Valkyrie

July 1979

Emma Vanity’s funeral happens on a warm July afternoon on the Vanity property.

Mary apparates there with the rest of the group. This isn’t a Valkyrie thing; as far as she knows everybody is invited. The boys are with them – Peter shifting uncomfortably in one of Fleamont’s too-big suits and Remus, still exhausted from the full moon the night before but insisting he’ll come – and James’ parents. Euphemia bought them all dress robes, waving a hand when Lily protested about the cost.

Mary just feels… empty. It’s not like she really knew Emma Vanity; she was two years older, and a Quidditch captain for a time. She remembers a ponytail of dark hair, a mischievous smile. Marlene is fond of her, ever since their mission, and James used to pester her after matches when she did a manoeuvre he didn’t yet know.

Emma Vanity, dead.

There is a strange feeling in the air, like the war has become real for most people. Not even Maria-Gabrielle McGonagall, whose disappearance everyone silently agrees indicates a worse fate than hoped for but nobody wants to talk about because she was “crazy”. Purebloods especially, huddling together. There is a sense that the war has taken one of their own, which means it matters more.

It makes Mary feel worse, around all these people, because it feels like she has a target on her back: Muggleborn. Were it not for her and “her kind”, there would be no war. Part of her yearns to stick close to Lily in some form of alliance, but Lily won’t let go of James’ hand. Mary stares down at the ring and feels a bad day get even worse.

She ends up between Remus and Sirius. Sirius and Pete are busy gossiping about all the purebloods they see as they walk down to the funeral site. Remus is quiet, thumb rubbing against his inner palm, back and forth. Mary watches him for a moment, at the distant gaze in his eyes. He looks so young like this, and Mary thinks of him suddenly in first year, gangly even then, with a wary look that’s never really left him.

“Are you okay?”

Remus turns his head, eyes scanning hers. God, he looks especially bad today. Ever since Mary found out about the whole werewolf thing, it’s fairly obvious in retrospect. God, what was she thinking, accusing him of being a girl? It all feels very silly now.

He really becomes a different person around the moons; at once vacant and quieter than usual, but also snappish and irritated. Sometimes, Mary stares at him and tries to imagine the wolf splitting his body in half, clawing for the surface. It must be a lot of effort to keep it hidden, and she sort of respects him for it. it takes a lot of strength to hide such pain.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

I don’t believe you, Mary thinks. Before she realizes what she is doing, she’s pulling her hand from her pocket and offering it to him. He stares down, and she’s fairly certain he’s going to refuse. Then, slowly, he takes it. his hand is warm and sweaty, palm much bigger than hers, but still she holds on. Hidden in their dress robes, Mary and Remus go into the funeral together.

Two people are standing at the gate dressed in black. The man is tall and thin, with warm brown skin, hair balding at the top, and a pair of dark spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. The woman is Chinese, around his height, with short dark hair and thin lips. Her watering eyes meet Mary’s for a second, then flit away.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Euphemia says softly, reaching to hug the man while Fleamont leans in to kiss the cheeks of the woman. “I can’t even imagine the sort of pain you’re facing.”

“Thank you, Effie.” The man nods his head, and his eyes trail over the group. “We appreciate all of you coming. I suppose you knew our Emma at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, sir.” James, hands behind his back and face drawn into a melancholic expression. “She was a few years older than us, but we played against one another in many Quidditch matches. She was an excellent flier, and an even better sport.”

The man’s eyes mist up. “That was our girl.”

“Please,” the woman gestures past the gate. “Go take your seats. We’re starting soon.”

“Do you know them well?” Lily asks Fleamont as they walk down the field. Mary mostly marvels at how big the property is. Pureblood money, she supposes.

“Pureblood families are fairly intertwined, even blood traitors like us.” He uses air quotations to illustrate his point, making Sirius snort. “Danny and Su-Wei have always been friendly with us, and fairly tolerant.”

“My parents hated them.” Sirius pipes up, shrugging. “That should tell you something.”

Mary sees people mingling, speaking quietly. Her stomach does a weird flip flop as she scans the crowd, looking for the one person she wants to see. Well, maybe not want, but that she knows will be struggling.

There’s security here, something Fleamont said would happen. Apparently, a big gathering like this has become a bit of a risk, and so there are people posted at every corner watching. Mary catches Marlene craning her head when she sees Alastor Moody, evidently looking for Dorcas Meadowes. Mary catches Lily’s eye, and a spark of amusement goes between them. Mary holds that moment in her arms and cradles it until the warmth dies out.

She spots a group up at the front. A woman, holding a baby in her arms, a stocky man, and two girls, probably teenagers. All of them look identical to Emma Vanity, it’s almost scary.

“Emma’s sisters.” Mary startles a little, glances to her left. Peter has ended up next to her as they shimmy into their row of seats, Remus having let go of her hand with a half-smile and sitting to her right. Peter is watching the group in front, eyes focused. “There were six of them. The eldest left a few years ago, and then their third, Nora, she died about two years ago. Suicide, apparently.”

Mary stares at him. “How do you know that?”

“Pureblood gossip.” Peter’s eyes narrow, like he’s scrutinizing something, but then the spell breaks, and he looks back at her. “Really helpful to know juicy bits of information if you’re in a real pickle.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“More than you might think. I’m not always as suave as I appear.”

“Somehow, Pete, I don’t actually believe that.”

