Introduction
Half an hour after dawn, Severus creeps into the hospital wing, following the gentle sound of phoenix song and frowns at the murmured conversation Dumbledore seems to be having. With Fawkes still singing, Severus can’t make out much of what’s being said, but something about the two additional voices has his nerves tightening up.
”—be unwise to trust her.”
”Capable of terrible things,” says another and this voice has a streak of cold chasing down Severus’ spine at the faint hissing noise layered beneath the words.
Severus doesn’t bother hiding his sneer at such sentiments. Everyone on the planet, after all, is capable of terrible things and there’s times in every person’s life when none can be trusted; not even one’s own self. He leans around Dumbledore’s privacy screen to offer a greeting nod, frowning when Dumbledore’s half-guilty expression hardens before he carefully lowers the small painting he’d been speaking with to rest on the floor beside his cot.
Severus has difficulty holding eye contact when that mistrustful frown is aimed at him.
”I’ll need to speak to her,” Dumbledore intones.
”What you need,” Poppy insists, popping up at Severus’ elbow to glare affectionately at the headmaster, “is real rest. Bed rest.”
”Poppy—“
”Albus—“
Having no desire to get caught in that particular power struggle, Severus quietly backs away to let them argue it out on their own and heads for the only other screen currently set up and gawks for a second when he finds a small but simple balcony where there’d been only a window yesterday and the girl/not-girl perched on a small stool, long hair fluttering in the breeze while she basks in the early sunlight. Then he steps out to join her.
I wake on a hospital cot again, this time with a discreet screen between me and the rest of the hospital wing, which means there’s another patient here somewhere, and going by the lovely song Fawkes is serenading us with, I’d guess it’s the headmaster. I give myself a visual once-over and note the dots of blood on my clothes, the smears of mud still on my palm, my minor wounds already-healed, though the sigil on my palm left a faint scar.
Then I give myself a magical once over. I follow the magical heart line of my blood, scanning my body, bit by bit and find no new injuries beyond a few strained muscles that are already fixing themselves, the remains of a nosebleed (likely the results of resisting the vacuum of the portal). But beyond dehydration, exhaustion, a headache and some mild malnourishment, I’m probably too healthy to remain here.
I take my time rising and stretching, patting the stone wall by my head in greeting and get a castle-wide sit-rep, which tells me fate has.... aw, damn. Fate's newly bound me to the school grounds. Maybe someone was giving serious thought to having me removed? (In the back of my mind, fate nods curtly.)
But there's nothing much new happening beyond the castle's repairs of the bridge's roof are nearly completed, thanks to help from Professor Flitwick. The elves in the kitchens are growing excited for the new school year starting, three more professors have arrived to re-acclimate for the upcoming year, including the grounds keeper... who is part giant? Huh. (While the castle is fond of Rubeus Hagrid, it worries over his unusual preference in pets.)
It also worries about Mr. Filch, resident squib and caretaker who’s growing more and more frustrated with his failed ‘learn magic now’ corespondent courses. Poor man. Perhaps I can teach him a bit of earth magic? (The castle seems doubtful.) Then again, it’s likely he won’t stay a squib if he spends enough time with me in the castle, but we’ll jump that awkward hurdle when we get to it.
So far, the headmaster has woken several times to take water and broth, reassured the hovering Madam Pomfrey of his improved health, and continues to fall into deep and replenishing sleep. Good, because he’ll need all he can get for a week or two.
A lingering look out the thin, slit of window tells me that dawn’s in progress and I mentally request a small, temporary balcony to appreciate it by and (“Thanks Castle!”) it appears before me, small enough to fit me and another with a short stool to the side I gladly drop onto.
I soak in the sun, absorb the rays, and let its revitalizing energy wash through me breath by breath for a few long, perfect minutes. I feel his presence only just before he speaks.
“I don’t recall,” Snape says quietly from just behind me, “there being a balcony on the hospital wing.”
“Been in hospital a lot during your time here?” I ask cheekily, eyes still closed.
He huffs out a breath and says nothing for a long minute.
