Wannabe (a Hogwarts Hero)

There’s few paintings on the dungeon level (the original inhabitant shades had all ended up pretty depressed after a few years) but of those there, it’s mainly gloomy-looking landscapes and the shades are either trolls or ogres in the far background.  The first floor has almost too many, but Snape and I split up and manage to get most of them talking (or encouraged to talk by their neighbors) so that’s a bit of a bust, too.  The second floor, however…

…leads to nothing, too, oddly, nevermind that my fated instinct is practically screaming ‘slow down’ and ‘keep looking’ and so I do, nodding respectfully to each shade as I pass, study the landscapes for visual Easter eggs, a slow process that Snape rejoins me for.

“Easter eggs,” he repeats blandly.

“Future muggle computer game term for something hidden in plain sight; usually something good, though,” I shrug.

“Ah. Computers become more important then, or so unimportant games are all they’re used for?”

“A bit of both, depending on age grouping and which reality,” I admit. “In some, anyone under twenty-five is nearly addicted to games and anyone older relies on computers of some sort just to keep infrastructure, marketing, automobiles and all that running.  In most realities, they become vital for muggle societies because everything from medicine to fuel, even solar energy, all depend on electricity, which will eventually all be regulated with computers. So, it's kind of a big deal when it all breaks down,” I admit glumly.  (I keenly remember a few realities where the entire world didn't just break down-- they just broke; chaos didn’t begin to describe it and I’m still amazed what little I could help with was all it took to keep humanity from dying out.)

“A dismal necessity, then,” he decides and yup.

“More often than not, yup.  And when they break, dismal becomes devastating,” I sigh, slowing to inspect a tapestry that looks… off. “What’s different about this one?”

“It’s a tapestry,” he observes, side-eyeing me. “They don’t have shades.”

I frown.  “It’s different than when I last saw it, though.” I stand back a few paces and go over it again, top to bottom.  A country landscape with rolling hills, farm fields and forests off to the side, a small house nestled not far from a lake— …wait.  “It’s Hogwarts,” I blurt with surprise.  How did I not see that before?  Weirder still, how did I not remember?

Snape stands back to my side and inspects it from afar, eyebrow hiking after a few seconds.  “So it is.  Life before the castle, I’d assume.”

“Huh,” I murmur, squinting a bit closer— “and that….” I breathe out, “is definitely different.”  I keep my sight set on the cottage and step forward again.  It’s different, because there’s smoke coming from the chimney.  And the smoke, up close, is moving.

Snape leans back in and squints. “How… did someone manage that?” He demands softly, surprised.  “Magic doesn’t usually stick to fabric that way.”

“Not usually, no.  But when has Hogwarts ever been usual?” I spin to the opposite wall where the Mormon ladies are all quilting around a small hearth, humming softly.  “Good afternoon,” I greet with a smile.  “Ladies, you’ve been here for a while, yes?”

The eldest, thin spectacles nearly dripping off the tip of her thin nose smiles.  “We have, yes. Feels a bit like we’ll never finish this quilt.  But you’re wondering about the cottage then?” She asks with a faint Scottish accent.

“We are, yes,” Snape answers, head tilted respectfully and her eyes warm even more.

“Clever design, that one,” she nods.  “Been doing that for years now, on and off.”

“Waste of candles and lanterns, if ya ask me,” the woman beside her adds with a much thicker brogue, shaking her head.  “Leaving ‘em full lit all the long night.”

“They have,” the grumpiest of the women scowls, then yanks her finger away from her square with a hiss as she shakes it out.  “Been disturbing my sleep for months now.”

“Oh hush,” the most cheerful of the four scoffs, smiling kindly at the grumpy one.  “You sleep like the dead and snore like an old goat,” she accuses, but the teasing is kind and the grumpy one just grunts and rolls her eyes.  “But May’s right.  Lit all night lately and sometimes I can hear a racket inside, even from here,” she sighs, head shaking, then leans closer and confides in a whisper “Sounds like someone’s marriage is in trouble, ya ask me,” she finishes with a smart nod.