Peter smiles, a sort of cocky yet humorous grin that reminds Mary why she likes him. “Oh, did I tell you my latest girl news? I feel like you’d be interested in this sort of thing. James and Sirius keep telling me to shut up about it.”

“Oh, you know I do.”

Peter leans in conspiratorially, and Mary leans in too, enjoying the performance involved in having a conversation with Peter Pettigrew. “Sybill. Trelawney.”

“No way. That Ravenclaw girl in the year below us? She’s… pretty.”

“Yeah yeah, she’s a little weird.” Pete waves a hand in the air and rolls his eyes. “She’s super sweet, though. People don’t give her enough credit. We went out on a few dates, and… I really like her.”

“I’m happy for you, Pete.” Mary claps him on the shoulder. “I’m excited to meet her, well, officially.”

Peter smiles at her, but they’re interrupted by the proceedings. Folding her hands in her lap, bracelets clacking a little as she does, Mary turns off her brain and lets herself be swept up in the tide of mourning.

~*~

Mary hasn’t really had people die, unless you count her great-grandmother, who lived to 108 and died when Mary was seven. Otherwise, she’s mostly intact in terms of family life preservation.

This means she hasn’t really ever had to deal with a funeral. Or the proceedings afterwards – the word that springs to Mary’s head is “afterparty”, which feels ridiculously inappropriate and makes her cheeks blush hot when she realizes. Everything here makes her skin prickle

It’s sad, of course it’s sad. Emma’s parents and her older sister Audrey give a eulogy, often pausing to cry silent tears or to clear a choked throat. Mary sits here and feels like an imposter, intruding on a vulnerable moment. She didn’t know Emma, it feels wrong to be here and to participate in this grief like a performative action.

Mary is upset, that rising tide of sadness she is all too familiar with. But it doesn’t feel right, the way she is upset. It feels knotted in her chest, like a gnarled tree, and she can’t quite figure it out.

Afterwards, she sticks close to Remus, like a baby duckling, following him through the Vanity house main floor during the after-funeral. She spots Emmeline Vance with Benjy Fenwick and Caradoc Dearborn, and she has a strange feeling, a tug on her heart. Emmeline looks utterly exhausted, dead eyed and quiet. Her gaze catches Mary as they pass, and her eyes return to life for just a second, a confused look as though she is trying to piece something together. Mary avoids her look and keeps her head down, refusing to open that door in her mind.

There is one person missing, and Mary has a very strange feeling that she is meant to find her, like the string tying them together is being pulled. She has tried many times to sever that connection, but still, it lasts, a tether to the past.

Remus nudges her side and jolts her back to reality. His eyebrows are raised, quizzical.

“I’ll find you guys after.” She says quietly, watching his gaze flick to the incomplete group behind them, and he nods, not asking any questions. She appreciates him for that and thinks briefly about finding his hand again to squeeze it but decides against it.

Through the labyrinth of the house, weaving around people, some of whom Mary recognizes from Hogwarts. Some shoot her peculiar looks as though it is odd to them that she is here, and she agrees. Since graduation, it’s not as though she’s been super involved in the wizarding world of her own free will.

Whenever she’s around purebloods, Mary instinctively watches out for Milton Mulciber. He wouldn’t be here; he wouldn’t fraternize with blood traitors if Fleamont is correct on that point, but she always moves with a step of hesitancy, head on a swivel lest she be caught off guard.

It has become easier to ignore that image in her head, him over her, laughing, flecks of spittle landing on her skin. Even now, years later, that spit has burned into her flesh, a reminder of who she is in this world: nobody, just a toy to be used by the ruling class.

She wonders again if Fleamont is really right about the Vanitys. Certainly, some pureblood families don’t seem to care about blood purity – the Potters are probably number one on that list, in Mary’s experience – but it feels hard to believe something so ingrained in society can just be… unlearned. Mary doesn’t automatically trust anyone, at least not anymore, but she becomes even more suspicious about purebloods, especially the ones who proclaim their allyship.

Mary reaches a flight of stairs, wonders briefly if this is an invasion of privacy, but decides that it doesn’t really matter and scales it anyway. There’s a sniffle down the hall and Mary ventures forth, heart rocking in her chest like a ship on a rough sea.

Hestia Jones is curled into a little ball in the corner of the last bedroom down the hall. It’s barebones, devoid of colour and personality. Mary wonders if this was one of the sisters’ bedrooms, one of the three that are gone. She hesitates at the doorway, feeling supremely insecure and awkward. It’s not as though they’re friends anymore, maybe they never were. Who’s to say Hestia even wants her right now? Maybe she wants Emmeline, beautiful Emmeline, sweet Emmeline, smart Emmeline—

“Benjy said you’d come, but I almost didn’t believe it. I thought you’d be uncomfortable here.”

Mary startles a little bit. Hestia’s face is still smushed into her arm, and it’s as though the walls are speaking, not her. Slowly, Mary ventures forward into the room a little. “How did you know it was me?”

Hestia lifts her head, and her eyes are red and puffy, her lips drawn in the saddest expression Mary has ever seen. “Do you really think I wouldn’t know you, Marisol?”

Mary swallows the lump in her throat and takes another small step. “I saw you weren’t with your friends. I… I was worried.”

Hestia makes a pathetic little snort-laugh and shakes her head. “I didn’t want to come. Can you believe that? I wanted to skip my best friend’s funeral.”

