Meet and greet (an idiot)
“A Fatemaker,” the woman breathes out reverently, the faint scent of sherry on her breath and coke bottle glasses enlarging her eyes to something closer to house elf size, then squares her shoulders and prepares to march forward in a flurry of lacy shawls, jangling jewelry and outlandish predictions.
”Sybil,” Dumbledore murmurs and the woman freezes at the warning tone in his voice. “She is here for a job; do keep that in mind?”
”Ohhh, but Headmaster!” She pleads, bracelets jangling loudly as she clasps her hands together. “Surely she’d have time for a fellow seer?”
Severus refuses to roll his eyes because she barely qualifies as a seer at all and everyone but Sybil knows it. Also, nothing Jacklyn’s insinuated has labeled her as a seer of any kind. Over Sybil’s head, Severus gives Dumbledore a resigned look and a slight nod; he’ll keep Sybil firmly set between himself (to keep her from overindulging) and Pomona (to keep her marginally distracted) so at least their fatemaker will have time to eat rather than parry the hundreds of questions Sybil will lob at her.
Still, Severus looks forward to dinner if only to see how Jacklyn will interact with the other staff. Tonight might well give a preview of what the upcoming year has in store for them all.
He regrets that thought an hour later because if that’s true, the upcoming year will include terrifying half the staff with her infuriated presence and warnings of magical brain damage and the potential loss of their magic entirely. On the upside, Sybil no longer wants to interview Jacklyn for any reason and quietly confesses she’s glad her tower is as far from the Hufflepuff dorms as it’s possible to get.
It’s likely for the best.
I do my best to make the most of my week, pre-meeting some of the professors that do arrive early, touring the castle and grounds to see what's changed, conversing with the lake squid before the squid itself is warned away from me, though it seemed reluctant to go. I can’t help but wonder who’s left that could possibly know the story untold? Even just in this reality, it’s been a long, long time and the longer I look at the intricacies of that long-ago spell to hide my history, no one should remember. I'm amazed that Helena could even use my old nickname. Is she exempt by virtue of being blood kin? Or is it more that I'm partially a 'new' person? I'd definitely died here, after all.
I'm not sure how effective I'll be if I haven't got their trust; or, maybe it’s just a matter of re-earning trust on my own newer merits rather than the past? It's seeming more likely now with all the new people I'm meeting, and earned me an afternoon with Hagrid while he regaled me with the long list of his former pets while his current one slathered me with about a gallon of drool. It was a good day, if a bit sticky.
For now though, with my free days quickly whittling away, I turn my back on the lake and continue walking the tree line seeking a suitable stick to craft into a wand and for the life of me, I can’t find a good one. So, time to get creative.
***
"Miss Devons! This evening, the Headmaster and the available teachers-- What? Oh, what are you doing?!” Flitwick squeaks, voice going odd as he pinches his nose shut and shuffles back an inch to somewhat flee the odor.
“Retrieving maggots.” My voice is equally odd, but I’m mostly trying not to breathe because the air even tastes foul. As it should, really. It’s a compost pile mixed with kitchen scraps meant for fertilizer. “For the woodland bowtruckles. I need a bit of wand wood from the forest and can’t go in myself. Well, not safely, anyway. And while they enjoy wood lice, maggots are a bit rarer of a treat.”
“Well, grab a handful and be done!” He chuffs, stepping back again like it’ll clear more of the air of odor. (It won’t.)
“I’m looking for the ailing ones. They won’t live long and at least this way, they’ll get a quick and merciful death,” I explain, plucking up three more.
Flitwick mumbles something under his breath, then hurries back up toward the path, shaking his head. I stay, finding seven more to add to my bark plate, but he rejoins me as I head back for the forest.
“Definitely not safe in there,” he agrees, hop-skipping to keep up until I shorten my steps a little. "It's called the Forbidden Forest for a reason," he adds.
“Well, for me, it’s not that dangerous. But also for me, it’s currently considered out of bounds, I think, and I’d rather not rock that particular boat.”
