said, hating the way my nervousness betrayed me, turning the statement into a question.
The man looked up to me, his initial surprise morphing into a worrying sort of enthusiasm. I noticed his appearance was somehow different from back in our previous meeting, until I realised it was because he wasn't currently wearing that monocle of his.
"Ah, yes! Miss Cromagnon, of course!"
"Sarramond... actually," I said, but he wasn't listening to me, having turned already to dig eagerly through the contents of one of the drawers in a nearby wooden cabinet.
I sat on the only empty chair and took a good look at his office. It was nothing like a consulting room, not at all like the one where that other healer had fixed Astrid's hands last Summer. It seemed Mr. Cross preferred the 'cluttered, borderline hoarder' aesthetic instead. Almost all flat surfaces had something on them, ranging from books to satchels, to all sorts of strange copper and brass devices. I saw three quills —one of them bent out of shape— spread around the place, along with a few dry inkwells for good measure. The walls themselves were covered in either shelves packed to the brim, advanced arithmantic diagrams, or a collection of mirrors and clocks of all shapes and sizes.
"Yes. Such an interesting case, yours! I've been anticipating this visit ever since I departed from Hogwarts. In fact, I went ahead and ordered a little trinket just so that I could confirm my initial hunch... here it is: a Trueguise Scope!"
He extracted a large magnifying glass, as wide as his own head; it had several metallic rings around the central lens, with smaller prisms of various colours and little bits and bobs that slid around as he dextrously fiddled with the contraption, his fingers twisting screws and levers here and there.
"Custom-made by Austrian goblins, if you can believe it; they are unparalleled at this sort of craft. Although the price tag... well, the Director wasn't too happy about it, let me tell you. Now, let's see..." he positioned the glass right in front of his face, looking at me through it. He paused for a moment, adjusted it some more, then exclaimed: "Oh... fascinating! But how does it manage to...? Hmm..."
He went on like that for a few minutes, making me feel like a bug under a microscope, each second somehow lasting longer than the last. Eventually I asked: "So, is my leg okay?"
"What? Oh, yes, the leg. Yes, yes; it is fine. Now, Miss... ah... girl, you told me before that you could do magic, can you?"
I nodded, crossing my arms. "'Course I can. I go to Hogwarts."
"Yes. Of course; it's just that sometimes Headmaster Dumbledore can be... but nevermind that. Could you please demonstrate?"
I sighed, grabbed my wand and intoned a quick 'Lumos'.
"Amazing! This sort of magic... unbelievable!"
"Uhm... it's just a wand-lighting charm."
That seemed to take him out of his reverie, because he lowered the contraption to look at me without any interposed piece of glass for the first time. "Oh, I didn't mean the spell... well, let's see... you are aware that you are not fully human, aren't you?"
And there it was. I suddenly felt my mouth go very dry, my heart running wild, my palms clammy. I didn't trust myself to find my voice, so I simply nodded.
"Oh, good, good. Now, since you can cast human magic, that would classify you as a half-breed. It would mean you were conceived– ah... you do know what 'conceived' means, don't you?"
I nodded again, to his plain relief.
"Good. That saves us from a very awkward conversation, then!" he exclaimed. "Well, it would mean you were conceived by at least one parent of wizarding lineage —since you have access to our magic— and another non-human parent."
"But I don't know what kind of creature my... non-human parent was. I'm an orphan; I never met them," I confessed, having found my courage once more. If he knew, he knew; nothing I could do now about it, other than picking his brain to try and extract as much information as possible out of him.
I expected him to either tell me outright, or admit he didn't know the species himself; but instead he paused and said: "It's... a little more complicated than that in your case, I'm afraid." Then he turned the strange magnifying glass around and handed it to me. "Here. It will be easier to simply show you. But please don't drop the scope; no mending charm in the world would be enough to repair one of these."
Not fully knowing what he wanted me to do with it, I imitated him and looked through the glass. It revealed the very same room —with Healer Cross sitting across from me, his silhouette wrapped in a glow of colourful green and purple lines. There were also arithmantic symbols and runes floating in the air all around us, and after a moment I recognised some of them from our Transfiguration classes: the device was showing me the elemental decomposition of every single object nearby! With one of these I would ace all of those pesky McGonagall exams, no maths required at all!
"Wicked," I commented outloud.
"Indeed; but look at yourself, Miss..."
"Sarramond," I said, at the same time that I raised my hand and put it in front of my view through the lens. Then I went very still, a sudden cold invading my veins. "What...? What is this...?"
"The scope is showing you the true, metaphysical nature of things; in your case, what your own body would resemble, stripped of the effects of your own natural magic..."
I was only half-listening to him, because the scope wasn't showing me my hand, exactly. Oh, it was showing me a hand. A hand crafted from wood and bark, as if whittled out of a tree branch. The fingers were delicate and articulated, with segments made of a softer, lighter wood, the pieces joined together by very thin vine-like tendrils. It was a fake, a mimicry of a hand, like that of a wooden puppet; and yet it moved fluidly, mirroring my own motions.
"No," I whispered.
"...and that magic of yours, it's remarkable! It's not a mere illusion. Nothing as crude as a glamour or a simple charm designed to fool the senses. No, this is far more substantial. Akin to an extraordinarily potent form of Transfiguration, where your own magic has fundamentally altered the essence and state of being of the... ah... the original plant matter into human blood and flesh. So don't fret: Skele-Gro will still work for you! That is, as long as you are alive; afterwards your... ah... your body will revert back to its original configuration. But then again, it's not like that could bother you at that point; so there's nothing to worry about!"