“Should we worry that the headmaster is sleeping so much?” He finally asks.
“Not at all. It’s healing sleep, the very best kind. Best to keep food close, though, and sweet water or milk, then expect more sleeping. The demon didn’t have time to take a huge amount, but...”
I open my eyes and stand, then meet his own tired-looking eyes. “But it’s like a deep bruise on a lung or a kidney. Even unseen from the surface, it’s a vital piece of a person and takes a bit longer for the body to heal. In this case, it’s his soul, spirit, and his magic. They'll heal at their own pace, but can be helped along by calming, soothing, stress-relieving routines, generally.”
“See?!" The healer hisses emphatically to Snape, nearly jumping out from behind my bed's privacy screen. “Bed rest!”
Pomfrey looks a little harried, poor woman, and I try not to laugh at Snape’s exasperated eye roll and almost feel bad having to burst her bubble.
“Actually,” I correct, as gently as I can, “a lot of people find bed rest immensely stressful. For some, organizing a cluttered room can be a relaxing exercise. For those who appreciate strict order in their lives, letting them pace their own healing schedule can be the most beneficial way for them to heal.”
“Exactly as I was saying!” Comes a quiet cry from further into the room and Pomfrey's right eyelid begins to twitch faintly. “I’d like to speak with the young miss, Poppy,” the voice adds seriously. I give the woman a questioning look and a minor shrug.
“Perhaps he’d take some food here while we talk? I know I could use a bit and he’ll get a smidge more rest before he begins planning a stealthy escape,” I suggest and she straightens with purpose, nods approvingly and marches back toward her office.
Snape hums softly in an amused and somewhat judgmental way, then leads the way back to the screen just across the room from mine, but I pause and wait for Snape to nod me in, in case the headmaster wasn’t decent.
Dumbledore is decent, though, now wearing night robes and cap and tucked beneath a thin blanket, half propped up against the headboard of his cot, looking tired but relatively healthy.
“Good morning,” I offer, smiling. “Might I assume you’re my accidental savior? Or an intentional one?”
There’s a tired sort of humor in his eyes, but a streak of seriousness, too when he nods.
“I believe you asked me not to touch you because it might think I was... tastier,” he replies candidly, flicking his wand and three more pillows pop up behind his back and head.
”That— yeah. That’s exactly what I would’ve said,” I sigh, and feel weirdly like I’m defending one part of my brain from another. It’s very confusing. Judging by Snape’s half-smirk, it’s also entertaining. To him, at least.
“You don’t remember?” He asks with a slight frown.
“Afraid not, no. Or, not yet. That part of my mind is a bit… bruised still? Ask again in a week,” I huff, shaking my head with a half shrug. “I'm pretty sure I only made it ten seconds after the portal closed before it dragged me under. But thank you for trying-- and for not letting it get away. I’ve only encountered two before now, but demons are slippery, sneaky little suckers.”
“Slippery and strong,” he agrees, nodding, then smiles when the nurse marches back in, firmly shoos me into the next empty bed down from Dumbledore's and one of the two bed-trays following in her wake swoops down and pins me there, looking almost more menacing than appetizing. (But only almost.) I feel a smidge better when the Headmaster receives the same treatment, plus a hearty fluffing of his pillows for good measure before the nurse stubbornly eyes us both with an accusing sort of look, then squints an extra warning look at Snape before marching off again.
I bite my lips shut until I’m sure she can’t hear me. “I get the impression she’s as equally likely to threaten sicknesses out of her patients as she is to genuinely heal them,” I whisper, but obligingly tackle the offered food with relish, milk and toast gone in under fifteen seconds.
“Indeed,” Snape confirms with mild amusement, parking himself on the lone visitor's chair set at the foot of Dumbledore's bed. “She needs rest too, so don’t argue with her,” he directs seriously then follows with a grudging-sounding: "Please.”
“Argue? Never.... much. I’m much more likely to bargain with her,” I add, smirking a bit.
“Dare I even ask?” Snape murmurs, but seems unsurprised when I just shrug impishly at him before supplying honesty.