“Seems like a lot of trouble just to find a bit of wood,” Flitwick argues.
“Where does the line divide, though?” I ask. “Between honest, hard work and bothersome trouble?”
He chuffs out a rusty sounding laugh. “I see your point… You seem quite dedicated to the preservation of life.”
“I am. Every life, no matter how small, is precious. I learned that the hard way.” I sit in the warm grass where the forest shadows only barely tickle the field, bark plate of maggots held before me and can feel Flitwick studying me. All the professors have silently proved themselves curious by now, whether they’d met me already or not because facts are facts and it's fact that I'm unique in more than a few ways. I worry maybe Dumbledore’s told them too much, then recall that’s impossible.
Damned history-hiding spell; nothing quite like mass brainwashing to bury a mistake you've been hiding for centuries. I look forward to shattering that spell when I meet my end because it's a foolish thing, from my standpoint. Those who forget their history are frequently doomed to repeat it and the first time around was more than enough 'terrible' for one reality.
The first tiny bowtruckle pokes his stick-like head out from behind the root of a massive oak tree, then hides again before peeking out at us with two more, their curiosity piqued.
“I mean no harm, little ones,” I murmur. “I need but a single strong, worthy stick, no longer than my forearm. Strong fallen wood, though, not fresh. Only wood that is close to being forgotten.”
The first bowtruckle bends into a curve like it’s bowing its understanding, then pulls back into the shadows, his friends on his heels as they sneak away.
“You speak Entish?” Flitwick says softly, as though surprised, his head tipped to the side a bit. Oops? I actually hadn't realized, honestly.
“For small tasks like this, it’s quite useful. All in all, trees are old souls, of a sort. Those that dwell with them carry their own kind of wisdom— a wisdom we’d all be wise to observe more often.”
"True enough," he agrees quietly.
There’s a full six bowtruckles that come racing back a moment later, three different sticks carried over their heads and excited for their promised treat. They set down their loads and twist and turn in a contented dance and I set my bark down for them all to feast.
“Thank you all! Be well,” I murmur, gathering the sticks up. Oak, willow, and the third— “Perfect,” I sigh, plucking up the mellawood branch.
“Mellawood?” Flitwick asks, confused. “One of the only woods that’s all but magically null?” He looks completely befuddled when I nod my approval.
“Exactly. I’m not sure how much Professor Dumbledore has told anyone, nor even how much he even knows,” I add, floating the stick between my hands and begin chipping away, one sawdust grain at a time, “but given the choice myself, I’d never wield a real wand again. My focus is enough that they’re unnecessary and if there’s magic needed that requires a wand, I can borrow one in the short term.”
Flitwick twitches at that, shuffling his feet a little. "Borrowed wands never work quite as they're meant to, though, do they?"
"Not for most people, no. But, most who borrow a wand mean to also borrow the wand's magic," I explain. "I do the opposite and offer a wand a speck of my own magic in exchange for its use; most wands I've borrowed in the past were happy to help, especially in an emergency." The thicker base of my stick twines and reforms, a delicate matrix of curves that form an image of overlapping leaves, each unique to a tree with magical origins. I carefully taper the other end and stand, scanning the ground until I see— perfect. Rotwood mushrooms look like mulched bark, easily overlooked as useless, but the oils under the head make for a nice shine and an earthy aroma of heated copper and sun-warmed soil. I pop the head off, wax my not-wand tip to handle and finish it off with a tiny bit of dirt rubbed in to age it.
“Oh, it’s quite beautiful,” Flitwick says kindly, his smile soft when I smile my thanks.
“I knew a fine carpenter once. And I paid attention when he worked,” I offer, brushing off my robes, then toss the mushroom remains to the bowtruckles who gladly smear themselves with it, like camouflage that also keeps them well-nourished and hydrated.
“Should they be using that?” Flitwick inquires, nodding interest when I explain. “Ahhh. Your knowledge base is... quite unique,” he decides and I grin.
