I.
Bewitched Girl

They found her in her bed. She just went to sleep and never woke up . . .

Tap- tap- tap.

The rhythmic throbbing of the rain on the glass windowpanes awakens the young witch under her royal blue bed cover. Despite it being late May, the rain and damp herald in a spell of chill air. Instead of sunshine and days of lounging by the lake, late spring ushers in several days of rain. The storm broke on a Thursday with a cloud burst of wet bullets while they were outdoors during Care of Magical Creatures. Friday, a light, but chill, mist came from the over-hanging clouds. Saturday dawned with a bitter breeze in the air that brought another burst of equally freezing rain in the afternoon. The rain let up during the night, but now, the water pounds with newfound ferocity on the windows of the Ravenclaw dorm.

Tap-tap-tap.

Emaline Marberry sticks her head out of the blanket and peers over at the girl sleeping beside her. ‘It was that storm that made her sick,’ Emaline thinks as she gazes at the pale face of her roommate. A glass of cold tea sits on the nightstand, along with a couple slices of untouched toast. They linger there like harmless sentinels beside the sleeping girl.

Emaline remembers how they stood, side by side, studying a Knarl, which seemed more intent on destroying its little patch of garden than bothering with the two of them. The wind picked up, blowing their robes like black sails as the clouds rolled over the mountains, obscuring them in shadow. Not too long after the clouds descended, the sky tore open and let lose like a hose filled with foul, chill lake water.

Tap-tap-tap.

They ran to the castle, completely drenched when they reached the doors. All the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff fifth years stood in the hall, wringing the water from their robes. Later in the evening, sitting in the study, nothing seemed wrong. At least that is how Emaline remembers it. Nothing seems wrong.

Emaline rises from her bed and shivers as she treads across the stone floor in her bare feet. She vanishes the untouched food and cold drink with her wand. “Morticia,” she whispers, not wanting to wake the other sleeping girl. When the other girl does not respond, Emaline turns away to dress. Nothing seems quite wrong now.

Tap-tap-tap.

Emaline sighs as she pulls her light blonde hair back into a ponytail. “Morticia, I know you seemed a bit under the weather yesterday, but we can go to the Healer.” Emaline goes to shake her friend, but stops herself before her hands touch the girl. ‘I hope whatever she has is not contagious. That would be dreadful! The entire dorm would have it,’ Emaline thinks as she pulls a black robe over her lavender dress and leaves the room, resolved to get a Healer.

Tap-tap-tap.

Nothing seems wrong. Morticia Gregel has caught a cold maybe. After all, they were outside in that rain. Nothing seems wrong.

*******

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Ravenclaw Fifth Year Girl’s Dorm, 1888

A group of three adults stand around the bed, which had the standard royal blue bed cover draped over a sleeping frame. None of them smile because there is no reason to smile. The dorm is empty of students. The Head of House has done her job, and now, the Headmaster and school Healer have been called.

Because something is wrong.

The pudgy, balding man examines the young woman with his wand. He passes a hand over her pale forehead, but she does not respond to his touch. Her skin feels damp and clammy, like the wet earth outside. Her breathing is shallow and chill, like the mist covering the grounds, as if her body is made of nothing more than chill vapors and soggy ground.

A tall, severe man wearing a green velvet robe folds his arms across his chest. “Healer Chumway, is she responding?” the man asks as his dark eyes survey the scene in front of him like a hawk searching the landscape for the slightest movements of its prey.

“No, Headmaster Black, she is not. Professor Viridian, please go and retrieve the girl who found her. I want to hear from her.”

The short, wiry woman with a sharp, beak nose nods as she turns and strides out of the room. The Healer watches her leave before he bends down and continues to examine the girl. Finally, he raises his head and looks up at the Headmaster.

“I have not the foggiest clue what is wrong with her.” He wipes his head with the sleeve of his robe. “Way too young to have any type of wasting sickness. No blemishes, no boils. She looks down right in prime shape.”

The Headmaster nods slowly. The door opens, and the Professor brings in a red-eyed Emaline. At the sight of the bed, the girl bursts into tears again. “Come on, silly girl,” Professor Viridian hisses as she drags the girl over to the Healer. “Tell Healer Chumway what happened.”

“S-She . . . she would not wake up!” Emaline begins to wail again.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Professor Viridian snaps.

The Healer puts a hand on the trembling girl’s shoulder. “Shhhh,” he coos. “Now, now . . . tell me what happened to your friend.”