“Pish posh,” the eldest huffs, head shaking.  “We’ll not give into being nosy Netties or gossiping Gillies, ya hear?”  But she offers a wise look to Snape again.  “But, if ya happen to find ‘em in a loud moment, kindly ask them to keep it down, hm?  Oh, and to quit slamming that door, too,” she huffs. “That throws a nap right off and straight out the window.”

“Door?” I blurt, spinning back to the tapestry, frowning.

“Aye, the door!” She repeats, then pauses peering out into the half-lit hallway.  “Oh, well, it’s a bit early if the chimney’s smoking still.  Best ye come back later, then, before they light the candles.  You’ll find it.”

I swivel my head from tapestry to the ladies and back, a bit amazed.

“Thank you, ladies,” Snape murmurs with a small bow and from behind him, I can’t quite see his expression, but whatever it is has all four ladies blushing and chuckling.

The eldest grunts, her lips twitching up. “Charmer,” she huffs, then turns to wink at me and head nods at Snape.  “Best not let this one get away, Mistress.  Hard to come by charm and good manners, these days, y’know.”

I bite my cheek when Snape’s ears go pink, but he’s already striding off, the ladies now chuckling again and offering me sly looks.  “Thank you all; you’ve been a great help,” I manage to squeak out rather than giggle, then I turn and hurry after Snape, biting my lip to keep from cackling outright

“Don’t,” he warns flatly with a narrowed side-eye before I can say a word and I snicker, because who wouldn’t?

“What?” I demand, carefully not looking at him while we aim for the Great Hall with the scent of comfort food guiding the way. “It’s you who made them blush, not me,” I point out, still grinning.

He only has time to sigh with a scowl before we join the crowded dinner hall and break off for our respective tables.

***

Lupin’s on my heels the second I step out of the Great Hall to revisit the tapestry, though I think it might be too early still.

“Severus filled us in,” he murmurs as we stroll.  “And Dumbledore will be along shortly, too.”

“Good,” I nod, “because I’m pretty sure it’s one of the Founders and magically, they’re not exactly lightweights.”

Lupin’s head snaps over to me, eyes widening when he sees I’m serious.  “How?” He demands in a shocked bark and I hush him, then shake my head and shrug because: magic.

“There’s only so many people alive who’d know that cottage actually used to be right in that spot, and it’d explain why the castle hasn’t been picking up on ‘intruders’.  Founders are likely still considered staff and they lived here for decades.  Or centuries, if you count their time in the everlasting frame,” I murmur back when a gaggle of Gryffindor’s get herded up the stairs ahead of us by their two prefects.

“Well, knowing now what I didn’t know before,” he sighs pensively, “that’s more than a little distressing.”

“Very,” I murmur back when a straggling student leaps up the stairs three at a time and I tug Lupin to a stop.  “I’m going to need your help, actually, because the more keyed up you get, the more I will too and I’m already going to have a problem not roasting any of them on sight,” I confess, inexplicably nervous.  “This is gonna suck.”

Lupin’s everything seems to melt into genuine relaxation in the space of a blink and I feel myself naturally following suit, leaving me feeling a tad ‘floaty’.

“Better?” He asks with his own ‘floaty’-looking half-smile.

“Wowwww, yeah.  Or... better?  Not sure. Do you feel like you’re floating because I kinda do and it’s all kinds of amazing but I’m pretty sure I’d fail a muggle sobriety field test right now and I forgot how I babble when I’m stoned so can you help a bit please?”

Lupin snorts, but his eyes clear a bit after a few seconds and mine follow suit.  “Much better,” I decide.  "You are waaaaay too good at that."

“Stoned?” Snape repeats quietly from behind me, judgmental eyebrow angled high.

“Completely legal in nearly every reality, including my last,” I shrug. “And those realities had way less violent crimes, world wide,” I add.

“Still illegal here,” Snape points out.

