Prologue
There are similarities between us, healers, and muggle doctors.
My mother was a doctor. In addition to her work in the hospital, she used to volunteer in community clinics. She barely came home, always focused on the unlucky girls from the street instead of her own daughter.
I won't lie, it was hard as a child. My father had to stay at home, and although he supported and loved us dearly, there were times I hoped he didn't. I wanted him to forbid my mother from working (unlike wizards, muggles didn't support women working. Hell, they didn't support women. My mother felt and saw it daily.) I wanted him to hate me, to leave us, so my mother will have to take care of me.
As I got older I grew up to understand it. I understood my mother had to do it, to help the unlucky and sick in our society. It didn't feel fair, it wasn't fair, but I understood.
It was 1940 and world war two hurt every muggle in Britain. The blitz took many lives already, but for us- the young wizards and witches at Hogwarts, it was just another thing the stupid muggles did.
But then the summer vacation started, and me and my best friend Tom left the 9 and ¾ platform to the muggle station.
Every second sign pointed to the closest bomb shelter. The people in the train station were always busy and hurrying away, but this time it was different. It wasn't the places they needed to be at that made them stressed but the place they already were at.
My father insisted on accompanying Tom. It was obvious he wanted to refuse but the threat of the bombs made him agree.
We went to the orphanage in silence.
And then, not even an hour after arriving in London, the bombing started.
My father pushed us to the ground and yelled at us to cover our heads.
The whole world was loud, so loud, until there was no noise at all.
When the bombings stopped I looked at my father. He was pale and breathed heavily but I couldn't see why. The bomb didn't explode on him. Nothing fell on his body. He was healthy, he couldn't have a heart attack.
“His leg. Poppy, his leg.” Tom said flatly, like it didn't touch him at all. Yet, I could see his frightened face.
My mother taught me some basic first aid skills, and “stop the bleeding” was one of them. The first thing that came into my mind was my Hogwarts tie, which I wrapped above his knee, where the flesh was still intact. After that, I looked for the potions I stole from the hospital wing.
I thought I was so lucky when I found the blood replenishing one among the rest. I was so proud I could help him. I knew the paramedics would get there. All we had to do was wait for one more minute, tighten up the tie, give one more drop of potion.
But there's an end to what magic can do. It cannot replace all of a person's blood, it cannot cure- all it can do is slow the process. Giving the body time.
Tom said “You must look,” And I listened. I looked at my father's eyes when he left his body. When my parent went away. When he died.
I believe it was the day I became a healer. The day I felt the loss and swore I would do everything I can to vanish that being.
I believe it was also the day Voldemort was born, created from Tom’s sheer fear of death.
When I was a teen I understood there was another reason for my mom’s constant work at the clinic. She was there for the whores, the girls, the women that didn't want to bear children.
My mom didn't want to bear me.
Yet she did, and she was sorry for that, and she wanted to help the others.
When I asked her, years later, why she gave birth to me, It took her some time to answer. “It was different, then. I knew I won't be able to love you properly, that I care for my patients too much, but your father convinced me. He loved you from the moment he knew.”
That was the moment I decided I will never have children.
But life, like life, gave me them anyway.
I was a crazy young healer.
The intern I was fell in love with the dark curses field. I was sure I would be famous, cure the incurable diseases, make us live forever.
I was fascinated by dark magic, often wondering how a wave of wand can control a mind and a single, tiny creature weaken the body to death.
The seventies started with a wave of rare, terrible curses- things you could only see in forbidden books became a reality, and being a specialised dark healer made me sick and exhausted.
It felt like the worst part of the devastating war, with burned people and bodies- breathing bodies, kissed by dementors, coming regularly to St Mungo's hospital. I could see the blank eyes and the skinny figures, I could feel and see the bones under the skin, and I couldn't find any cure.
They were nothingness- a shell of a body containing a space that once held a soul. All I could do was wait for their last breath.
One day, when I got to my tiny apartment after another horrible shift, someone waited for me.
“Professor Dumbledore,” I said to the unseen man while removing my healer uniform. “You may reveal yourself.”
And so he did. The man was always dramatic, showing behind one's back and suddenly talking, and I felt a lovely thing when I could spot him quickly, taking that pleasure of him away.
“Ms. Pomfrey, it's lovely to see you.” He greeted me like the encounter was accidental. He began talking about unimportant things, the weather and the late arrival of the transfiguration magazine. I wanted to punch the old bastard.