“I-it was raining. We got caught in the rain. T-the next day she looked really pale . . . I mean, really pale. She . . . she did not want to eat. She seemed . . . out of sorts, but not really sick, you know? Then, today, she . . . she just . . . I waited all day. I-I shook her and she �“ even when another girl started screaming! �“ she just did not wake up! Then, I went to get Professor Viridian, our head of house, but no-nothing helped! She just �“ ”

Emaline sobs into her hands, and Healer Chumway hands the girl a handkerchief. The girl blows her nose and dabs her blotchy cheeks. “Take her out and contact my sister, Elladora, and Lysander Gregel,” the Headmaster speaks for the first time in a clipped voice. The Healer stands up and ushers the girl out of the room.

Professor Viridian turns to Headmaster Black once the door slams shut. “You know what this is?” she asks as she makes a sweeping gesture towards the girl.

The Headmaster seems to stare through the wall. “I have an idea,” he replies a voice so low it is almost a whisper. The short woman crosses her arms and stares at the Headmaster, waiting for him to speak.

When it looks as if he would remain closed lipped, Professor Viridian says, “What is to become of her? If it is a jinx, surely, we could remove it . . .”

“You do not know what this is?” the Headmaster snaps. The woman raises her eyebrows at the unexpected outburst.

“I summoned you because I do not know what ails her. Morticia never so much as had a sniffle.”

The Headmaster crosses the room in several strides so he is standing over the girl’s bed. He reaches down, and with one hand, grasps her chin and turns her head from side to side. Her body complies, and when he removes his hand, the blood flows back into the white spots where he grasped her skin. With steady hands, the Headmaster raises the girl’s head and spreads her thick, raven hair out on her pillow. The image gives on the impression of a drowned body floating on the water.

“She has a curse upon her,” he mutters. “It is an old one, no doubt, and I have not the faintest idea who cast it upon her. No one knows the proper name of it, and for all intents and purposes, it was cast once, but who cast it is lost to time.”

“Do not be foolish!” Professor Viridian scoffs. “The ‘Sleeping Beauty’ curse? Phineas, that curse is a myth, plain and simple. Why, it was proved to be simply a wasting disease that some fanatical �“ ”

“Look at her!” the Headmaster roars. “She is cold as the earth! Yet, she still lives! She is also as beautiful as any witch alive. She is, most notably, also of the purest blood. She has it.”

Professor Viridian casts a long, unblinking gaze upon the girl. “Then, she will not wake.”

******

Saint Mungo’s Hospital, The Office of Healer Malone Prewett, 1891

Cree-eee-eeek.

The tall, muscular man paces across the wooden floor boards. It takes him five steps to cross the office, which seems no larger than a standard broom closet. Then, he spins on his heels and turns to begin the short journey to the other side of the room.

Cree-eee-eeek.

The copper haired man at the desk runs his hand through his short, scraggly hair. With his head propped on one hand, he drums the edge of his chair with his other hand.

Da-dum. Da-dum.

Cree-eee-eeek.

“Lysander, I do not know what we can do with her,” Malone mutters with a little shrug. The tall, dark haired man whirls around and slams both hands down on the edge of the desk. Dust billows off the parchment in the aftermath, and Malone grabs the edge of the desk to keep himself from tipping over onto the floor.

“I cannot keep her!” the man roars. “My wife suffers a nervous breakdown weekly! She must go! What do you need from me to make this happen?”

The young Healer shrugs and seems to shrink in front of the glowering man staring a hole into his forehead. “When I say we have no place to keep her, do not think I am lying to you. The new hospital will be larger, but �“ ”

“Ah! There we go! A new building! There will be room enough for her, will there not?”

Malone sighs and looks down at the floor. “I cannot say. We have already filled most of the floors �“ ”

“If I donate a Ward, in her name, surely she can stay there?” Lysander Gregel interjects. “What floors still have space? Come now, it will be a generous donation. You can even be the Head Healer.”

Malone peers up at Gregel. Then, he begins to shuffle through the mound of papers on his desk. “Well, I would say the fourth floor, for unliftable hexes and such, would be the ideal place for her. We have two Wards there already, but I suppose we could put a third, smaller ward on the floor.”

Gregel claps his large hands together. “Excellent! I will bring her and the galleons together!”

He strides out of the room. Everything is wrong, but he is rich. He can sell his problems to other people.