“I’ve been around a long time. Well, my memory has,” I correct, strolling back the way we’d come and tucking my new wand up my sleeve. “There's so, so many fascinating things to know-- I honestly don’t understand how there are people who genuinely don’t enjoy learning. It’s a complete mystery to me.”
“The world takes all sorts,” he supplies. “Or, a bit of wisdom as I once heard from a muggle, years ago: ‘Variety is the spice of life’.”
“That it is,” I agree, nodding.
"I wonder, though," he adds, peeking a look up at me, "how your many lives haven't driven you mad? Surely a mind has limits on how much memory one can hold?"
"I'm not positive on my limit, honestly. But, have you ever seen the muggle British Library in London? It's positively massive--"
"I have, yes," he agrees, nodding heartily. "And it is. So your mind is its own library?"
"I think maybe everyone's mind is the equivalent," I offer. "But for such a library, to ever find anything you're looking for, it needs an equally large card catalog, and that's where the bulk of my waking knowledge is. If I need to know something about magical spores from nine hundred lifetimes ago, I can search my catalog using that year or time period, or I can search for spores in general and rediscover the eleven other lives where that information was relevant and maybe find a separate connection to why I'd need magical spore information now. There's a dozen ways to search, but I can't hold every life in my head at the same time. I tried once, nevermind Fate sending me every warning it could to NOT attempt it and... then I was stuck in a magical coma for seven years."
"Merlin's beard," Flitwick croaks, looking sick.
"Yup. That was exactly as pleasant as it sounds," I agree, nodding and wincing at the mere memory. "Not something I'll be doing again. Between lives, I've usually got time to sort and catalog the memories myself, then return them to their shelves, close that door and metaphorically walk away from it and focus on my new life, as I should be. It took a few hundred years to train my brain that way, but Fate seemed to think it best that I keep the experience without having to endure the reliving again. Returning from those memories... it's a bit like losing those friends and family members all over again."
"Ah," he murmurs, nodding sympathetic understanding. And so the bulk of your knowledge is... sleeping?" He asks, nodding like it makes sense.
"More like dormant, I think? Every life has its own room in the library, full of its own shelves of books. When I'm done with it, I leave and the lights of that room shut off until I need to hunt those books of knowledge down again. I walk in, the lights come back on and... yeah. That's pretty much how I keep my sanity intact. Compartmentalization to the extreme.”
"Fascinating," he breathes out, eyes distant and seems to be nodding to himself now as we stride slowly back toward the castle and I hate to interrupt him, but... he'd sought me out for a reason.
“So, you said the headmaster and the other professors wanted to...”
“OH!” He squeaks, surprised, then nods. “I forgot entirely, yes. A ‘get to know you’ dinner,” he clarifies, pulling a small pocket watch from his pocket, nodding. “Starting in about... oh! Twenty minutes. Where has the time gone? We’ll be dining in the front courtyard rather than the great hall. Appreciate the good weather while we still have it.”
"It sounds lovely," I say politely, even though I can almost feel another testing challenge ahead. Yup. Lovely.
***
Part of me wishes I could grill the castle itself on what, exactly, Dumbledore (who's aura is again a bit grating/fuzzy/discordant) and his staff do know about my past and present, but during dinner every time we near the subject, someone smoothly steers the conversation elsewhere. And they’re very good at it. McGonagall especially, seems happy to continually block my efforts and both Dumbledore and Dorian Penumbra, a slightly weasel-faced blond man who’ll be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year, seem amused. All in all, this dinner is trying my patience a bit and I’m beginning to wonder if that’s not the point; to see how far my patience can be pushed in a casual setting and what my reaction might be.
Everyone’s close to finishing their main courses and spirits are subtly high as most of the available staff have broken into smaller conversations between each other— when I begin feeling the tickle in the back of my mind. It’s unexpected and for a few long seconds, I feel my stomach drop, my skin go cold and my heart twist unpleasantly while my inner hackles rise.