"By bargain, I mean I'll agree to get an hour's nap if she takes one at least half as long. I've been a healer before; I know all this is taking its toll on her too."
“Well, I must dare to ask, Miss—“ Dumbledore interrupts gently.
“Jacklyn, please,” I insist lightly.
“Jacklyn Devons,” Snape corrects mildly.
“Miss Devons, then," Dumbledore agrees. "Just how did you come to be here in this reality?”
“Fate brought me here,” I admit, then take another bite of honey’d oatmeal, heavy with raisins and butter and a bit of sweet cream (ohmygodsyes) and see off the soft curve of my spoon the edge of a picture frame set nearly hidden on the floor by Dumbledore's bedside table. The magical aura of the frame itself (I’m sure) explains the rising tension in the next bit of our conversation, because someone's been telling tales and the only ones who can are those who set the secret keeping/history hiding spell to begin with. (The idiots.)
At my answer, the man’s lips pinch a bit.
“Can you elaborate?” Dumbledore demands in a mild voice.
By now, Snape’s eyes are ticking back and forth between us, his brow furrowing at the obvious, yet unexplained, tension.
“I succeeded with a task in my last reality, so Fate tugged me into the ether and the thinning point in the stone dance here is where I came out, plus one unexpected and uninvited passenger. As for why here, I’ve been charged by Fate to right a wrong here. Or possibly a few wrongs. I won’t specifically know what or which or whom until it’s all but stumbled into my path. And since I’m,” I motion downward to myself, ”obviously no longer looking stunning at 37, it seems whatever task it is might take me a little while.”
“And that must be done at this school?” He asks seriously and— yup. He’s serious. And suspicious. And maybe a bit hostile? Well, that didn't take long. I'd kinda like to smack that painting now, and maybe would if I weren't sure it'd paint me in a worse light than I evidently have been already.
I turn to him, appetite all but gone and vanish my tray with a hand wave so I can turn and see him directly, my hands clasped together on my lap. He looks a slightly unnerved by my casual use of wandless magic; his own wand, all but vibrating with power, is set on his tray only inches from his hand. I don’t stare, but he knows I’m aware of it. (I doubt he knows it used to be mine, though.)
“It’s here in this reality that my origin began,” I tell him honestly. “And, according to the castle, I was removed from history a long, long time ago. I don’t know precisely what this task will be, or who's involved. Nor do I know how bad the situation might get before the wrong is righted. But for as long as I've assisted Fate, it's never sent me on a mission of harm nor sent me astray; in every lifetime I've lived, there was something that needed fixing or renewing or just helpful advice from someone who's got no preset agenda, politically or religiously. Fate brought me back here because Fate believes I'm needed here.
"So, I’m afraid I’m stuck until my task, or tasks are fulfilled. As for being here at Hogwarts, my presence is required to the point that Fate’s woven it into the fabric of the school and grounds. It’s literally, magically woven into both me and everything surrounding me. There are probably several shades in the castle paintings that can still read magic who can independently verify it."
The Headmaster's eyes are like ice, cool and appraising and Snape, for all that he’s moved no more than an inch in his seat, now looks tense and battle-ready; like a viper set to strike. Hard to blame him, or them, based on what they've likely been told. But, not being here to start a magical duel, I keep my focus on the Headmaster, who’s expression has shifted with uncertainty. There's a fuzzy, discordant energy in his aura that I can't quite decipher and I hope it fades soon, because it doesn't look even remotely healthy and seems to be the cause of his current mood. (I'm actually hoping it's merely demon trauma, because the alternatives are so, so much worse.)
“You’re bound to the grounds of Hogwarts?” Dumbledore clarifies.
“She is,” comes an unexpected voice and we all three jolt with surprise at the misty vision of a young woman in very old-fashioned clothes that sweeps in between us from within the wall itself and now I’m gaping because she’s more than a shade, more than ghostly spirit, she’s— looking at me with her own sense of awe. “Oh Syn... it is you," she whispers and I can only mouth the syllables of her name, shocked. Sweet Helena, all grown up and now a ghost. "He told me from his deathbed, you know. He said you’d return someday and bring a gift to the world." Her expression shutters for a second. "He also said it might end you.”