Something unpleasant flips around in Mary’s stomach, but she shoves down the feeling as deep as she can muster. “I’m really sorry, Hestia.”

“Yeah, me too.” Hestia’s eyes, when they meet Mary’s, are wide and watery, but familiar, that warm amber that Mary thinks of as her favourite colour these days.

A memory, Mary on the floor, drunk off her ass, rescued by a pretty goddess, who sat with her and let her feel. The first time she remembers feeling seen, down to her very bones and marrow. Mary aches for that feeling now, something infantile within her screaming and lapping up any ounce of recognition, even for a second.

Marisol, nobody has called her Marisol in months. Only Hestia would understand, only Hestia could call her that and mean it. When Mary asked another to call her Marisol, desperately trying to recreate the situation before, it wasn’t the same. Only Hestia can tap into such a raw space in Mary’s body, one she hates but needs.

Whatever history exists between them, whatever hurt and betrayal and longing which surrounds the two of them, that can be set aside. For now, Mary moves slowly, slipping to Hestia’s side and sliding down with her back to the wall, keeping her gaze ahead. It takes a moment, maybe because she doesn’t believe Mary will stay, but Hestia inches closer and rests her head on Mary’s shoulder, sniffling. Finally, she can properly cry, because she is safe here.

They stay like that for a long time, long after Hestia’s tears have dried up, and neither of them will admit it, but they feel the click, the comfort of finally returning home.

~*~

Euphemia always wanted a lot of kids.

She’d told Flea this very bluntly on their second date. She can see it now, the Three Broomsticks, and he across from her, less lined but still recognizably hers. She knew it would be him from the beginning—no, that isn’t true. She’d known him before, back at Hogwarts. He was a prefect when she was a first year, with a kindly smile. She could never have thought it would be him, especially at eleven, when sixteen seemed like ages away.

She was twenty-two when they met again; she, having just broken up with that Xavier Trelawney, still an junior level assistant at the Administrative Registration Department to her great frustration, having already spent three years working there. Nobody much took her seriously in those days, even with her uncle Hector being Minister for Magic. It is not hard to believe looking back that most of this had to do with Euphemia being a woman – certainly her being Indian didn’t help – but she was determined not to let that stop her. Besides, she was way more competent than most of the men working there, she reminded herself daily.

By that time, Fleamont Potter was already a celebrity, thanks to his hair potion. He was everywhere; grinning face plastered to every Daily Prophet. He, twenty-seven, with a shitload of money, thick glasses, and arguably very nice hair, somehow stumbled into Euphemia Fawley’s cubicle one regular morning, apologizing and asking where the Minister for Magic’s office was, and so Effie found herself escorting him up to see Uncle Hector while also trying to comb back her hair in a way that highlighted her bone structure (what Mum said was their family’s best feature) and desperately trying not to remind him of the eager eleven-year-old he had known her as.

She wonders often what would have happened had he not walked up to her that day. Would they have crossed paths again, a few years down the line, older and more mature? Would they have still fallen in love like they did, and spent almost fifty years together? She likes to think so. she likes to think they would find each other everywhere, at any time. There is nobody else quite so made for her like her Fleamont.

She wanted kids, lots of them. Life was lonely for her growing up, an only child, finding real companionship only when she got to Hogwarts. Fleamont was an only child also, he understood her desire. She knew she was made for it, being a mom, and she wanted it, especially with Flea. They would be the most loved kids on the planet, that was for sure.

The first was when she was twenty-eight, not long after their wedding. Sixteen weeks, a little boy growing in her uterus, the apple of hers and Flea’s eye. How to explain her excitement, her thrill at knowing her childhood dream was coming true?

Except, that wasn’t meant to be. At the office, bleeding in the washroom, unable to conceal her sobs as her heart shattered over and over again.

His name was Sebastian. Maybe it was unwise to name him so soon, but he was already hers. She couldn’t not name him.

The second was Adelaide, when she was thirty. Sweet little Addie, feebly breathing while Effie held her close at St. Mungo’s, resting her head against Fleamont’s shoulder yet unable to cry properly. Addie died an hour after she was born; a heart defect, the medi-witch said, and all Effie could feel was a terrible sadness washing over her.

There were others, but they were gone too early to name. three, four, five, and six. Euphemia began to truly believe her body was cursed. How could this be, how could she be failing so utterly at the one thing she was certain she was destined to be? Everything inside her was inhospitable, and unviable, and she was deeply wrong at her very core.

Life went on, impossibly so. she moved up the ranks at the Administrative Registration Department, she and Fleamont bought a house in a lovely little town called Merlinspire, they lived quietly and comfortably. Still, there was a sadness present everywhere, it hung in the air, thick and asphyxiating, a reminder of what they wanted but seemingly could not have.

At forty-three, there was Arthur, and they were certain that he would beat the odds. He was strong, the medi-witch said with a wink to Effie, his heart was beating, and his legs were kicking, and he seemed so alive inside her that she could not help but believe he would be the one. Merlin, she had long given up on the many, but she just wanted the one. That baby would be so loved, he would be hers entirely, the happiest kid in the world.

No matter how many times it happened, she was not ready for it. A late-term pregnancy loss, she was told. Nothing you could do about it. She had to deliver and hold that sleeping boy in her arms, and everything was so quiet that she just wanted to scream his name over and over again.