I shrug again. “Street drugs won’t work on me anyway.  Like most alcohol, dragon blood burns it out too fast,” I pout, then raise my own eyebrow back. “Ready to go talk to the ladies again?” I ask, straight-faced.

His responding scowl and (mostly fake) death glare is still worth it when his ears go pink.  Silently grinning like a fiend, I follow after him when he storms off toward the gallery hall with a mellowed, befuddled Lupin on my heels.

***

It’s been an hour now and I’m now glaring at that tiny chimney, all but willing it to snuff out. (It doesn’t work.)

An hour into our quiet vigilance, Dumbledore joins us, peering closely at the tapestry and marveling.

An hour after that and even he’s grown bored of waiting and suggests we simply put a lock on the hall to keep the students clear, but sitting on the stone floor and feeling the castle’s continued ‘off’ feeling, I sort of hate that plan and say as much, my eyes never leaving the chimney.

“Is it possible they know we’re here waiting?” Lupin suggests.

“Possible, I suppose,” Dumbledore murmurs exhaustedly.  And it’s not just him I see wearing thin on stress and in need of rest.  Today took a heavy toll on Lupin too, and Snape, to a lesser degree.  Dumbledore aims a questioning look down at me where I’m still parked on the floor.

“Castle won’t be right until I know what they did,” I sigh, twitching a shrug.  “When it feels this off, it can’t protect anyone even half as well as it did last week,” I point out. “And I’m loathe to think of what else they’ll do to it if they get in again while it’s already vulnerable.”

The castle groans a soft apology and I rub the floor soothingly to settle it.

“None of the rest of us will be at our best either,” Snape points out and yeah, there’s that.  My stubbornness is costing them rest.  I open my mouth to send them all off (hopefully) when he continues.  “And you’re not staying here alone,” he drawls.

I slump, frustrated.

“Come, Miss Devons,” Dumbledore beckons, kindly but with a note of steel.  “We’ll all be more rested and better prepared tomorrow.”

I nod and climb to my feet, then stretch to get my blood flowing again, then freeze.

It happens fast because it has to.  There’s a half-second while they gape at where I’d just been, then draw wands when I startle them by smacking a painting near the ceiling and ten feet further down the hall, also startling a sleeping shepherd and his flock of three, but with a flick of my finger, my prey goes sailing (with a startled squawk of his own) three paintings to the left and another quick shadow blink has me there to smack it again, waking the respectable-looking young scholar who lets out a girly-sounding shriek of surprise before running to the next painting to hide behind a nanny who’s already standing protectively in front of her three small charges.  With another vicious finger flick, they sail down four paintings to ground level and another shadow blink has me there waiting to smack it still (this time, my prey groans) and with a shove of magic, I drag him over two paintings where a pair of hunters in a small cabin are already evacuating and leaving a single bench by a stone hearth and little else.

I chuck him into sitting, where he groans again, dazed, then squeaks with alarm when I press a single dragon claw to the canvas at the base of his throat and his eyes go wide and worried when Dumbledore, Lupin and Snape all crowd in with me.

“Hello, Godric,” I growl menacingly, flashing my dragon eyes and teeth once before I resettle my features to my girl-ish human ones.  “Long time, no see.”

***

Godric’s not quite life-sized in this painting, but he’s pretty close by the size of the painting alone, so it’s easy to see the nerves settle on his features when he grips the seat of the bench he’s on, eyes flicking between me and the others like he’s wondering who to appeal to for freedom when he knows it’s not going to be me.

Finally, seeing no quarter from any of us, he sets his chin and glares back in silence.

“You don’t quite look as you did in my office, Godric,” Dumbledore muses, the tip of his wand alighting and waving around Godric’s face and clothes and he’s right, because this Godric looks positively ill in near-muggle clothing of riding trousers ripped at one knee and covered in gunk of some sort and his threadbare linen shirt is no better.  Even the long beard he’d always been so proud of is filthy and patchy in places and trimmed terribly.