It’s not the first time someone’s tried legilimency on me (though this isn't the standard kind since there's no eye contact) but it’s been a while (not nearly long enough, in my personal opinion) and the last time was three realities ago. That life made me and everyone else on the planet question our own sanities and easily makes my top ten list of worst lives. It was assault, plain and simple and worse, a type of invasion few could or knew how to defend against. I can defend now, though, and with a thought, I spell my mind like a boomerang. Like a trampoline, with a few bonus surprises thrown in for good measure. Instant karma.
That it’s Professor Penumbra is unexpected, because I’ve literally not said a word to him and I'd nearly forgotten that he’d been at the table at all. But it’s him that hisses in a loud, pained breath that catches the attention of everyone and has both Snape and Dumbledore rising, a dual set of flinty eyes narrowed, though it’s Snape’s that are narrowed on Penumbra and Dumbledore’s that are narrowed at me.
“What did you do?” Dumbledore demands and the table goes silent but for the red-faced man who’s still flinching and hissing in pain and massaging his temples, now looking nervous and to me, guilty as sin.
“I spelled my own mind,” I answer flatly, without remorse. It’s the easy answer, but Dumbledore's icy blue glare says he isn’t satisfied by that and there’s no good reason not to explain more.
“Defending myself," I bite out cooly, shooting an equally icy look to Penumbra, then back to the Headmaster. "Three fated realities ago, I had the unfortunate experience of living in a world where the highest crimes were those of the mind-- specifically dream walking, mental assault, and compulsion. There were essentially two types of people there: those who could use their mental abilities and those who became instant victims due to their lack of ability. My task was to undo the genetics that allowed those assaults and, barring that, to reconfigure the genetics so everyone had the same level of control and an innate ability for defense.
“In that world, by the time I’d grown to the age I could reasonably find and fix the problem, the average suicide rate was seventeen times higher than any other world I’ve ever traversed-- and I've traversed thousands. Every invasion of the mind was an assault. And every night, regardless of ethnicity, gender.... regardless of age,” I choke out, my hands trembling at the memory, “someone could pry into your mind and fill it with nightmares that would’ve fit right in with Christianity’s version of Hell. Dante's Inferno at its darkest."
A few people mumble uncomfortably, but the pained professor is looking at me in horror, likely at my blatant use of both 'assault' and 'invasion'. If I thought their collective constitutions could handle it, I'd use the far more blunt term of 'mind rape', but I have a feeling a few would genuinely swoon and I can't deal with swooning people without judging them for it.
“So I well know the sensation of someone attempting to invade mine," I say quietly, glaring Penumbra down hard enough to have him shrinking in his seat until I look back to Dumbledore, who's now looking a bit torn, his aura going a bit odd as it seesaws from righteous anger to grudging understanding. "And I won’t stand for it -- and no one has the right to demand I do. I spelled myself and no one else with something along the lines of a boomerang lined with thistles, razor blades and acid. The first attempt will be a migraine-level headache lasting between an hour and a day," I add, shooting another cold look at Penumbra, addressing the rest straight to him. "The second attempt, should anyone be that monumentally stupid enough to try, will be three times more painful and might result in mild brain damage. A third attempt would be mental suicide... and will most likely strip someone of their ability to use magic entirely."
Most of the professors now look a bit ill, and scared, like it’s me that’s the monster here, though Snape's deadly expression still seems to be aimed at Penumbra, Flitwick and McGonagall are darting upset looks at Dumbledore, and Dumbledore himself looks like he's having a mental battle with himself, but is mostly still aiming his anger my way, and I'm sadly unsurprised.
I hold in a sigh (and maybe a growl, too) of frustration, wipe my fingers with my napkin and stand to go, but offer a parting word to Dumbledore (and his current attitude) and hope it's taken with all the severity I can pour into mere words.
“Anyone who thinks that sort of forcible assault is, in any way, acceptable on anyone of any age... in my opinion, has no business teaching, nor helping shape the too-malleable minds of vulnerable children.”
With that, I turn and stride back into the castle alone and no one stops me. My head is pounding viciously by the time I finally fall into bed.