Euphemia Potter thought that was the end. No more trying, no more hope. She would live a contented life, maybe they would see Flea’s cousin’s young son Cepheus more often, so she could be an aunt of sorts. That would be enough, it had to be enough.

James was the greatest surprise of her life. Euphemia didn’t breathe deeply for ten months, not until that little boy was snuggled in her arms, blinking up and cooing happily at her. Precious, beautiful, miraculous James, with his tufts of dark hair, warm brown skin, and big dark eyes that she never ceased delighting over.

In the darkest nights, she didn’t sleep, watching over him, terrified he would be stolen in the night, snatched from her without warning. His soft breaths like the waves of a sea, Euphemia rocking gently along it, alive only once she felt the swell and the slow descent, a never-ending cycle.

That instinct, that need to know he was okay, that never went away. How could it, when an extension of her was walking around the world? She needed him to be safe, to be healthy, to be happy. Any time he smiled, her heart grew; she didn’t know how her body could withstand all of the love. Her Jamie, her sweet boy.

There was Sirius, too, her other boy, who was more hers and Flea’s than he ever was his own parents. Sirius, who called her Mum for the first time only a few months ago and had looked up with alarm in his face, as though she would not accept him. How could she not accept him? Sirius, with the twinkle in his eye, his sarcasm and arrogance, his beating heart down at his very core. Despite everything, he is a good man, and Euphemia makes sure he knows that because he forgets. Even if he wasn’t though, she would love him anyway. A good mother’s love tends to transcend that boundary.

What about Marlene? A burning flame, her Marlene, that lovely girl who raced around the house and laughed like she would never stop. How could Elspeth Sullivan not want her daughter, how could she not shatter utterly into pieces watching her girl flinch away from her touch? Marlene never flinches when Euphemia reaches for her, never. Sometimes, in a moment of pure fantasy, Marlene was always hers, she grew up with James in a happy home and was never hurt. Euphemia feels her whole body react, like Marlene is of her, blood and bone. She can be forgiven for forgetting.

Peter, James’ first friend, unfailingly polite but always with an edge of humour, a wit that could not be blunted even with authority figures. She picked him up when he fell off his broom when he was six, did you know that? Maura and Nate weren’t there, but Euphemia was. She dusted him off and healed his knee and let him try her tea to make him stop crying, later making him a mug for himself while they sat and watched James and Marlene and Fleamont soar around the field. Peter, somehow more adult than anyone she had ever met, who loves so fiercely yet quietly as to not make a sound. There has never been a greater man to protect her boy, her James, as Peter Pettigrew.

And Frank, the gentle giant, planting her favourite fruit – strawberries – in his garden to bring her, blushing when she pulled him in for a hug. Did he not send her letters almost every month, because he knew she would always write back? And Alice, the kindest girl in the world, who lingered close to the door waiting for Euphemia to call her back, and she always did. Euphemia had never been prouder of either of them than at their wedding, watching them with tears in her eyes. There was nothing she wants more than to see them happy, and with each other.

There is also Remus and Lily, the loves of her two boys (even if one won’t admit it, but it is hard not to notice when they somehow find their way into the same bed when no one is looking), who have taken up a piece of Euphemia’s heart without her even noticing. How could she not love them, that observant, bookish, brilliant boy, and that loyal, charismatic, intelligent girl? Maybe at the start, she loved them because Sirius and James loved them, but she loved them for themselves now too.

Euphemia Potter lost seven children, and they are still hers, regardless of where they are. They sit in her chest, a reminder when she breathes. But, in her long life, she knows sorrow cannot replace joy; they are the same, they are the rawest form of emotion possible in the body, they are visceral and unpredictable in the greatest way. Those seven are not replaced, but somehow, seven children needing a home, needing love, found their way to her arms. They are hers, as much as James is, as much as her seven are.

~*~

Alice is devastated. Euphemia sees it in her eyes, the weight on her shoulders. She blames herself for Emma Vanity, that much is clear.

Frank tells her and Flea quietly that Alice and Emma had been on a mission, and Emma hadn’t showed up at the meeting point. There is more he isn’t saying, probably more he hasn’t even been told by Alice, because everything these days is shrouded in secrecy. Euphemia hates it, hates that Alice is suffering, and she hates this war.

When Euphemia was a girl, many years ago, there was a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, young but already held in high esteem thanks to his many exploits. He’d been teaching for maybe, what, fifteen years by that point, and yet he seemed like such a breath of fresh air compared to some of their doddering old professors. His name was Albus Dumbledore, and Euphemia Fawley had never liked him.

Part of it was not his fault. Euphemia had decided at a very young age that she was not fond of men who tried to be her father. This included her own, Atharv, who never much cared for his daughter as much as he did the political ambitions of his younger brother. It was unfortunate that he was terrible at politics and seemingly had no idea. Euphemia would have told him if it would have made a difference, but no. she was destined to have a father and yet be fatherless.

Albus Dumbledore fancied himself a kind, loving, generous man. Everybody loved him, at Hogwarts (well, maybe except the Slytherins, but at the time Euphemia felt they had a very different standard of character), he was intelligent and helpful and always very comforting. Classmates fawned over him, adored him, considered him a confidante, a friend, a father.

Euphemia has always considered herself a very good judge of character, and something told her right away that this man, for all his claims of good intentions, was running from something very dark inside him, and she refused to be fooled.