I can actually feel my face go cold as the blood leeches out. “Ohhhh, no no. Please tell me he’s not somehow haunting here too,” I beg, stricken and now she smiles, head shaking and I sag with relief. “Good. And yes, of course it might end me." I shrug a bit awkwardly. "It’s frequently part of the job. But if it does, that will be a fitting end to the tale untold. And it’s not only me who knows it.”
“You sound as if you’re prepared,” she murmurs, ignoring our audience entirely.
“Did he tell you of my bargain?” I ask bluntly, "I'm assuming he knew of it?"
She nods, silent.
“Then he knew why I’d welcome an ending to my travels; or, at the very least, be unafraid of my ending. I've died many, many, many times now. But if this is my last task, there’s no room for regrets— not anymore."
Now, oddly, she looks a tad guilty, but her lip ticks up in the same mild smirk I've seen on my own face a thousand times or more. “He also said you’d look good for your age,” she adds.
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out and have to cover my face to pare it down to a chuckle while I press the oncoming tears from my eyes. Even without looking, I can feel her smiling.
“If he meant my spirit years, yes. He was right,” I cough on a final chuckle, brushing away another tear and tucking my feet up before me on the bedsheet and gaze at her, soaking in those familiar features; she'd been such a happy baby when she was tiny. And she has her father's eyes. “He was so very, very right. Sometimes, one only has one chance to right a single wrong out of a million wrongs. I had to make sure Fate knew I was serious, and an eye for an eye wasn’t going to cut it. Not after all that.”
Her eyes trace over my face while she bites her lip before she speaks again. “But it was worth it?”
Now it’s me who bites my lip. “Did he have a good life?” I counter and smile when she nods. “Then… yeah. Every minute was worth it.”
“And when you complete your tasks? Will this world renew again?” There’s curiosity there in her eyes, and in the two wizards; I worry about the attention they're giving my answers, and hers, but there's no major fate-induced mental alarm bells going off, so I'll assume it's not on DEFCON levels of bad yet.
“Fate willing... yes,” I breathe out, nodding. “My only regret, if I'll have time for one, will be not seeing that renewal for myself. I imagine it’ll be something amazing, though. One hell of a worldwide party.”
She nods again, her smile a little sadder now, drifting back and away toward the door. “Do not seek me out, Syn. The Baron won’t like it.” And then she’s gone.
Wait. Baron? What-- ah. Thanks Fate, that's a terrible and tragic story that makes me want to double, triple and quadruple-check that ghosts are immune to dragon fire because I'd like to kill that ghost. A few times over, if possible.
"She called you ‘Sin’?" Snape mutters, eyes narrowing on me. "Doesn't sound like much of a nickname for 'Jacklyn'," he points out.
I huff my exasperation and shake my head. "Born as Jacklyn Devons in this lifetime," I point out in return. "My last life was Melissa Curry and Kara James was the life before that." Snape scowl-nods in understanding while Dumbledore frowns at his food, looking contemplative.
"But of your name the last time you were here, you can't say," Snape surmises.
"Nope," I confirm.
“And you've brought a gift?” Dumbledore asks, his voice equal parts curious and hard. “Of what type?”
“More like returning a gift,” I huff dryly. “Magic, and a lot of it. Pretty sure my final act is to fix a problem someone else set in motion," I add, shooting a glower down at the picture frame still peeking out from beside Dumbledore's bed, then away. "So, fair warning? Whenever that is? Might be a bit crazy for a while afterward."
"That's it? Magic?" Snape asks, looking skeptical. "You realize that magic exists on it's own here? Less or more, it always balances out."
"True... mostly," I agree. "But I'm talking about gross amounts of raw, unfiltered magic. Heart of the Earth, Spirit of the Sun type of raw."
Snape's eyebrows lift skeptically while Dumbledore's lower in outright disbelief. "Impossible," Dumbledore insists with a frown. "No mage has ever successfully wielded raw magic."