No.
I stood up like a spring, taking two long strides towards the closest mirror in the wall, and looked at it through the scope.
There was a creature looking back at me, reflected in the mirror's surface. Her face was a mask carved from dark wood, with sharp, almost unfinished features that roughly matched mine. Her eyes were empty, just two shadowed hollows; her hair a wild, tangled mass of intertwined vines and weeds. Her mouth was a simple thin indentation; until I opened mine, then it widened to reveal another eerie, gaping void, framed by two rows of pale wooden teeth.
"No, no, no..." I muttered, as I felt the strength flowing away from my legs, the edges of my vision constricting. I managed to stumble backwards, dropping back into the chair before I could collapse outright. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Healer Cross jumping from behind his desk to collect the magnifying glass out of my weakened hands, then placing it carefully back into its drawer.
It was as if my very mind was silent, short-circuited. Too many emotions fighting each other, clashing in a whirlwind that none of them were able to break away from. Except for one, apparently, a stupid thought:
"But I can't be a plant," I begged in a soft, whiny tone, as if it would change anything. "Plants hate me."
Healer Cross leaned forward, his eyes lit with curiosity: "Interesting! I suspect it must be a spillover effect. Your magic is of course engaged in denying the original nature of your body, transforming it into a human form. So it's quite possible that this internal rejection would also manifest externally, as a subconscious aversion of plants. Yes, it could very easily lead to you disliking Herbology; but make no mistake, girl: you are not a plant yourself."
I sighed. "I didn't say that I hate plants, but that they... wait, what do you mean I'm not a plant? But the scope–"
"Your body was originally composed from plant matter, yes, but that does not mean that you yourself are one; not anymore than us humans–" my eyes twitched at that "–are simply flesh ourselves. There's more to it than that."
"So what is it then?" I demanded, my patience wearing thin. "What the f–... the bloody hell am I?"
"Well, if I were to hazard a guess... and keep in mind that I'm not an expert in magical beings... I'd say that this," he gestured with his hand as if to encompass my whole form, "is remarkably similar to the methods employed by some members of the Daoine Shee to construct their own bodies. They are one of the fae peoples, native to Ireland, although there are smaller communities in Wales and Scotland too. As you can imagine, they're also closely related to dryads and fairies, and–"
"I'm a fairy?" I interrupted, the disbelief plain in my voice.
"No, not at all! In fact, it would be quite offensive to the higher fae to equate them with those smaller winged creatures. No, the Shee are classified as Beings by the Ministry, even though they keep themselves separated from wizarding society. And... that takes me to a thorny issue, I'm afraid..."
I shook my head. Thorny? Like discovering you are an animated puppet?
He paused for a beat, fiddling with his dark beard. "See," he said at last, "had I discovered you living among some Muggles —like a previous case I had— I would have assumed you to be a changeling. It's an old practice of some of these fae communities, which the Ministry has always frowned upon, but that they are willing to tolerate."
"Of course," I scoffed. "As long as it only affects Muggles, no?"
He averted his gaze, looking visibly uncomfortable, then forged ahead: "But you are not a changeling, you are instead a half-breed witch, fully capable of casting magic with a wand; you possess a human soul! And that... shouldn't be possible. Bodies like yours aren't capable of hosting human souls, not for any longer than a few days at most."
There was a pregnant pause after that.
"But... I am alive?" I said quietly; almost like a prayer, like a wish.
He stood up, pacing across the office as he theorised: "Yes, you are. But you could have never been... conceived naturally, girl. No, there must have been a ritual involved. It would have required... ah, of course! The Shee probably used blood from a wizard or witch, to make the host body suitable for a human soul. And it's that very blood that is the source of your own magic, evidently! Oh... but that implies..."
He trailed off, eyeing me very seriously for a long beat. Then he moved towards the office's door.
"Ah... I need to place a call; and my own Floo is out of commission," he said, gesturing vaguely towards a fireplace that I hadn't noticed before, crammed as it was with cardboard boxes. "Just wait here, it will be a moment."
"Wait, what? A call to whom?"
"To the Ministry of Magic. To the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, in fact."
I clenched my jaw, my whole body tensing as if readying for an attack.
Healer Cross seemed to misinterpret this, because he stepped closer and crouched down before me, sounding earnest: "Don't worry, girl, you are not in any trouble. You see... it wasn't just human blood that the Shee needed —which is worrisome enough— but you also have a soul. A human soul. And those don't grow on trees, they must have sourced it from somewhere else. An unwilling victim, most likely. Your very existence is evidence that a crime was committed; a crime against you, or... well, some previous version of you, even if you have no memory of it. Your soul was tampered with."
"Oh," I replied, my tone flat.
"That is a very serious crime, so I must notify the Ministry. They will no doubt send some Aurors to talk to you, and begin unravelling the thread that will lead them to those responsible for what happened to you. You said you were an orphan, didn't you?... Ah, right, of course you are! But do you have a guardian, or a legal representative at least?"
"Dumbledore." My voice sounded empty, even to my own ears.
"That's good, that's very good! I'll send him a message too, let him know what we have discovered. Don't worry, Miss Sarramond, we'll get this all sorted out in no time, you'll see."
I nodded, my body rigid; my stupid fake body that now felt like it was carved out of stone rather than wood. Healer Cross hesitated for a moment, then nodded back at me with a reassuring smile and turned once more to the door.
I counted one, two steps, then I twisted in my chair towards him.
He heard the rustle of my robes, and began to turn back around, but my wand was already pointed at his back.
"Obliviate," I said.