He knew she was suspicious of him, certainly. Any attempt at kindness on his part was met with a stony look or surly response. Back then, there was no maturity in her understanding of the situation, no nuance. She was a girl who resented her father and resented any man who knew that and tried to make up for it.

The war was difficult on a lot of people. When she and Fleamont met, it was 1931. Maybe the only reason she hadn’t lost her husband like many others did was because of Flea’s bad eyes. Albus Dumbledore ended the war, didn’t he? He defeated the greatest threat to both muggle and wizardkind, he was a hero… right?

None of this makes sense, she knows. Flea teases her about it, and she laughs along, but there is a truth unable to be denied: there is something deeply unsettling about Albus Dumbledore.

It’s been, what, maybe 50 years since Euphemia was in school? She’s gotten to know Dumbledore well. She knows his dedication to the war, that he will stop at nothing to defeat the dark forces. Is he being altruistic, though? She doubts it. She doubts that he cares much for muggleborns past the surface level, believes that he’s more concerned with reputation than empathy. When he shakes hands with Fleamont and nods to her, she can see that look in her eye, the one she doesn’t trust.

Euphemia has a working theory, one that she would never dare speak out loud: Emma Vanity was meant to die, as callous as it sounds, and Alice never should have been there. Alice is an asset, malleable and willing. Emma Vanity was disposable. In war, people are suddenly categorized in a way they would never otherwise: useful and disposable. She’s certain others are disposable too. She is disposable, certainly.

She and Fleamont fought the fight, a long time ago. She categorized names for what would become the Order, then just a ragtag group of witches and wizards in the minority, believing muggles weren’t all bad. Fleamont was a potioneer, an inventor, coming up with creative uses for potions and plants in battle. Nobody will ever know, not unless Albus Dumbledore tells them, because the war didn’t end like it was supposed to with them. Now, her little boy, her Jamie, has to fight. There was no sense in pleading with him to flee, to run away to have a future, a life. James Potter, like his parents, is one stubborn man.

Euphemia has known many people who died, names that won’t be remembered in history textbooks. Her legacy, Flea’s legacy, is in the hands of James Potter and Lily Evans. The young will carry the torch of the old, and life will go on.

~*~

Death is imminent, Euphemia knows. It’s a gut feeling, deep in her bones. Wizards and witches live longer than muggles, but Euphemia is seventy and she is already tired. She has lived through one war already, and she doesn’t know if she will be able to pick up the pieces of her life and rebuild once this war ends. Her time is running out, and that’s okay.

She wants to watch her boy walk down the isle, to see Lily in her gown. Maybe one day, when the world is kinder, Sirius will give Remus a gold ring, and Marlene will stop hiding away her true smile. Alice and Frank will have children, little chubby-cheeked and dusty haired kids, who will grow up and go to Hogwarts and hear about their parents in history books. Lily will become a great potioneer, James an all-star Quidditch captain, and they will have kids with Lily’s green eyes and James’ messy hair, and they will smile just like Fleamont, even if they never meet.

Euphemia wants her kids to be happy, more than anything. She wants to be there for their whole lives, she wants to meet them on the other side of this war. She wants to see the beauty of the next generations, to know that she was a part of that chain.

Part of her also likes to think that if Albus Dumbledore lets any of her children die, she will rise from the dead and kill him herself. That is a satisfying thought.

But for now, she remains in the world of the living and turns her attention to easing the pain of her children.

~*~

The girl is very clearly disturbed.

There’s a building Albus has begun using for Order business, a house on the outskirts of London. It is here that Poppy has begun spending time watching over the girl.

She mostly sits in bed all day, doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep. Her eyes remain fixed on the walls, the drab wallpaper. Her mouth moves in stuttering shapes, but no words come out, just strange sounds. She won’t let Poppy get near her, she’ll hiss and curl in on herself, but never is she physically violent.

Poppy spends a lot of time watching from behind the glass pane, conjured on one side so the girl cannot see her watching. Part of her thinks that may just aggravate the situation even more, to realize she is being observed, but perhaps she wouldn’t notice.

“She looks like my dad,” Minerva mumbles to her side, arms crossed, just staring. Technically she doesn’t have a role in caretaking, but she stays here with Poppy, nonetheless. They sleep in different rooms, but they’re existing in close quarters again, moving past one another to make coffee or making eggs and toast for the other.

A very selfish part of Poppy Pomfrey hopes the situation is sorted out soon so she can go home and get away from Minerva McGonagall, if just for a few weeks before school begins anew.

Minerva’s dad had hallucinations too. It was a consequence of the war, when he came back home with permanent nerve damage on his left side and a brain that was still constantly in danger mode. Poppy knows this, and still, selfishly, she wants Minerva to leave, to put it out of her mind, to give Poppy the space to think with a clear mind again, to not be constantly aware of her body, the closeness of her skin, the history between them.

Still, it’s important for Minerva to be here, she knows, both for herself and for the girl. She’ll take notes, make observations, scour old books for clues about how to deal with this illness. Sometimes they’ll spend hours in silence, leafing through wizard and muggle books alike, exchanging silent glances or shakes of the head when one proves futile to the cause.

There are a lot of questions here, questions which Dumbledore refuses to answer unless in person. She understands why; this is apparently a matter of grave concern, but mostly Poppy’s heart just aches for the girl. She wants to ease her suffering, make her feel okay. Is that not what she does on a daily basis, mending broken bones and healing illnesses? The girl does not deserve to suffer, regardless of who she is. It hurts that Poppy hasn’t been able to help her yet, that’s all.