Godric glares at Dumbledore too, twitching away from the wand light like he’s ashamed to be seen as is.  Hard to blame him on that.  There’s nothing of him like this that speaks of a well-respected mage.

“A thousand years and nothing to say,” I murmur and he flinches, though there was no threat to my words.  “But then, some are best skilled at lying by omission,” I add and this time, he winces with what looks like shame, eyes low.  “Been longer for me,” I assure, “but you know that by now.”  His eyes squeeze shut, but he nods once.  “Isn’t silence at this point a bit petty?” I ask as patiently as I can.

This time, his head whips up and he stares straight at me, almost horrified.  But his lips stay sealed— oh.

I close my eyes, open my extra sight and peek, then slam them shut and lock my sight back down.

“Can I borrow a wand, please?” I ask my companions and Dumbledore twitches nervously when Lupin offers his up without a word and I nod my thanks at him, then flick my eyes to the others before dropping them, newly uncomfortable and trying not to let my guilt strangle me. “Nearly every curse has a counter curse, as far as I know.  Why no one ever tried to counter the Imperious Curse is beyond me,” I sigh, then with a wand side-flick and down: “Trvallanavohk,” I intone. Godric’s lips part on a gasp before he’s curling down on the bench, holding his head with a soft groan while I flip the wand once and offer it back handle-first.  Lupin’s giving me a sad smile, but nods and tucks it back away.

“Ric,” I say quietly.

“I’m so sorry, Syn,” he rasps, head still in his hands and I jerk back, clenching my teeth tight to not do something I can’t take back, like roast him where he sits before dragging him out of the painting and killing him.

“I wish I could believe that,” I croak unsteadily and Ric flinches, still not meeting our eyes.  “Even if I could, I’d still rather you stow your self-pity party brand of sentimental bullshit and fix the castle.”

“I can’t,” he rasps, sitting up again, now looking twenty times worse.  “I don’t know what he forced Rowena and Helga to do,” he spits out, head shaking a bit manically.  “And Helga's as stuck as I am.”

“You’re saying this is Salazar’s doing?” Dumbledore demands, his newly furious eyes narrowing on Ric, like he can’t believe it. (With his aura newly spikey-discordant again, I'm not surprised.)

“And Rowena's,” Godric rasps, fingers tightening on the bench again and swallows hard before licking his lips nervously. “As well as you, I'm afraid," he adds with a wincing sigh while Dumbledore jerks with surprise, mouth parting to no doubt protest, but Snape lays a gentling hand on Dumbledore's arm and nods a bit guiltily.

"You haven't always been quite yourself since you began talking to them that painting," Snape murmurs.  "We'd assumed it was a bit of leftover effect from the demon until the day with the basilisk."

"It's why Moody makes a point to come by so often," I add, still glaring at Godric.  "He and I can both sap off unnatural negative energy and magic within a certain proximity."

Dumbledore's expression pinches, but now it's with uncertainty, then anger when his eyes flick back to Godric.  "I was told," Dumbledore seethes, "not to be alone with you for too long for the opposite reason-- that your excess magic could affect me somehow."

"No, that part's true," I add, glaring a little harder at Ric.  "It affects how susceptible you are to believing whatever lies or misleading truths they'd been feeding you, isn't that right Ric?"

"It's an extra enchantment on the frame," Godric admits, shamefaced and nodding jerkily.  "Something Rowena did, back in the beginning to keep us as informed as we could be while we waited for... for the right time," he finishes lamely, still playing the victim.  "But she lost most of what was left of her mind centuries ago,” he mutters, lips pressing thin.  “And Sal’s never been sane. It took Helga and I far too long to see that.”

I close my eyes tight and try to breathe air and not fire because he's spinning it like he's never had a choice when in truth--

A soothing, comforting brush of warm fur in my mind reminds me I'm not alone and makes it about a million times easier to open my eyes again.  But so do Snape’s words.