*******

The Morticia Gregel Ward, 1892

Healer Prewett pulls back the floor-length grey curtain. It swishes across the shiny, linoleum tiles that his shoes click across as he enters the room. The blue, iridescent orb casts an eerie light on the young woman. In the light, her skin appears to take on the same, ethereal blue tones.

‘Is she a ghost or a fairy?’ Malone thinks as he surveys his comatose patient. ‘She looks like I could just shake her and she would wake . . . but that’s a childish thought.’

Malone reaches down and arrays the girl’s hair behind her head so that some of it spills over her shoulders. Her lips seem unnaturally robust and lush for a girl that will never speak again. After a moment of studying the only patient on the Ward, Malone exits the room and pulls the grey, sound-proof curtain shut behind him.

II.
House of the Hopeless

‘In a Ward, with white tiles, blue lights, and a sleeping girl, they locked away all they did not understand.’

Saint Mungo’s Hospital, 1911

A young witch, dressed in her crisp and new lime green robe, waits patiently on a hard-backed wooden chair. It is early, almost seven in the morning, but the witch has wide, alert hazel eyes. She scans the empty lobby and fidgets with the wand in her lap.

A man with copper hair opens the double doors, and the witch leaps up out of her seat. A large, friendly smile, as open and trusting as her eyes, beams upon her face. The Healer with the copper hair looks tired, but the young witch with the bright smile does not seem to notice. She extends her hand, and says, “Hello, I am Abigail Resnik. I must say, I am so happy to meet you! It has been a dream of mine, since I was a little witch, to be a Healer. Well, my Muggle father wanted me to be a doctor, but when I got my letter to Hogwarts, it was settled.”

“Yes, yes,” Malone says as he tries to shake the sleep from his eyes. He, too, manages a smile and returns the young witch’s hand shake. “I suppose you already know I am Healer Malone Prewett?”

“Oh, yes! Of course! I mean, I have never met you, but I just assumed you were.” Abigail giggles and waves a hand around at the empty lobby. “There was no one else here. I mean, I am sorry if I am presumptuous, but I did just assume you were Healer Prewett.”

“Well, uh . . . I am.” Malone jams both hands into his pockets. In one, he feels his wand, and in the other, he feels a pipe, his tobacco, and a handkerchief. “Now, let’s go upstairs. I am an assistant Healer on the Sanguine-Levette Ward, which deals with magic wasting and other permanently debilitating hexes, jinxes, and charms. We have made a good deal of progress in curing some types of contortion charms and body rearrangement jinxes.”

“Just splendid!” Abigail exclaims. “I heard that the Sanguine-Levette Ward was doing some very progressive work to cope with permanent jinxes and charms. How many Healers are there on the floor?”

“I am just an assistant,” Malone says as the two of them progress, side by side, up a staircase lined with portraits. Some of the people in the portraits pear down at them, but most remain asleep. “As you may or may not have heard,” Healer Malone continues, “I am Head Healer for the Morticia Gregel Ward. It is a bit small. We have only three patients, and two of them are comatose.”

Abigail squeezes her wand tightly. Her mouth drops open, and for a moment, she appears like a fish out of water. Finally, she sputters, “Yes! Yes, I have heard. C-can I see her? The sleeping beauty, that is? It has been almost a century since a documented case of sleeping beauty sickness.”

Malone sighs as he pushes open the double doors to the fourth floor. “Do not expect much. She . . . she sleeps all the time. She still looks fifteen years old, too. Quite astounding, but amazingly boring, actually, because she literally does nothing.”

“She does not eat? Go the bathroom? Does she have a terrible stench?” Abigail peels off questions. Malone simply shakes his head as their shoes click against the white tiles. When they reach the end of the hallway, they pass through another set of double doors. A golden plague, with the words ‘Morticia Gregel Ward’ is mounted above the door.

There are two doors and four grey curtains inside of the double door. “That is the office,” Malone gestures to one of the doors, “and that is the bathing room.” He pulls back one of the grey curtains, and they enter an empty bedroom with only a single, ghostly blue orb illuminating the lonely space.

“There are four sets of three rooms. We have only one patient in each room, and all of the curtains are charmed to be sound proof,” Malone explains as they pass into the second empty room. Malone pauses at the last curtain, and then, he pulls it open slowly and gestures Abigail to enter first.

