Tu Tu

Vieux-Moulin commune, France 23.05.1985

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Theo had grown weary of counting; he couldn’t fathom counting so high! It was a considerable amount, and he used several fingers on his right hand, the left being preoccupied with yarn. Earlier that morning, Mummy had been choosing wool for knitting new socks before she went off to Madame Lane’s. Theo was asked to stay, to sit by the fireplace and watch Pascal. This is why Theo found himself seated in his chair, aimlessly fidgeting with his feet, while Pascal, in a somewhat lazy manner, kept a watchful eye from the floor. Every now and then, the cat would twitch his whiskers and delicately lick his clawed paws. Sly as he was, Theo was hesitant to pet him, choosing instead to keep his focus on the yarn. Pascal’s ears perked up as the lock rattled and the heavy door creaked open. Elated, Theo dashed into the corridor, entirely forgetting about the yarn. “Mum! Mum! Mum!” His voice echoed back, reminiscent of finches chirping over a rapeseed field. He ran as swiftly as his legs would allow, his mother having been away so long that he half-believed time had been stolen or perhaps bewitched by that evil druid from the fairy tales. Theo had no doubts about this, as his mum had never misled him. “My darling, do be careful not to fall!” Her voice enveloped the walls of their ancient home. “Mum!” “What’s the hurry, dear? I’ve only been gone half an hour, Mon choux,” she said, her arms open wide. Theo leapt into her embrace. Her robe wrapped around them like a magical cloud, soft, ethereal, shielding them from the world. “Mummy, you were away so long…” “Oh, my silly little chick,” she chuckled, planting a kiss atop his curly head. “I’d love to feel half an hour as an eternity once more.” “I’m not a chick!” “Then why are you hiding under mum’s wing, hmm? Une, deux!,” she laughed warmly at Theo’s pouting expression, hugging him even closer.