~*~

“Her name is Olivia Gleaves.” Minerva says at breakfast one morning, sipping her black coffee and pouring over her intricately written notes. Poppy glares at her from the counter, safe in the knowledge that Minerva cannot see her. She always had lovely penmanship; Poppy got stuck with that awful Healer scrawl, not to mention that new tremor in her left hand that makes writing carefully a little difficult. “I remember Dumbledore asked me to find her a while back for the Valkyries.”

“And did you?”

Minerva shakes her head, frowning into her chipped mug. “Couldn’t find a trace. She wasn’t a student at Hogwarts as far as I could tell, and I couldn’t recognize the last name either. I reached out to Euphemia to see if any of her old files had a genealogy on the Gleaves, but nothing turned up.”

“Huh. That’s odd. Could she have been from elsewhere?”

Minerva leans back in her chair, fiddling with her quill. “I’m telling you, either this girl didn’t exist, or she was really good at hiding.”

“Clearly it’s the latter.” Poppy finishes off her tea and places the rabbit mug into the sink to be cleaned later.

“Poppy.” The tone of Minerva’s voice gives her pause, and she turns back from the sink. Minerva’s eyes are clouded and mistrusting. “I don’t like this at all.”

Poppy nods, feeling the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “Me neither. But all we can do is make sure she’s healthy, right?”

“Yeah. Yes, I suppose.”

“Good. Then let’s get back to it.”

~*~

“Did your dad speak when he was hallucinating?” Poppy feels awful even asking, as though it is selfishly slamming on the walls they have up between them. She keeps her face straight, staring at the girl – Olivia, her name is Olivia – and hopes that Minerva won’t hate her asking.

“Yeah. Nothing coherent, though.” Minerva’s voice, quiet and pensive, from behind, where she’s sitting in the armchair, leg curled into her chest, flipping through a muggle textbook. “Near the end, when my dad died— Ma said he was barely speaking English. Before, it was words, but then it just became sounds.”

Poppy chews on the inside of her cheek, where the awful lump of flesh is forming again under her teeth. The scar tissue, from years of worrying, being sawed to bits in her mouth. She tastes blood.

“I don’t know enough about this stuff.” She admits, like it is being torn from her. Minerva used to hate being wrong, but Poppy hates not knowing. Alphard used to tease her about how her brain could ever hold so much information as was contained in the world, and she’d poke her tongue out and say her brain was big enough, she’d be fine. But when do you learn the secrets of the universe? When is it too late to drop to your knees and beg for an understanding of why the world is the way it is?

“I don’t think anybody knows enough about this stuff. They certainly didn’t when Pa came home. Nobody wanted to help him. I think if we’d brought him to St. Mungo’s, he’d never have come out.”

Poppy’s eyes are filling with tears, watching Olivia stare up in panic at the ridge between the walls and ceiling, such terror on her face. “She’s just a kid, Minnie. I can’t let them take her entire future away.”

She knows Minerva is mulling this over, and Poppy wants to turn to her and grab at her robes, beg and plead like Minerva is the Angel of Death to spare this poor girl. She hates this, hates that she sees her boy, her Remus in this girl, and Poppy is suddenly glad she never became a mother. How could she let this girl walk to a windowless room to spend the rest of her life if she herself had given birth to such a life?

“Maybe St. Mungo’s is kinder than what Albus has in mind for her.” Minerva’s voice is low in Poppy’s ear, hot and breathy, and Poppy shivers a little at the closeness, turning a little like a desperate puppy, if only to see Minerva up close like she used to, but Minerva has already turned away. And so Poppy stays.

~*~

“What did I say to you the first time we met?”

Albus’ gaze is steady and unwavering. “You insulted my boots and their many straps.”

Minerva lowers her wand, flicks a throwaway glance at Poppy. She goes in to hug Albus, and Poppy follows suit, feeling his beard tickling at her neck.

Whatever feelings Poppy Pomfrey has about Albus Dumbledore is as of yet unsorted. Poppy has to live day to day in a very specific world, one where the axis tips from life to death on a whim. She’s fairly certain Albus is on the right side and is working towards the correct cause. Poppy is opposed to death of all sorts, but she’s learned there’s no escaping it.

Ultimately, Poppy follows Minerva’s lead. Minerva loves and trusts Albus, and so does Poppy.

“How is she?” Albus directs this to Poppy as they climb the stairs, Minerva flanking them from behind.

Poppy, skirts gathered up as she walks, grimaces, and immediately regrets it when Albus looks over at her with concern. With a sigh, she glances up at the crusty chandelier above them and tries to gather her thoughts. “She won’t speak, won’t eat. She’s urinated a few times in the bucket next to the bed, thank Merlin, but otherwise she’s completely out of it. When I go in there to tend to her wounds, she recoils like I’m going to hit her. I—I don’t really know what to do.” She sneaks a glance at Dumbledore, hoping he won’t be disappointed by her lack of progress.

Albus just nods serenely. “I figured as much. Any progress on diagnosing the issue?”