The young witch, hands trembling, takes several cautious steps into the room. She gasps as she stares down at the eternally young witch bathed in the never changing ghostly light. “S-she’s real!” Abigail squeaks as she goes to touch the girl’s shiny hair.

She pauses, withdraws her hand, and looks up at Malone. “Yeah, go on, touch her. She certainly is the least harmful thing in this hospital, and I am her technical legal guardian now,” Malone says as he waves a hand at the bed. Abigail reaches down and gently runs her hand over the girl’s smooth hair before touching her milky white skin.

“She . . . she feels like she is dead,” Abigail whispers as she pulls her hand away. A shiver runs down her spine.

“Amazing.”

The word is said in barely a whisper. Malone grins and motions the young Healer to follow him. “She is the most boring thing in this place, Healer Resnik. Trust me on that. Now, come on, I’ll show you some of our more serious cases in the Sanguine-Levette Ward.”

Malone shuts the curtain behind him. It swishes across the floor, but when it closes, the noise of the Healers walking away is instantly cut off. Morticia Gregel is bathed in silence as undisturbed as she is.

*******

Morticia Gregel Ward, April 2, 1914

Abigail sits in her office, scribbling notes across her parchment. The young witch hums to herself as she makes notes on her patients.

From the hallway, there is shouting. Abigail drops her quill, and an ink line darts across the page like a swift, jagged wound. The ink soaks in like a blood stain, but Abigail recovers her wits and proceeds to the hallway. The unearthly sound comes from the mouth of a struggling woman, whose face is contorted so she appears more like a banshee than a woman.

Healer Prewett comes through the double doors, and they clang shut behind him. “Abigail . . .” he says before he catches his breath.

“What happened?” Abigail shouts because she cannot whisper over the unholy shrieking. Healer Prewett pats his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Cassandra Trelawney �“ you know the famous seer �“ was performing a séance . . . something happened. Her husband tried to help her, but she’s completely out of her senses. I told him we could restrain her on our Ward.”

Abigail nods as the group of Healers holding the mad woman take her behind one of the steel grey curtains. Immediately, the silence closes in upon the two Healers, although the bone chilling shrieks still seems to linger in the air like ghostly finger prints.

“I’ll naturally try and handle her myself, but I think one of us should be here at all times just to make sure nothing happens to her. I must admit, I’ve never dealt with anything like this before, but cases that involve spirits tampering with the living are never described as being very . . . manageable.”

Abigail nods enthusiastically in response to Malone’s explanation. She cannot remember the last time he has explained something in this must detail to her, and although she is terrified of the rabid woman, she finds herself able to give her Head Healer a reassuring smile.

“Of course I can manage her,” Abigail’s voice is steady as she masks her fears of whatever caused the woman to make such ferocious, hair-raising sounds.

Malone nods vigorously as he stashes his handkerchief and draws his wand. “Good . . . good. Let’s go fix her up then, shall we?”

******
Morticia Gregel Ward, April 13, 1914

The hour is late, and outside, a spring rain pounds against the pavement. Like bullets, the droplets of water slam against the window pane of the room where Morticia Gregel rests. Tonight, however, she does not sleep alone. At the foot of her bed sits Abigail Resnik, her long, fair hair wound up in a bun.

The rain does not seem to disturb Abigail as she sits with her legs crossed and makes notes in her patient’s medical files. Learning from Muggle medicine, Abigail takes notes and makes detailed patient histories that some of the other Healers do not bother with because they simply prefer to remember �“ and incidentally forget �“ the details of their patient’s case histories.

Scratch . . . scratch . . . scratch.

Abigail’s quill remains the only sounds in the room, even though she keeps the grey curtain open so she can hear out into the Ward. However, she does not expect to hear much tonight. The only major patient is in another section of the Ward and behind several more sets of closed, soundproof curtains. A shiver passes down Abigail’s spine as she thinks about the wailing and shrieking of Trelawney.

Thudthudthudthud.

Abigail stops writing to watch the rain upon the window pane. It seems like a cold night, and Abigail wonders if the damp from outside is what is causing goose bumps to break out across her arms. From somewhere far away, she hears the distant chimes of a clock striking midnight.

“AHHHH!”

The blood-curdling scream causes Abigail to drop everything. The mess of parchment flutters to the floor and lands like feathers scattered after a bird has been devoured. Abigail draws her wand, and with a shaking hand, pulls back the curtain and proceeds out into the next empty bedchamber. She pulls back the curtain to the third bed chamber.