* * *

“I don’t know where your razor is. Didn’t you take it with you to Grimmauld Place a week ago? Hello? Ron?” Hermione pulled away from the phone in irritation, the connection faltering, intermittently disrupted by a ghastly whistling and noise. Hardly surprising, really, given the remote location… On her journey from the old chapel, a destination place of the ministry’s portal, she encountered nothing but a rusty bicycle and a few locals. A mere ten minutes later, it became evident that the only nods to modern technology in the vicinity were a payphone and a television set in the village pub, offering football viewings for a nominal fee in the evenings, according to a faded sign. “…can’t recall…must find it…are you there?” “Yes, Ron! Yes! Can you hear me? I’ve just reached the village but haven’t found his house yet,” Hermione strained to make out his words. “I hope to be back within an hour, no longer than that!” “I want to… with you, but…Robards…won’t…Nott, I th… not there.” The noise worsened with each passing moment, prompting Hermione to climb onto an old bench in a bid for better reception. “Ron, the line is atrocious, I can barely make out what you’re saying. I’ll return a bit earlier today, alright?” The phone emitted another expletive. “Yes, mum will… Burr… cooking… love… But please… not the usual kind! Kisses!” Kisses. Not the usual kind. Had Hermione not known Ron so well, it might have even sounded romantic. She grimaced, feeling a sharp pang at the back of her head. Of late, these headaches had become more frequent and intense. Perhaps it was that old hag Mrs. Fieldwake, who had been overloading Hermione with paperwork for months. Or maybe it was Ron’s phrase, echoing in her mind even in his absence, translating roughly to, “You’re always late for work, and before that, you were a year away at Hogwarts. We seem to be together, but no more so than Sir Nicholas is on a headless hunt.” Yes, headless — that aptly described her recent state of being. Slow, sticky, fuzzy, and murky, akin to a bee trapped in jam. Watching one such bee at the Burrow, Hermione had felt a kinship with it, struggling in vain, sinking deeper into the sticky morass. It was then she had felt an overwhelming urge to cry, followed by shame for feeling so. This cycle had persisted all summer, a season drawing to a close, unlike the mountain of paperwork bequeathed by Mrs. Fieldwake. No, it was imprudent to grumble, especially since Hermione had willingly accepted her role. No one had coerced her into joining the Office for House Elf Relocation immediately after acing her N.E.W.T.s. It was her own choice to confront the deplorable treatment of the elves. No one was serving her guilt with green peas for breakfast, suggesting that she, Hermione, could have afforded to work a tad less and spend a bit more time with Ron. Although he never voiced it outright, Hermione could sense his valid resentment. She acknowledged that she ought to have kissed him more often in the mornings, greeted him with broader smiles, and declared her feelings more fervently. It all demanded a strength that seemed elusive. And just like that, life was returning to its routine, with Hermione beginning to understand that normalcy would prevail, primarily due to Mrs. Fieldwake’s influence. But perhaps she was correct. To amend the antiquated legislation against house-elves, robust arguments and insights from the elves themselves were essential. Hermione recalled her mortifying endeavours with S.P.E.W. with acute embarrassment; she still felt ashamed for those elves she had nearly driven to despair with her 'gifts'. Yet, it was a fond memory, tinged with the warmth of childhood, which Hermione had come to cherish. Speaking of house-elves… In the worn leather folder she clutched, Hermione had compiled as many as five 'interviews' with house-elves from various families. The first was with old Kreacher, who bemoaned that under the new master, he wouldn’t receive the honour of beheading due to his frailty, lamenting he’d have to 'die in the pantry like a bald rat', while his ancestors decayed on the Grimmauld Place staircase. Then came the encounter with the house-elf of Neville’s grandmother. She declared that her house-elf could leave his duties at any time, as she had a grandson who wouldn’t abandon her in old age. The house-elf nodded vigorously, polishing his shiny mouthpiece, barely stifling a chuckle when his mistress added, “…though, really, why? Neville’s sometimes less useful than a house-elf, bless him!” Hermione also managed to document a rather insightful opinion from the house-elf once owned by Scrimgeour. The Malfoy house-elves, liberated with their masters' departure about six months prior, had grown bolder and more outspoken, offering plenty of valuable advice that Hermione diligently recorded. Lastly, McGonagall, now the esteemed headmistress, permitted Hermione to interview the school cooks. They had no grievances, except they jokingly accused Hermione of nearly putting them out of business and shelter with her well-intentioned knitted hats. Hermione had journeyed to Shipton, clutching a delicate bundle of documents tightly to her chest, hopeful of securing another truly valuable opinion. The property’s owner had not responded to ministerial notices for over a fortnight, yet Hermione was convinced the house-elf had been left alone to manage the estate. She felt a tinge of discomfort at the thought of intruding into someone’s home unannounced, but the paperwork for Mrs. Fieldwake might be urgently needed. Besides, Hermione was quite familiar with the person she was about to 'visit' unexpectedly. Nott Hall, as Theo had described, was as concealed from Muggle eyes as Grimmauld Place, as the Burrow, and as many other wizarding homes. Ron had offered directions, and Hermione knew how to find it: two hundred yards southwest of the post office, then into the chestnut woods, following the path to the stone bridge over a shallow creek, crossing it to see the house nestled between two ancient elms. She remembered the route well and, once within the woods, summoned her Patronus, which glided ahead like a shimmering wraith, weaving between elm trunks and heather. It took no more than ten minutes to navigate the overgrown trail before the sound of water reached her ears, and soon, the stone bridge appeared. Small and encrusted with moss and ivy, it barely allowed two people to