"In this reality?" I blink up at the ceiling and purse my lips until Fate trickles that bit of knowledge into my mind. "Sir Arthur Chasseur did," I counter, "six hundred years ago. His brother murdered him in his sleep a week later thinking he would inherit the ability. Spoiler alert? He didn't. All he did was piss off the neighborhood pagans, who burned him at the stake a month later." Both men trade glances, but this part of the conversation isn't leading anywhere helpful, so I try to cut it short. "Your ministry should have records, somewhere," I insist, waving it off. "Besides the point anyhow, because I don't wield it. I've got plenty of my own filtered, shiny, easy to use magic to work with already."
"Then the raw bit you have..." Snape says, which is almost a question.
"The raw Lot I have," I correct, "is that same raw shine that sealed the portal shut last night--" (Snape's eyes go a bit wide with understanding.) "and is... glued to my soul, more or less, and has been since--" I grumble a frustrated noise through my clenched teeth when my words lock up and it has Dumbledore frowning almost sympathetically. "For a long time," I finish lamely.
"I see," Dumbledore murmurs, though I doubt he really does. "But to even carry that type of magic, would you not need to have wielded a great amount to begin with?"
"Yes," I admit simply. "With the exception of the magic-less realities I've lived in, I always have. The only reason it hasn't torn me apart or burned right through me is the two hundred plus millenia worth of recycled good karma that have bolstered my soul into something closer to titanium than the standard aluminum most people get."
"Aluminum?" Snape repeats flatly, just as Dumbledore says "Two hundred millennia?"
I tick my eyes from one to the other and back, then go for the 'age before fascinating nose' rule and answer Dumbledore first.
"My survivalist lifespan average to date is forty-one years," I explain. "Multiply that with the four thousand, eight hundred and ninety-one realities I've lived in with the average, modern human population of seven and a half billion..." I let the sentence trail because Dumbledore's eyes are bulging a bit, so I turn to reply to Snape, too. "Most are aluminum, not all. The both of you are closer to iron, if it helps?"
Now they just blink at me, a bit stunned. Maybe I said too much? Or not, but some information bears repeating, so I pin Dumbledore with a knowing look. "All that said, when my life is officially over this time, it's not just my personal magic that'll be cycled back into this world, but that mass of the raw, too. I think it's safe to say there won't be a squib or a magi-species equivalent of any kind left on the planet."
I'm not sure I can fully catalog everything showing in their expressions beyond shock (Snape), mild doubt mixed with uncertainty (Dumbledore), wonderment (Snape) and worry (both), but neither stops me when I return to my own cot and promptly drop back into sleep.
***
“Well then how am I to know??” Madam Pomfrey demands, looking twice as harried as she had the day before with loose, frizzy hairs poking in every direction from beneath her crooked hat. “The soul doesn’t come with an instruction booklet!”
I’m not sure what to tell her, frankly, because it’s a soul and it’s pretty personal. For all that I can see everyone's, I've long-since trained myself to mind-blank any information I glean and store it hella-deep in my subconscious, waaay in the far back of my mind so as not to judge anyone straight off with things deeply attached to a person's past or present. To teach Pomfrey to view the Headmaster's (or anyone else's) soul would be like instructing her in how to jailbreak someone's subconscious where it could potentially be tampered with in some way.
I aim a hopeful (and slightly grumpy) glance to her only remaining ‘patient’ like a plea, but he seems to be enjoying my struggle on some level, damn him. (I would’ve thought when I helped to exorcise the demon that meant to eat both his magic and his soul, it might’ve earned me a smidge of goodwill. Apparently not.) I suspect he's testing me somehow but I can't exactly call him on it.
“Then you’ll have to trust that he’s capable of monitoring his own spirit, which is just as well because no one, anywhere, knows his soul like he does. Unless the two of you have... er, romantic attachments to each other or a long-held, grounding friendship, there’s not much you can do as a Healer to ease the ache of a soul. It would be like trying to force someone to finish grieving after the death of a loved one.”