Nails dig into her arm, and Abigail drops her wand. Blood shot eyes, set in a wrinkled, growling face that is framed by frazzled, unkempt hair, bore a hole into her forehead. She struggles to throw the woman off her, but the mad woman seems unnaturally strong. She flings the girl against the wall, and the room spins in bursts of colour in front of Abigail’s eyes.

“Do not wrong the dead,” the woman says in a deep, raspy voice. In truth, Abigail has never heard such a sound. She panics and scrambles to stand and find her wand, even though her entire frame is shaking.

“The dead will come for those that did them wrong,” the deep, hoarse voice sounds from within the woman, and as Abigail looks at her, she thinks she sees a set of red, fiery eyes glaring down at her.

The woman gives a mad howl. Abigail shrieks as the woman seems to burst into flames. As the woman’s burnt form collapses to the ground, the fiery demon seems to float in the air. Its mouth opens to reveal a mauling pit of darkness before it flings itself down on the helpless Healer.

******

The Office of Justus Pilliwinkle, The Head of Magical Law Enforcement, April 15, 1914

In his lime green robes, Malone Prewett appears ashen, pale, and somehow shrunken in frame. He sits quietly before the Auror and the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Justus Pilliwinkle. Pilliwinkle looks over his round spectacles as he waits, hands propped on his desk. Malone runs a hand through his thinning, cooper hair as he begins to speak.

“I . . . we knew it wasn’t safe �“ where would they have put here otherwise? I didn’t think . . .”

“A witch is dead,” Pilliwinkle interrupts Malone’s stammering. He runs a hand over his pointy chin before he answers Malone. “I cannot think we can keep the Ward open. We will shut it down for a time. When all of this blows over, and there is a Healer who wants to work on the Ward, reopening it will be considered.”

Malone sighs, and then, the image of the comatose girl bursts into his mind like an explosion. “Sir . . . Morticia Gregel, the girl who the Ward was named after, what of her? There really is no place for her.”

The Head of Magical Law Enforcement shrugs. “I suppose she can stay. Is she harmless?”

“Very much,” Malone replies in a worn voice. “She seems almost dead.”

III.
Fairytale

‘He saw her in a nightgown, not a party dress, but that did not lessen the spell she cast. They said the sleeping girl bewitched whoever looked upon her with her beauty, but what is the difference between love and lust?’

Morticia Gregel Ward, 1999

The check up was routine, and honestly, not unexpected. The Ward needed checking now that it reopened.

The Head Healer of Saint Mungo’s, Vega Lufkin, an average-sized woman with a short, dark bob hair-cut, leads the way up to the fourth floor past the rows of shouting portraits. “I really hope the Ministry finds our Wards to be in compliance with their standards, but after the conduct on this particular Ward, I cannot say I am shocked at all,” the Head Healer says in a mater-of-fact way to the ginger haired man who follows her.

“It’s always pleasant when St. Mungo’s decides to cooperate. The Head of Magical Law Enforcement has put up quite a stir, and if I just check on the patients �“ to make sure no one is here that is not supposed to be here �“ I think things will smooth over with the Ministry. Once again, I cannot begin to say how much your cooperation means to us,” the man replies as he adjusts his horn-rimmed glasses.

Healer Lufkin nods and shoves open the doors to the fourth floor, and after the two pass through, the doors bang shut, and the sound echoes down the white hallway. They tred over scuffed floors that are no longer gleaming white and arrive at another set of doors with the plague reading Morticia Gregel Ward hovering over them like an omen.

The man pulls the clip board away from his side, and his quill makes a quick scratch upon it as he tests the ink. “Healer Lufkin, if you are busy, and I’m sure you are as Head Healer, I should have no problem conducting this investigation.”

With obvious relief in her voice, the woman offers, “If you need me, I would, of course, insist on staying and helping the Ministry . . .”

“Nonsense,” the man insists. “I’m perfectly capable of evaluating half a dozen patients.”

“If you need anything, the Healers on the Sanguine-Levette Ward and the Janus Thickey Ward will undoubtedly oblige you,” the Head Healer says in a warm, hospitable tone with just an edge of ingratiation. Before Healer Lufkin turns to walk away, she extends her hand and says, “Mr. Weasley, we here, at St. Mungo’s, are always happy to cooperate with the Ministry of Magic. I would like to make that clear, despite some of the past dealings of former Healers.”