Poppy can just feel Minerva’s body tense behind her, like a taut string connecting the two. As they round the corner and into the room, Poppy gives Minerva the chance to speak if she wants. When she doesn’t, Poppy takes over. “Our medical journals have little information on this sort of thing. She’s incredibly disoriented, most likely hallucinating. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was abused, not just by Vol—not just recently, but as a kid. We’ve been scouring muggle journals too, but this is really unspecified territory. Most healers and doctors agree on one diagnosis: crazy.”

“She’s not crazy.” Minerva’s voice is thin, clipped. When Poppy positions herself in front of the glass pane, next to Minerva, she can see how her whole body has tightened, as though she is in physical pain. “We just don’t have the words for it yet.”

Poppy doesn’t miss how carefully Albus eyes Minerva. “I see. And the non-verbal aspect?”

“Likely unrelated to the hallucinations, probably due to the childhood trauma.” Poppy stares at Olivia, reclining in the bed, eyes narrowed like a hunted animal. She swallows down her fear. “I don’t know that it’s a good idea for you to go in and speak to her, Albus.”

Albus is watching Olivia too, something strange in his eyes. “It will be okay. Come in with me; Minerva, stay out here.” To Poppy, he gives a jerk of his head.

The girl bolts up when they open the door, her eyes big and dark, pupils blown wide. Poppy moves slowly, keeping her hands in view, filing in first before Dumbledore. Hopefully, Olivia will recognize her from the last several days and won’t be too distressed by the presence of a stranger.

But of course, it’s never that easy. When Dumbledore comes into view, the girl moves like a lightning bolt; sliding off the bed and attempting to run for the door, except her legs crash out from underneath her and she goes sprawling across the floor at Poppy’s feet. Desperately, she tries to scramble away, backing herself into the corner of the room, between the wall and nightstand, curling in on herself. She looks so young, so vulnerable, so terrified. Poppy shoots a look at Dumbledore for him to back off for a second and takes a trembling step forward.

“Hi, I’m so sorry to scare you. I don’t know if you recognize me, I’ve been looking after you. I’m Poppy. Are you Olivia?”

The girl looks positively horrified, lips moving again. Poppy sees the O shape, over and over again. An attempt to speak? Curious, Poppy lifts her fingers to her lips, and mouths Olivia, feeling the shape of the word and then watching the girl’s mouth move. “Olivia. Olivia, are you trying to say your name?”

Olivia starts to panic even more, if that’s possible, mouth moving faster, but her eyes stay pinned on Dumbledore. Poppy, hopelessly out of her depth here, looks to him for help.

Albus’ eyes are strangely coloured in this light, stepping forward slightly. “Olivia, did I come to you in your house?”

Her hand knots in the bedsheet hanging beside her, tugging it as she grips harder. Her breathing becomes stuttered, shallow. Poppy reaches a hand to Dumbledore, asking him to stop, but he holds up his own hand to stop her. His eyes are fixed on Olivia. “That was not me, do you understand? I did not make it to your house. I was too late to stop him from getting to you, but I was coming. Does that help?”

Something flickers in her expression, a lightening of sorts, eyebrows easing just a tiny bit. And then, like ice spreading across her body, Poppy feels the words enter her head: You said my grandfather sent you.

Albus’ face falls a little, and Poppy somehow believes him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is, I haven’t spoken to him.”

A strangled sob escapes Olivia’s lips, and she folds in on herself even more, rocking back and forth slightly, eyes falling to the floor. Poppy’s heart shatters, and she glances back at where she knows the pane to be, where she knows Minerva to be. Does this remind her of her father? For a brief moment, Poppy longs to be with Minerva watching this, so she doesn’t have to be alone.

Albus brings her back to life, taking a step forward and crouching down. “I understand he hurt you. I understand you’ve spent your entire life in that house. I understand you must be in terrible pain right now. We are not going to hurt you, and you have my word on that.”

Olivia is still staring at the ground, teeth chattering. Albus is gentle, tilting his head a little at her. “My friend Poppy here will keep taking care of you. She is very kind, and she will not touch you if you do not want her to. You need to eat, though, and care for your wounds. She can help with that. Can I get you anything?”

Olivia’s jaw ticks, and she looks up to meet his eyes. Knife?

Albus laughs suddenly, a strange and abrupt sound. Poppy’s jaw drops a little, and she glances back at the glass. Only Olivia doesn’t seem shocked; there’s a lucidity in her face, a calmness that was not there before. It’s as though she’s clicked into a different body, one much less afraid.

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t get you a knife.” Albus stands up, looking down at the girl. “If you want anything from your house, please just ask Poppy, and she will contact me. You are not in danger, Olivia. You can rest.” His eyes flick to Poppy: time to go.

As they are walking out, she hears a rusty croak behind her. Turning back, Poppy sees Olivia inching closer, trying to grab at Poppy’s robes with a desperation that also seems so foreign on her face. Staring up at her, eyes dark and begging, the words materialize in Poppy’s head as though she’s said them aloud: The walls are bleeding, will you clean them?

“Yes.” Poppy’s voice is soft, barely conscious of what she is saying. “Yes, of course, I’ll clean them.”

The girl watches her for a moment longer, as though searching for something, and finally releases her grip.

~*~

Downstairs in the kitchen, Minerva’s made them beverages: a black coffee for herself, a tea with two sugars and a dash of milk for Poppy, and an apple cider for Albus. They all make a conscious decision not to acknowledge Minerva’s red puffy eyes.

“Does she know you?” Poppy asks once they’re seated at the table, sipping at the drink and burning her tongue in the process.