That, finally, seems to get through to her and she deflates a little. “But he’s exhausted,” she complains and over her shoulder, I see Dumbledore fighting back a grin, even as he fake-yawns and snuffle-snores as if to prove her point.
“Are you still depriving him of his tea? That might do it, you know. Ask any healer in Asia. Tea’s proven to be healthy for body, mind and spirit,” I say, sure she knows it already. “And the caffeine might just give him the pep he needs to be vertical again.”
The woman groans and rolls her eyes, sighing exasperation. “Yes. I’m allowing one cup a day,” she huffs, finally. “And it’s not working, obviously."
“Perhaps add another cup? Or maybe he needs a bit of company,” I suggest. “Bind him up nice and warm and float him down to see Hagrid. Or to the docks. Who else can speak Mermish around here? A day in the sun with a friend or two can be invigorating and soul soothing,” I reassure, patting her on the shoulder while she mopes. “And then you, finally, can give yourself a good rest. Enjoy a day of the sun for yourself before you’re up to your ears in students. You’ve done what you can for him— but you can’t offer care to your patients if you can’t care for yourself and you know it.”
I feel like my grandmother, lecturing my own mother on how to ‘mother’ me. It didn’t work out that well. Between the three of us, I was always the parent. I feel like one all over again and secretly send Dumbledore the stink eye for willingly inflicting this on the woman (even if he is maybe testing me), but now it seems he’s genuinely asleep (finally) and I hush and sooth as I lead Pomfrey to the cot closest to her office and bundle her into it while she’s too exhausted to remember she has a patient still (or two, if she somehow counts me). But, she needs honest sleep more, at this point. The painting of a heavy-set mother superior hung above the cot nods approvingly, eyeing the already-sleeping Pomfrey with no small amount of fond exasperation. With a sigh, I address the painting.
“Will you call for me if she wakes?”
“Da, I vill,” she announces in a thick, Slavic accent. “Voman strrrrong, naut inveensible.”
“Agreed,” I murmur as I carefully remove Pomfrey's cap and lay it on the nightstand, sweep a soothing hand down over her hair, then shuffle myself back to the cot beside Dumbledore for a quick power nap of my own. It’s only been two days now, and feels like longer. So much longer. I stare at the faint shadows on the ceiling until my eyelids begin drooping.
“Of all that I was told of you,” Dumbledore murmurs quietly into the near silence, “kindness wasn’t mentioned.”
“Depending on who enlightened you, I imagine there was a lot left out, and highly biased regardless,” I murmur back, then yawn. “‘M’not the same person now. Literally. I can’t explain until I'm done with fate’s set tasks, but when it is complete, I hope to have both courage and just enough time to explain it all— with all it’s nightmarish, brutally honest truths intact.”
“I heard terrible things,” he says softly and I nod a bit, my eyelids now too heavy to lift again.
“Most of the last of it was worse than terrible,” I confess through a yawn. “If I could, I might reverse time, undo all of it. But my existence after, and those of the world now—“ my throat locks up, words gone too far. He seems to get the gist anyway. “This school was built as a haven for enrichment,” I sigh out. “How much hones learning can be done with a history built of lies?" To that, he says nothing, but speaks a moment later.
"Yet, you would choose to stay, given the choice?"
“To keep history from repeating? Yeah, 'course. It's what fate's assistants do... and the first home I’d ever known was here,” I mumble, but if he responds, I never hear it.
I fall into a dream of flying a kite with the old Slytherin crest, adorned with a handsome, gray and green serpentine dragon. It glides side by side with another kite bearing the old Gryffindor crest of a steeled lion. I can't see who holds its string, but I join him in laughing delightedly when the kite's crests begin mock-battling mid-air.
***
When I wake again, finally feeling well-rested and completely myself, Dumbledore is gone and there's a new steamer trunk at the foot of my bed with my initials emblazoned on the lid along with a sealed letter announcing my acceptance to Hogwarts School as a student and a list of items a modern first year will need.
Item 3 is a wand. It’s underlined in red ink.
Inside the trunk everything else I would need, including comfortable, simple daily clothing and robes, are all there and neatly organized. (Thank you, castle.) Well, being a 'new' student will be interesting, at least.