“Of course . . . I understand. Your willingness to cooperate will not be forgotten.”

They bow to each other before Healer Lufkin turns and walks back toward the double doors. When she disappears through them, the man looks down at his clip board. ‘Six patients . . . I could do the chizpurfle egg patient first . . .’

His eyes stop on the Ward’s name sake.

‘Morticia Gregel . . . grandfather talked about her once . . .’

Percy remembers his grandfather, rubbing his hand over his balding head, as he sat in his favorite rocking chair. Sitting at his feet, bugging him mercilessly about his days at the hospital, Percy remembers the old man telling him about his Wards and the Healers he knew.

“There was this girl . . . Morticia Gregel �“ there’s a Ward named after her,” Malone Prewett told his grandson one sunny afternoon. “Poor girl . . . cursed, she was.”

Percy looks up at the engraved plague above his head. ‘He was getting old . . . died when I was six . . . he never told me she was still on the Ward,’ Percy thinks as he pushes back one of the doors to the Ward and lets it clang shut behind him. The two doors and four grey curtains seem mundane, and Percy walks to one of them and pull it open to see an empty bed. He tugs the other one open . . . no patient. With an impatient sigh, he yanks the final curtain back.

She seems like a doll. She looks like every princess in every silly story he heard told to him by his mum. ‘Mum would always read them for Ginny and make us listen anyway . . . the only good part was when the knight killed the dragon or the troll . . . I never thought about the girl too much.’

Her hair, arrayed around her like a fan, seems as dark as the ink on the clipboard . . . the clipboard that Percy lays on the foot of the bed as he approaches her. ‘I suppose there’s not much to examine . . . she hasn’t moved in a hundred years.’

Still, he reaches down and puts one hand on her cheek. Immediately, he feels a lump swell in his throat. ‘She’s so cold . . . maybe I just think I’m sweating because I would be very warm next to her . . . yes . . . yes, that’s all it is.’

He looks up at the drape, still drawn back and hanging open. ‘I-I should shut it . . . I wouldn’t want anyone to walk in on this examination. It would look . . . maybe unseemly, I suppose.’ Percy draws the drape shut, and the room is plunged into the ethereal blue light. Suddenly, in the silence the charmed curtains provide, Percy can finally hear his hammering heart.

He walks back over to the bed side. “Funny . . .” he remembers his grandfather talking as he smoked his pipe. “Funny thing, that girl . . . when you saw her, you wanted to love her . . . protect her. I always thought it was part of the spell, you know.”

Percy gingerly fingers her hair. ‘It’s the spell . . . yes, that’s it. It’s just the spell . . . her beauty . . . those lips . . . they’re all part of the spell. Just check the clipboard . . . say she’s in prime condition . . .’

But now, Percy stares again at the lush, red lips.

‘I never cared about the part where the prince had to kiss the princess . . .’ Percy thinks back to all the old tales. ‘I confess . . . they were never interesting . . . but I suppose they would be to a girl . . . every girl would want to be this lovely . . .’

He leans down towards her and cups both cold, marble white cheeks in his shaking hands. ‘Come on, Perce . . . she’s practically a dead thing!’

But he sticks one hand under her little, button nose. He feels the soft, damp breath against his fingers. ‘Alive . . . she is alive.’

The blood pounds in his ears. He leans closer, and curiosity eats at his conscious. ‘It’s just a spell . . . come on, get over it . . .’

He runs a finger over her lips. ‘They are as smooth as rose petals . . . come on, Perce, it’s a spell . . .’

“Poor girl, she was just dumped on our doorstep,” Malone Prewett’s voice floats back into his mind. “Her own father just sold her to us. Can you imagine? Her family just sold her . . . like some trinket. They even made me her guardian . . . I always took care of her. Poor thing never had anyone to care about her. Not really.”

He kisses her.

Really, they just barely brush their lips together, but the soft scent of her skin �“ Percy cannot think what it smells like �“ overwhelms him. He bends down and kisses her again, but this time with a bit of force. He does not pry her mouth open with his tongue, but he wishes she would open it for him.

He bends over, one knee on her bed, and presses himself against her. One hand slips effortlessly under her head, pulling it up towards his. One hand grips her waist, and he realizes how thin the night gown is. Chills shoot down his spine, and a deep, pulling sensation behind his naval causes him to gasp.

‘Let her go . . . dear God . . . she’s unconscious!’