“I believe she thinks she does. I wouldn’t be surprised if her grandfather had warned her about my arrival, if many years too early. And, I wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to pretend to be me.”

“Who is she, Albus?” Minerva presses, hands flat on the table.

Albus glances between them as though in deliberation and finally nods his head slowly. “I have been attempting to locate one Ominis Gaunt ever since he vanished several years after his graduation in 1893. I had reason to believe he was still alive, and likely in hiding from his family. Several years ago, I received a tip from an ally, who claimed Ominis was residing in the countryside in a heavily warded house with several others. This ally believed a relative of theirs had fathered a daughter living in that home.”

Minerva and Poppy stare at each other, processing. Poppy speaks first: “Albus, you think she’s a Gaunt? As in…”

“Yes. I believe Lord Voldemort targeted her specifically because of their shared heritage.”

“That isn’t common knowledge, though, about either of them.” Minerva is gnawing at her thumbnail, but Poppy is too preoccupied to tell her to stop. “Very few know about Riddle’s identity, and this girl seems to be going by a different name, if what you had told me was correct.”

Albus leans back in his chair. “It was. As far as I know, Ominis Gaunt had become Orin Gleaves. I don’t know how many were in that house, though the ally told me they believed there were five, including Ominis and Olivia. She was the only child.”

“Albus, this girl is in serious danger.” Poppy’s voice shakes, her entire body cold with fear. “If he took her once, he’ll take her again. We have to find a safer place for her, we have to—”

Dumbledore holds up a hand, stopping Poppy in her tracks. “I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that. Ms. Longbottom indicated to me that she faced very little in terms of defenses when rescuing Olivia. I’m not certain that he’d be desperate to reclaim her so soon.”

“Then what? She’s clearly sick, we don’t have the resources to help her.” Minerva is starting to stand up, incensed. “We can’t bring her anywhere; they’ll demand to know her identity. If he comes looking for her, we have no way to stop him. What are we supposed to do?”

Albus is quiet for a long time, mulling it over. Poppy is working very hard to keep her shoulders still, to keep from trembling with the secret, with the responsibility of the girl upstairs, convinced of blood on the walls. “We’ll have to nurse her back to health, in secret. Get her to a point where she is lucid enough, perhaps even able to speak again. Continue researching, to see if there are any non-magical means of facilitating her rehabilitation.”

“And then?” Poppy speaks without thinking, her mind turning over and over again in her head, trying to work out the angle. “What are you going to do with her, Albus?”

Albus tilts his chin up, a lofty movement that Poppy hates instantly. “We use her as an asset.”

“No.” Poppy shakes her head, adamant. “No, she’s not going to be your puppet. She is scared, and she is vulnerable.”

“I know.” Albus’ eyes are shining with what, tears? Poppy stares in disbelief at him. “I know, and I am truly sorry. But she is our only means of infiltrating Voldemort’s ranks. If she shares blood with him, even if she didn’t prove useful in his torture of her, she may be useful in other ways. We have to try, Poppy, for the war. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to.”

Helplessly, Poppy’s eyes shift to Minerva’s. sad, filled with grief and regret, Minerva nods, and Poppy deflates.

“I’ll be in touch soon. In the meantime, please take care of her. I’ll make sure Hestia Jones is caring for Remus Lupin, and that any other administrative means are taken care of. I hope this will not last into the beginning of the school year, but I’m simply not sure.” Albus nods to them both. “I appreciate the sacrifice you are making. I trust your judgement, please know that.”

Yeah, right, Poppy thinks cruelly, thumbnail wedging into the ridge in her mug. She thinks of Remus, being used in missions for no other reason than the worst thing to happen to him, and then of Olivia, who will be used in the exact same way, and feels nothing but an immense sadness wash over her.

~*~

Once Albus is gone, Poppy goes upstairs to the viewing room.

Minerva is standing in front of the glass, arms folded over her chest, openly crying. Poppy stands in the doorway, watches the silvery tears run down Minerva’s cheeks and onto her robes. What can she say, even, to ease her pain? Nothing, Poppy has learned, nothing.

“He’s right.” Minerva’s voice is small, like an eleven-year-old, and Poppy sees her suddenly as that short and spunky Scottish girl, like a firework exploding into the most beautiful display you’ve ever seen. “She’s probably our best hope.”

“I know.”

“I just wish it wasn’t like this.”

“I know.”

“Can we fix her?” Minerva spins to Poppy, eyes shining, and she looks so desperate that Poppy’s heart shatters. “Can we make her better?”

This is beyond anything we can do, Poppy wants to say. I think she was doomed from the start, and I hate saying that. There’s nothing we can do to piece her brain back together, the way it might have been when she was a child.
But what she says is: “I don’t know. We’ll try.”

Minerva gasps, a shuddering sound, and pushes forward, suddenly crashing into Poppy and wrapping her arms around Poppy’s shoulders, crying into the crook of her neck. All Poppy can think about is how warm Minerva’s body is, how she smells like green apple still, despite everything, how desperately Minerva is holding her, like a lifeboat. An unwelcome thought, a word that sounds a great deal like love, looming large in Poppy’s brain, like it was placed there by someone, like Olivia ‘speaking’ to her before. Love, she thinks, and the word is so powerful and weighty that she cannot dismiss it.

So, she wraps her arms around Minerva, holds her as tightly as she can, and thinks of love, love, love.