“And yet, you not only let, but encouraged, those words to be carved into your arm,” he says smoothly, an irrefutable accusation.

Ric’s mouth drops open.  “How—“ his gaze snaps to me looking ill, then about fifty times guiltier.  “So you… know.”

I clench my jaw again.  “Always did.  Born with a near-perfect memory, remember?  Not all that memory was mine."

He jerks back, eyes glistening and stares at the cabin floor, looking sick. “So Wyn did too,” he chokes out.

“Always,” I repeat, almost choking on my words.  “And you haven't changed a bit," I growl softly.  "It was never my respect or trust to be earned... just his."  Godric flinches, shaking his head like I've got it all wrong, but we both know better.  "And I’d love to discuss it all in detail, but a certain four idiots made sure I’d never be able to offer even half a truthful explanation, let alone—“

“These secrets should not be kept," Godric blurts, like he's worried we'd keep him from speaking.

But I jerk again, along with Snape, Lupin and Dumbledore as the energy-laden wave of secret-breaking power washes through us, rippling outward into the universe.  I stare at Ric, now so very confused because this-- it doesn’t fit.  He’s been the very memory of selfish, near-silent diplomat with too much reputation to keep squeaky clean to ever risk true honesty.

But now his expression is as open as I’ve ever seen it and he’s not shying away from me and I don’t even know what to do with this version of him.  So I stare back and do nothing.

“Syn—“ he tries when the silence stretches uncomfortably long.

“Never existed,” I interrupt cooly.  "I've read every history book in the building--"

"We were trying to--"

"Save your reputation," I bite out.

"TRYING TO STOP A WAR!!" he insists, but his eyes are flinching.

I grit my teeth and feel my eyes heating, dragon hot and maybe my skin, too because Dumbledore shuffles back with wide eyes, a hand half-raised to pull Snape back with him, maybe, but is quickly blocked by Lupin's hand on his reaching arm and a shake of his head.  Snape honors his secret, inner Gryffindor by crowding closer against my back and settling a bracing hand on my shoulder, squeezing in a reassuring way that almost instantly cools and settles me.  It lets me speak clearer, if not much calmer.

"You forget who you're talking to, Ric... lie to the world all you want, but you can't lie to me."

"We were trying to save lives," he croaks, head shaking, but he doesn't quite meet my eyes.

"The only lives you saved were your own," I snarl softly.  "Wyn--" I grit out, then stumble back into Snape with a hiss of pain when the world sways dizzily and a stream of blood traces down from my nose to my lip.  I brace myself and speak again.  "He saved your lives when he left that day," I rasp, wiping the blood away with a shaky hand that Godric stares at, looking sick.  "He didn't do it for you," I choke out, ignoring the spots now dotting my vision.  "He did it--"

"Syn, stop," Ric orders, panicked.  "The magic will kill you, please--"

I huff a derisive snort.  "Wasn't that the plan, Ric?" I sneer.  "Fail the first time, stick around a thousand years, leeching off the castles magic-- off my magic until I inevitably turn back up so you've all got a second shot to finally get what you think you earned? All you accomplished was weakening the castle to the point that it couldn't even keep that cage in the basement from cracking open," I grind out, then haul in a breath.  "Myrtle Elizabeth Warren," I rasp, "deserves your apology, Godric.  All four of you.  Your collective pride and greed will never be worth her lost life."

Godric goes white.  "No," he whispers, head shaking.  "That's not..." he tries again, "not why I did it."

I stare unblinkingly at him and ignore my own blood slowly dripping off my chin until he steels himself and finally meets my eyes again.

"If no one could speak of-- of what happened back then," he mumbles, "then there was no one to blame for the loss of all that magic; it was donated, Syn, and they expected it back."

I huff a silent, pained breath, not all that surprised he won't acknowledge his part in Myrtle's death.

"Average lifespans?  You had to keep quiet for two generations, three or four at the most," Lupin argues, head shaking.  "Not a thousand years."