I jump slightly at the sudden, Scottish voice behind me and spin to greet the Professor.
“It’s been decided you’ll attend, Miss Devons, though you will be monitored,” McGonagall explains, lips a bit pinched but her eyes are still kind and I nod and wonder what and how much she’s been told that would earn me being monitored. Or how much anyone’s been told. Can anyone be told beyond the Headmaster?
“However," she continues, looking a bit put out, "the Sorting Hat is refusing to say if it will announce you as a single house or all four." My eyebrows hike up at that.
“Oh? Well, to be on the safe side, I can always ‘transfer in’ a day or two behind everyone else or something similar? Surely there’s circumstances where a student isn’t quite on time for their first sorting?”
“Well, the first is the only,” she huffs, straightening and I droop a little.
“Oh.”
The woman frowns curiously. “It’s always been so,” she says, like it's a known fact I ought to know already.
I open my mouth, then shut it. “Hmm.” Odd, in my opinion, because the essence of people does evolve and even more in younger years than older ones. Maybe the hat will confess the 'why' of why that's changed. Then again, first year and fifth year sorting had been my idea originally, so the founders might've ditched it on that principle alone.
She looks as if she’s waiting for an argument and almost seems disappointed when one doesn’t come.
“That said, the Headmaster is leaving your sorting choice to you, but asks that you stick with whatever house you do choose. A ‘misplacement’ might bring up too many questions,” she adds. “But there’s some concern on how to get you a wand. Olivander’s far too busy to come all the way out—“
“That’s alright,” I cut in, shaking my head. “Technically, as you’ve already seen, I don’t need one. But to keep appearances, I can craft myself something fake; I've done it before.”
Now she looks disgruntled and I begin wondering if she doesn’t simply thrive on a bit of friendly, verbal fighting.
“Well, the term starts a week from today,” she continues, her wand out and waving my new trunk into following us toward the entry door and I squawk.
“Wait-- what?! How long have I been sleeping?!” I demand. No wonder I feel better. I suppose I needed it more than I'd realized.
“A week solid, as the castle told us you would be. It implied you’d need ‘deep healing’ after you’d skipped proper healing to assist us with the Headmaster.” She scowls in a way I’m sure she’d learned from Madam Pomfrey (if not side by side with her), as if she’d like to shame me for neglecting myself to assist someone else but knows she really can’t in this case. I sigh and turn to the nun’s painting to give her the beady eye.
“Vot?!” She demands, scowling grumpily back with her thick meaty arms crossed over what’s likely a sizable chest. “I deed call vor you! You did naut vake!”
I sigh again and nod to her. “Did she finally get enough rest?” I ask anyway and the woman nods a bit smugly, like it’d been her doing.
“Da, zhe deed, zee heedmahztoor, too. Feet ahn vine, boze.”
“Yes, yes,” McGonagall huffs impatiently. “Everyone seems hale and well and now we must decide which dorm to put you in. Do you have a preference?”
I nod my thanks to the mother superior and wonder if my old apartment would be an option, at least until the start of term. Probably not and that's maybe for the best because there’s paintings there, or, should be. I’d like to see Wyn again, even if it’s only a shade of him, but the memories that go with them...
“Hufflepuff, I think,” I say instead. “Loyal, hardworking, and the most likely to naturally blend into the background, which is my goal.”
McGonagall purses her lips and nods curtly, her wide-brimmed hat wobbling with the motion and leads the way out.
I’d nearly forgotten the paintings in the Grand Staircase and even from its lowest levels I peruse the collection and spot the handful of originals tucked in here and there, a few waving and smiling. I also spot three of the four Founders hiding in the backgrounds, spying in silence. It’s the fourth that could surely supply the most accurate information and see that who I am now is not who I’d been. After all, the last the four had seen me, I'd been missing something vital. Of course they’d still worry over what I’m capable of now, especially with the added boost from the raw magic. I’ll need to confront them to complete my task eventually, though, I'm sure. They can’t keep the lies up forever— not with what’s coming.