pass side by side. The creek beneath was shallow, barely a foot deep, the bridge serving merely to keep one’s feet dry. As Hermione stepped onto the bridge’s crest, she paused, inhaling the fresh air deeply. Birds chirped high in the treetops, and the scents of damp earth and forest stream blended with the rural charm of nearby Muggle fields. Here, amidst these age-old stones, time seemed to stand still. The place felt… right. Hermione found herself thinking that, were it not for her assignment, she wouldn’t mind spending a week or two in Shipton, perhaps in a quaint Muggle room in an old stone cottage, awakening to the sound of a bicycle bell or the clatter of a rare mail van. Here, there was none of the clamour that haunted her at the Burrow, none of the odours and voices that seemed ever-present. Even in her and Ron’s modest flat in London, something always felt intrusive, suffocating — as if this 'something' sat beside her each time she came home, lamenting its difficult existence. Hermione longed to confront this invisible presence, to silence it, to cast a spell that would banish it forever. But since her return from Hogwarts, energy and time had eluded her. Even the eighth year within the castle’s walls now seemed a distant, happier time. Where had that 'happiness' gone? Her thoughts churned like the stream beneath the bridge, clashing against sharp rocks. The fresh air made her head spin. Reaching towards the water, she found it cool even on this warm August evening. Her fingers brushed the surface, the chill of the swift current awakening her senses. She splashed water onto her face, seeking to dispel the encroaching maelstrom of her own thoughts. After a few more scoops, a fleeting lightness, a moment of clarity and relief washed over her — but it was abruptly shattered. Hermione recoiled in horror from her reflection in the stream. Amidst the jagged rocks and swirling sands, blood trickled, unmistakably. It wound its way in a ghastly ribbon, carried by the water. The thought of discovering its source filled her with dread — the clenched fists, the pounding pain in her temples, the taste of copper on her tongue. Yet, almost instantly, fear gave way to shame, which, as always, triumphed, compelling her to lift her gaze and peer into the depths of the forest. Hermione didn’t immediately notice someone’s silhouette there, concealed behind a thick hazel tree. The main thing was to avoid drawing attention. No sounds. Wand at the ready. She took a careful step to the right, a whisper-quiet movement, to better discern who was hiding nearby… Hermione recoiled, her eyes widening in disbelief at what she saw. Upstream, about ten yards away, sat a woman on the bank. Clad in an old bonnet, grey hair escaping beneath it, damp from either the splash of water or sweat, she wore a worn-out long dress accompanied by a ragged apron. She was busily laundering a snow-white shirt, blood dripping from it into the stream. This couldn’t be happening. It was something else… Hermione inched forward, attempting to see her face, but the woman kept her head bowed over the stream, tirelessly wringing the drenched fabric. There was no mistaking it; this was magic. Hermione tried to summon her Patronus, but it dissipated before fully forming. It was okay. She could do it again. “Expecto Patronum,” she whispered, but only a tiny spark flickered at her wand’s tip, and the barely audible incantation echoed eerily around her. This was an unknown magic, filling her insides with dread. Escaping the obvious trap seemed almost impossible, but Hermione was determined to try. She wouldn’t surrender so easily. Her heart raced to her throat, pulsating in a suffocating rhythm. She took another step, now to the very brink of the bridge. That’s when the old washerwoman also spotted Hermione, her wand stretched out in readiness. Could this all be an illusion? A hallucination? But Hermione didn’t break her gaze. What if there was no intention to attack her? What if the figure was a Muggle? No, that was ludicrous! Muggles were all in the village. And this woman, dressed so oddly, and the bloodied shirt in her red-stained hands glaringly white, why was the stream stained so heavily with blood? Magic. Dark. Terrifying. Freezing over the accursed creek. Hermione took a small step back, desperately fighting the urge to Apparate out of there right then. Except this woman, whoever she was, didn’t seem poised to attack. It was only the blood in the stream that distracted her from the fact that Theo hadn’t replied to her letters in two weeks. No, she couldn’t flee. Who knows what consequences these lost minutes might bring while Hermione was summoning help from Harry or Ron? She had to decide. Just decide and act. Think, Hermione, think! “Who are you?!” she called out, her voice ragged and frightened, sounding foreign and otherworldly. No response came. “I’m not going to attack you, who are you?!” Hermione shouted again. The woman, who had been watching Hermione all this while, suddenly changed posture. She rose slowly, wringing her hands, her shirt slipping into the water and drifting towards Hermione, blood staining it in a nightmarish fashion. The dark crowns of the elms obscured the last of the evening sky, and the forest turned dark and cold in an instant. Then, a terrible, ripping, deafening scream pierced the air… Through the whirlwind of thoughts and the frantic beating of her heart, Hermione remembered the tales of banshees and, acting on impulse, pressed her palms to her ears. Her precious folder dropped, its contents scattering in a white paper swirl. As if expecting it, the banshee lunged towards the bridge, her flushed hands reaching for the teetering Hermione. But before Hermione could even scream or aim her wand, she lost her balance, her consciousness betraying her at just the right moment. She forgot the narrowness of the stone bridge. Hermione fell slowly and long, her mind filled with fear and helplessness. Inexplicably, the image of the dying bee came back to her, so inappropriate, so absurd. She saw the banshee soar into the air, dead eyes fixed on her, a ghost trembling in a non-existent wind. Hermione watched as the black crowns of trees leaned towards the stream, their bony branches reaching out, birds scattering in a frenzied flock. She saw her wand flying high, her fingers desperately grasping but failing to catch it. And then darkness enveloped her. Nox…