He surfaces for air and stares at her eyelids . . . her eyes twitch underneath them, and a blush lingers upon her snow white face. Percy flushes and places the girl down in the bed. Readjusting his glasses, he hurriedly grabs his clipboard and flees.

‘She . . . she smells like the garden after it rains. That’s what she smells like . . . like what I smell when I smell Amortentia . . . ’

Percy wipes his sweating forehead, and tries to compose himself. He can feel how flushed he is. ‘It’s just a spell. Merlin! Get a grip on yourself, mate!’

******

In the room, locked away behind the charmed curtains, sweat breaks over the brow of the sleeping girl. She twitches in her sleep, and a soft moan escapes her mouth as her back arches. Her face flushes, and then, she gives a loud gasp.

Her eyes snap open.

She clasps her gut, and the warm sensations flowing though her body disturb her. She glances around the room, thankful that no one is watching her, and takes deep calming breathes. ‘Merlin . . . what a dream,’ she thinks. ‘It was so . . . arousing. I hope I didn’t talk in my sleep.’

She looks down at the night gown. ‘What is this thing? It’s a bit thin . . . and what is this place? This isn’t the Ravenclaw dorm room. What happened? Where am I?’

Morticia throws the sweat soaked covers off herself and walks to the grey curtain. She ignores the lightness in her head as she pulls the drape back. She doesn’t hear much more than she did within the curtain, but it is enough to let her know that there might be people around. She proceeds, on shaking legs, into the main Ward, but she sees no one.

‘I’m in a hospital. I know I wasn’t feeling good, but did I really get that ill? Where is everyone?’ Morticia thinks as she walks to the set of double doors. She opens them, and now, she wishes she had shoes because the tiles make her feet cold.

She hears the doors open behind her, and she turns her head to look. A ginger haired man with horn rimmed glasses walks through them, but at the very sight of her, he drops his clip board and staggers back into the doors with a thud.

His face is the color of his hair now, and Morticia flushes. ‘Am I some type of ghost? What got under his skin?’

She feels the funny, warm feeling in her gut again when she says, “I . . . what am I doing here? I haven’t seen anyone else . . .”

“You . . . you’ve been asleep,” the man stammers as he readjusts his glasses and tries to compose himself, but Morticia can see he is still flushed and red. “You’ve been here . . . you need to see Healer Lufkin.”

“Wait!” Morticia shouts. “Explain this to me. Where have I been? Tell me.”

The man glances around, as if watching for someone to Apparate in and save him. When no one appears, he says, “Y-you were cursed. You’ve been asleep for over a hundred years.”

“What?” Morticia says, and a laugh escapes her mouth. “What are you playing at? I . . .”

She is about to contradict it when her gut clenches up again. She knows, in some way, that it is true, but she does not know how or why she knows it. She stares at the man, her mouth open, and the smile from the little laugh still lingering on her face.

“So . . . it’s true then?” she asks in a softer voice. “My parents . . . my friends . . . all dead, aren’t they?”

The man gives a quick nod. It is then at the girl looks above his head and reads the golden plague. “Morticia Gregel Ward . . . they locked me up, didn’t they?”

As she rests her eyes on the man’s pale, freckled face, she can see him sweating. ‘He looks as if he caused me to fall into some cursed coma . . . that’s just silly.’

“You aren’t a Healer, are you?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “Well, who are you?”

“I-I’m Percy Weasley . . . I’m here inspecting the Morticia . . . well, your Ward . . . on official ministry business,” he stammers as he thrusts his hand towards her. They shake, and his palm is slick with sweat.

Morticia shakes her head. “No need to be nervous, Percy. I . . . what do I do? They don’t teach you how to deal with this type of stuff in school.”

The man tries to smile, but it looks like a grimace. “I suppose not . . .”

“There you are!” a woman shouts. “Did you find the Ward satisfactory, Mr. Weasley?”

Morticia gives the man a quizzical look, but he flushes bright red again as he looks over her head and makes a gesture towards Morticia. “She . . . you see Heaer Lufkin . . . she’s awake.”

Morticia turns around to look at the short woman with a bob cut striding towards them. When she sees Morticia’s face, she cries, “Good Merlin! She’s . . . you’re Morticia Gregel!”

Morticia’s lips curl into a smile. “That would be me,” she says, and a bit of sarcasm creeps into her words. ‘Who do they think I am? Of course I’m Morticia Gregel . . . the girl who is over a hundred years old.’