I knew that whatever he wanted couldn't be beneficial for anyone but himself, so I tried to cut the meeting short. “The answer is no.”
“But, my dear, you didn't even hear the question.” He played the grandfather card, and it was irritating as always.
“You had plenty of time to ask and explain but you wasted it all. Have a good night, professor. I sure need one.”
But he didn't make a sign of leaving. Actually, he sat on the sofa. “I want to offer you a job. The Hogwarts matron, to be exact. Please, have a seat.”
The audacity! It was clear no one ever set boundaries with him. “Do you plan to bring monstrous creatures into the school? Because I cannot see the need for a dark healer in a children's institution otherwise.”
He didn't answer, and if I wasn't so used to burying my emotions I might have just killed him.
“Leave.” He listened.
Still, the bastard didn't give up. It started with a letter. The letter became three. Ten. Hundreds. I guess he knew I ignored them because one day he sent me an howler. It didn't scream, just made his voice stronger. Not possible to ignore.
He wanted to give a child education. Grant him a good time, a chance for a future, for once in the kid’s life.
It was unusual for Dumbledore, trying to do such a noble thing without any selfish motives. The thought of the child's poor future almost made me agree, but I had to remind myself of the other children. One life against hundreds. ONE AGAINST HUNDREDS.
I hate to admit it, but the thing that finally made me quit my job in ST. Mungo's hospital wasn't the dementors' victims. The injury wasn't particularly bad or cruel- compared to the rest, the man was lucky. His attacker was merciful.
The patient was a man with piercing blue eyes and a missing leg, cut just above his knee. Amputated limbs were a common injury in the hospital, and although it was hard at first I got used to it. But this man was special. He didn't stop bleeding, no matter what we tried. We made him drink many blood replenishing potions, but like I learned thirty years earlier - there is an end to what magic can do.
Later that evening, when I got to my apartment and began removing my uniforms for the last time, another man appeared.
“Hello, old friend.” Tom started. Was he even Tom? I was not sure. The Tom I knew was a beautiful dark creature, and this… this shadow of a man was nothing like it. He lost his charm and livelihood.
“Lord Voldemort,” I replied with the name Tom created years ago, the only fitting name to the thing that was then in front of me.
He briefly nodded. “Did you like my latest creation?” Voldemort brushed his wand. The skinny, pale stick finally fitted his fingers.
“I did not. It brought back some memories, I’m sure you can understand.” The image of the two men combined popped into my head. It was sickening.
Voldemort chuckled. “Come, now, it's a really beautiful thing. Eternal bleeding… crimson liquid running away from a torn body.” He was impressed by his terrible invention, his mind wandered away, and a soft voice called “hypnotically so.”
“I was never one to stand in awe.” I said when it became clear he wouldn't continue. “What do you want?”
He got closer and lifted his hand, bringing it to my face. Intimacy was never one of our strengths but he didn't seem to recognize it. I knew Tom would mock the man he became. “Join me,” his voice was barely stronger than a whisper. “You could learn all the darkness you want.” He added.
“I am learning it so I could help. You knew this already.” I distanced myself from him and went to the kitchen, longing for tea.
“Do you? I know you killed the kissed.” That made me stop. “You felt it was right, too. What healer would murder their innocent patients?”
I turned around, seeing the empty shells in my mind. “They deserved it.” They deserved the peace, they deserved an end to their suffering. I did the right thing, I told myself.
“You are a murderer.” He insisted, and yes- he was right. I did the very definition of murder; the unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another.
But “I could not heal them.”
It made the grotesque face smile. “Yes, you are right.”
He was so very different from the Tom I knew- yes, Tom was cruel and fascinated by dark magic, and yes, he was selfish and interessant. Yet this thing…
“Why?” My mouth was dry.
“My mother, I believe. Love potions have unusual effects, apparently. It makes the child a sociopath.” He played with his wand again.
It was Dumbledor theory. He believed Tom was rotten to the core, and it seemed like Lord Voldemort came to accept it. “No, Dumbledore. He was the one who sent you in this path,” I took a deep breath. “You can decide otherwise.”
Judging by his expression, it wasn't the right thing to say. “I can kill you right now. Why wouldn't I, actually? Who do you think you are?” His wand was pointed at me.
It was a life or death situation,
So of course I remained calm.
“You could do it for a long time, Voldemort. And as for who I am? I am Tom’s old friend.”
He was still for a long moment. “Your father,” was the thing he said before apparating.