Only, it sort of does make sense when one considers that not every lifespan is the same.  Some gnomes are born, grow, reproduce and die all in a single season but feel every day like humans would feel two or three years.  Most dragons can live to twice the age of a human, as can some unique species and families of elves.  Goblins, though... few know how well preserved some of their bloodlines, like the ruling goblin families, truly are.

"There's no way they don't know I'm back," I huff, shaking my head.  "If war were still coming, it would be here by now."

"Not--" Ric starts, then swallows and tries again.  "Not until your full name leaves the school," he says quietly.

Now I snort, shaking my own head, and wipe a final trickle of blood from my face, smirking a bit darkly as I fish into my pocket for that tiny, ornate metallic dragon key and its message-carrying magic.  I hold it out, dots of my blood smeared over the dragon's nose and back and Godric frowns, head shaking with confusion.

"Use your other eyes, Ric," I scoff.  "They know exactly how long I've been back."

At this point, I'm sure half the paintings in the hall are staring at the key as keenly as our little group is, but it's dead silent until Ric's eyes flash to the same tawny gold as Wyn's-- and his jaw drops with realization before he seems to choke on air as his words come out.

"Goblin-made," he breathes out almost soundlessly, and now Dumbledore straightens with a slightly alarmed expression that Ric misses because he's now staring at me with at least a dozen realizations exploding in his brain.  "Wyn--"

"Has thankfully been five steps ahead of you for a long, long time," I finish, dropping the key back into my robe pocket.  "So, now that your argument has officially fallen flat--"

"Syn, please--" Ric tries, eyes wide and desperate, but I'm done here.

"My name," I cut in, straightening with a wash of calm that seems to soak in from Snape's reassuring grip on my shoulder, "is Jacklyn Devons."

“Jacklyn,” he repeats, looking pale and miserable.  “Please.  Tell me how to help fix this.”

I purse my lips, then tick my head over to Dumbledore. “He’s in charge, Ric.  I just live here.  But maybe start with honesty, if you even remember how.  Because the truth might be scary, but you're a fucking Gryffindor; time to man up and act like one."  And with that, I turn and after a quick, grateful squeeze to Snape's hand and a slight nod to Lupin and Dumbledore, I shadow-blink out and away.

***

After that conversation, I'm honestly feeling too raw to deal with the actual Wyn outside my own head, so I head for the kitchens to (hide) contemplate life and they supply me with the biggest cup of hot chocolate known to man (or elf) and then go about their business, simply letting me be me while I sort through my thoughts and emotions.

I’m so lost staring into the bottom of the mug that I don’t know who’s thrusting a Trixler-baked cookie in my face until I blink back up to see Dumbledore there, face kinder than I’ve seen yet and completely discordance-free.  I take the cookie and with a long series of crackling bones and popping joints, he settles on the next floor cushion over with his own cookie and Trixler, my all-time favorite night elf, is soon hurrying forward with another mug of steamy hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream.

“It’s definitely been a chocolate sort of day,” Dumbledore agrees and I nod, wordless, then smile exhaustedly and shake my head when Trixler offers me another mug.  “I owe you an apology, Miss Devons,” he sighs, then sips deep enough to get foamy whipped cream sticking to his mustache.  He doesn’t seem to mind, so I say nothing about it.

“You heard terrible things,” I point out.  “And you had no reason to disbelieve their source since most shades can't lie, even if they wanted to."

Dumbledore’s eyes are sad when they meet mine again.  “I truly thought I was giving you the benefit of the doubt,” he offers, but shakes his head at himself.  “Until this afternoon, actually.  I hadn’t even known those words were there until they were spilling from my lips.”

“You’re a cynic,” I huff, then raise a hand when he frowns at me.  “Not a bad one.  You use it wisely, usually.  You let it bolster your will so you have more to dedicate to protecting those who've needed protecting.  In that particular light, we have a lot in common.”

His responding sigh is a heavy one.

“And here, I feel like the naive student all over again,” he half-smiles with a silent sigh. “And your wisdom is frequently a true treasure.”