* * *

Hogwarts 24.09.1998

It appeared that first-year students were taught not so much to cast a spell as to shout boisterously in the castle corridors. Otherwise, Theo couldn’t fathom why the eleven-year-olds had been shrieking so much in their free time, a habit he’d observed for as long as he could remember. He remembered his own first year vividly; he certainly hadn’t been one to yell. It was unnecessary, for he had learnt early that the right things were to be whispered. And the most important things? They required no words at all. And… fuck that, actually. He just needed to make his way to the Restricted Section for some much-needed solitude and quiet. Fortunately, it seemed no one else had shown much interest in that part of the library this year, much to Theo’s relief. Once past the clamorous stairwell, Theo exhaled in relief at the silence. He pushed open the heavy library doors, gave a customary nod to Madam Pince, who appeared to be dozing amidst the sparse occupants of the reading room, and stealthily hopped over the rope barrier into the Restricted Section. The old clock indicated a quarter to five. The final classes for the seniors and those like Theo, labelled 'eighth year students' to avoid the term ’dumb’, were nearing their end. But Theo never considered himself dumb, especially with his impressive O.W.L. results, which made excelling in N.E.W.T.s considerably easier. Sometimes, he mused that he had only enrolled in the eighth year out of sheer boredom. The Restricted Section, however, was far from boring. Its aura of mystery was palpable, with no one quite certain whether any books remained that could bite off fingers or other protruding parts, or perhaps even absorb a reader into their narrative, doomed to perish of dragon pox by the ninth chapter. Of course, these were just Theo’s imaginative musings. He had his own serious, private reasons for being here, and they were nobody’s business but his own. His concentration was broken by an odd sound emanating from a distant shelf. Someone else in here? No, it couldn’t be! This was his last refuge in the castle for uninterrupted reading, and now this! His hunch was confirmed as he approached the source of the noise. There was a girl, seemingly in the throes of distress. What on earth was she doing here? She should have been at the Quidditch stands, mooning over sweaty players. Theo, moving silently to avoid alerting the snoozing Madam Pince, neared the sobbing figure, pausing as he took in the scene. It was Granger, hands clasped to her chest, fighting back tears. Opposite her stood two others, strikingly similar in appearance. Parents, obviously. Theo noted the mother’s stern expression, the father’s wild hair, albeit trimmed. But the question lingered: why were a tearful Granger and her bewildered Muggle folks in the Restricted Section? Theo shook his head. Absurd. It had to be some sort of hallucinogenic mould in the air. Touch a book here, and you might see Filch receiving the Order of Merlin or Peeves as Headmaster. Or Granger, standing before her parents, in tears. She hadn’t noticed she was being observed, at least not yet. “Mummy… Dad.” Theo’s hunch had been spot on. Her parents recoiled as though she were afflicted with some contagion, and Granger’s tears erupted almost at full volume. Well, at least she was real, not a figment of his imagination. The last thing Theo needed was Madam Pince booting him out for causing a ruckus in the library. Reluctantly, he decided to step in. “I’m not quite sure what’s unfolding here, but,” he began, approaching to offer a greeting, when suddenly Granger’s parents, upon noticing him, started to blur and dissolve into the air just like… He recognized this place instantly: the bursting creek, the ancient stone bridge, the ceaselessly weeping birds. The scene made his chest constrict, his head spin, igniting an urge to vomit all over it. But no, Theo wouldn’t allow it. Not now. Not ever. “Riddikulus!” The boggart, shrieking with bird-like cries and frothing with creek water, morphed into a rusty old pushover, Myrtle’s favourite. Theo had once been writing an essay, hiding from the cacophony in the closed girls' bathroom, and nearly joined that bespectacled idiot in the afterlife, so petrified had he been by Myrtle. Granger was now gazing at him with a similar shock. He was tempted to quip, “Are we so alike?” but instead, he gritted his teeth and sliced through the air with his wand, banishing the boggart into the pages of “Magical Metamorphosis of Wombs in the Name of Comfort and Litter”. Turning to a breathless Granger, he remarked dryly. “I wonder if your academic prowess is due to getting scolded for 'Exceeds Expectations' so often,” he laughed soundlessly, still wary of Pince, who thankfully remained ensconced in the arms of evening slumber. Granger, still regaining her composure, clearly didn’t find his humour amusing. “Hello? I don’t have all day, Granger, snap to it, une-deux!” Theo snapped his fingers in front of her face, trying to rouse her. Her demeanour shifted instantly, and for a fleeting moment, Theo felt a twinge of discomfort. The tearful Granger was gone, replaced by a visage of stern resolve. “I have no claim on your time,” she retorted sharply, her face an impenetrable mask. Theo never cared for such expressions, especially on someone as self-assured as Granger. It wasn’t about blood purity, damn it. It was the reproachful, arrogant gaze he detested, the kind that seemed to preemptively read a witty fucking retort to anything he might say. “Yes, of course, you’re the one who couldn’t handle a boggart and bawled your eyes out,” he snorted irritably. “You know, I’m not going to get thrown out because of you, Granger. So why don’t you trot off to Pomfrey’s… Oh, no! Better yet, visit old Horace. He’ll give you a draught for old times' sake. And for God’s sake, don’t disturb Pince, I’m here on actual business, unlike you.” The sound of her slap echoed not just through the library, but the entire castle. Forget the noise, the fucking thing hurt! Granger had quite the swing; who would’ve thought? So slender, yet delivering a slap that left Theo’s ears ringing. He massaged his jaw, glaring at Granger, who seemed as surprised by her own action as he was. Theo mustered a mocking grin, about to retort with something equally stinging, when the unmistakable squeak of Madam Pince’s right shoe sounded behind him. That was the cue to bolt, and Granger was first to take flight. She spun around, striding rapidly towards the exit. Pince’s indignant calls followed, but Theo knew from the ensuing silence that he’d be the one to blame. Granger was clearly not okay… But best not to mention it to anyone, especially her. He wasn’t eager for a repeat performance of that slap, which could very well be his last, given how no one could withstand another one like that.