I shrug-nod because yes, and no.  Knowledge born of wisdom is a valued delicacy, but sometimes a bitter one. “If you’re looking for an easy explanation… technically, I am older.”

That earns me a modest but honest laugh, short and sincere.  He takes another deep sip of cocoa and adds another layer of foam to his mustache.  It’d be more comical if his eyes didn’t look so heavy.

"I know you implied there is no immediate threat from the goblin nation, but--"

"They're not fools," I cut in.  "Long lived or not, they're patient, smart and honorable and certainly wouldn't attack a castle full of innocent children.  Everyone here is safe from them," I assure him.

He stares at me for a long few seconds, like he's puzzling something new out, then nods.

“And... the Imperious Counter-curse,” he says softly.  “Godric said it was in a book— can we assume it’s the book from the secret chamber?”

Huh.  Godric's actually talking, then?  It's still only a shady truth that leaves him somewhat in the clear, but it's still the truth.

I answer Dumbledore with a nod and would genuinely like to tell him I’ve had the counter curse since two days after I finished building the curse itself, but again, there’s still three locks binding my words.  But not all my words.

“The Cruciotus curse, too,” I say bluntly and his eyes widen but look sadder still and I’m still not sure if he really understands the truly heavy chunks of my past yet or if he’s still extrapolating from what he thinks he knows.  I doubt Godric's had time to build up the courage to tell the whole story yet.

“But the Cruciotus curse… it ends when the spell does?  When the pain... ceases?”

I’m shaking my head before he’s even done speaking.  “It’s like a residue, I guess.  It may look alright from the outside, but inside, it’s like a... sealant that locks the sharper bits of pain in, to some degree.  It’s an unhealing scar, a continual strain on the mind; even after the physical sensations cease, it still taxes the body to overwhelming degrees.” My stomach churns even thinking of it, but it was logically, soullessly practical at the time.  Pain was a potent ingredient.

His eyes look unbearably sad as he nods, then swigs deep from his mug and sets it aside with a curious look back at me.  “You’re still bound to the grounds, yes?”

I’m nodding before I realize it, but fate— I pause and frown.  “Mostly,” I offer quietly.  “Why?”

He looks perplexed, still with that foamy mustache, but now he’s studying his interwoven fingers resting on his raised knees.  “There are survivors,” he says slowly, then looks up.  “A husband and wife, both endured… the length of time isn’t certain, actually,” he mumbles with another frown.  “They’re still at St. Mungo’s, both still very placidly insane.  I’m wondering if—“

“Yes,” I choke out, staring into space because fate is all but giving me a thousand ‘thumbs up’ signs in my head, along with a visual day calendar flipping to the next day.  “Fate will allow one day,” I heave out, my lips almost trembling with disbelief.

“A day?”

“Fate-- it doesn't use words, usually, but it just gave me a thumbs up in my head and a day calendar flipping one sheet over— it will give me a day,” I repeat, maybe sounding as amazed as I feel.  “One day, so… if there’s others—wait, no.  But I can teach it to you and a handful of healers—“

“Yes,” he interrupts right back, and now his eyes are a little lighter.  “Tomorrow, though,” he says seriously, eyes skipping over my face and no doubt finding the same extreme fatigue I see on his.  “Now, we all need rest.”

I nod exhaustedly in return while he creaks and pops his way back to standing upright, then smiles gently and it matches his aura, finally. “After breakfast?  'Til then, please go sleep.  It’s needed.”

I nod and stand and wave my thanks to Trixler, then follow Dumbledore out to the hall, though I aim for the painting across the hall while Dumbledore turns toward the stairs and I call softly after him.

“You… er, have a bit of whipped cream.  In your mustache,” I mumble, then bite my lips together.

He wriggles his lip, then nods.  “I was saving it for later,” he whispers back, nods conspiratorially and vanishes up the stairs and out of sight.

I grin all the way to my bed, already feeling lighter.