“We must discuss what to do with you,” Healer Lufkin says as she strides over to the pair. She looks above Morticia and addresses Percy. “I hope the Ministry won’t look badly on this . . . I personally consider it a bit of a miracle.”

‘Glad to know her reputation with the Ministry is all that is on her mind,’ Morticia thinks dryly as she turns her gaze back to Percy. She crosses her arms across her chest, which she realizes seems quite exposed in her night dress. She realizes Percy follows her motion, and he flushes and adverts his eyes to the ceiling.

“Of course not,” Percy speaks to Healer Lufkin now. “She’s quite fine . . . I mean, it’s a stroke of good fortune.”

“How did you wake up?” Lufkin asks Morticia.

Morticia remembers the arousing feelings, but she does not blush. “I don’t remember,” she lies, and when she says this, she glances up at Percy, who is mopping his brow with his sleeve. “I don’t remember . . . but what am I to do now? Do I have any family left?”

Lufkin shakes her head. “The Gregels never had any more children. There are some remaining descendants, on the Black side . . .”

“I don’t want to impose,” Morticia says, but she can feel the sinking in her gut. ‘My family really is all gone. Just gone.’ “I’ll just stay here.”

“Nonsense,” Percy says in a slightly squeaky voice. Morticia and Healer Lufkin turn to look up at him. “My grandfather . . . Healer Malone Prewett . . . he said he was your legal guardian. I suppose . . . since we’re cousins of the Blacks, too, that my mum wouldn’t mind having you.”

Morticia tilts her head as if to reexamine Percy from another angle. “I don’t want to impose,” Morticia says in a soft, but steady, voice. When she says this, though, she feels the warm tugging in her gut again.

“Nonsense,” Percy waves his hand, and his voice is steadier now. “My mum misses having a full nest.”

“Well, it’s settled, then,” Healer Lufkin says. “We’ll just get the girl dressed and sent an owl.”

The Burrow, Several Weeks Later

She sits on a rusty, upturned bucket, fingering the lacey hem of the deep crimson dress tied close to her body with a white sash. The setting sun seems to turn the white daisies to gold, and she wonders is she, too, looks golden in the sunlight.

‘I suppose I won’t know . . .’ Morticia thinks as she pulls her eyes upwards. ‘I wonder when I’ll have to go back inside. They probably won’t let me free for long . . .’

She looks up when she hears the pop. A lanky figure strides up across the Apparition boarder. She watches him approach before she stands up, and when she does, she notices he stops walking for a moment. She pulls up the hem of her skirt, to keep it from dragging, and stride down to meet him halfway to the door.

“I’m a bit late . . . busy night, you know,” Percy says when she is within conversation distance.

“Your mum saved you food,” she replies as she brushes several stray hairs out of her face. Before she can stop herself, the question pressing so deeply upon her, the problem she realizes she has secretly been wanting to confess, bursts from her mouth. “Do you think I should go back to school?”

“I know mum wants you to,” he says as he stuffs his hands inside his pockets, and then, his eyes dart around. “Umm . . . I suppose we could chat �“ ”

“In the garden? I suppose you will want to eat first, though.”

“What? Oh, well . . . it sounds very important . . .”

They stroll towards the garden and lean against one of the house walls. The view is only of the house shed and some of the fields beyond the hedge, but the spot seems secluded in the twilight. “You were saying?” Percy asks after a moment.

“They want me to go back to school, but I was wanting to get my own place . . . a job as a clerk at some place on Diagon Alley, or something that I can manage,” she explains, and she watches him nod in agreement.

“I think you can do a bit better than some store clerk. I know several people who need secretaries right now at the Ministry. I suppose I could put in a good word for you,” Percy replies, but he doesn’t look down at her.

She smiles. “That would be nice. I did want to work there . . . my dad said he would get me a job. After I make some money, I was going to get my own place in London.”

“Oh?” Percy now turns to her, and she can only nod. “You could write a book,” he suggests as he looks up above her, as if he had made the suggestion to himself instead of her. “You could make loads of money with your story. It certainly wouldn’t hurt, and I think it would help if you were a bit famous.”

A wry smile pulls at her lush lips that seem the same color as the setting sun. “I really didn’t want to keep my name. It sounds odd when people use it . . . and I do not want to be That-Dead-Girl for the rest of my life.”

“You’re not dead!” Percy exclaims before he can think. Then, as if catching his mistake, he stammers, “What I mean is you . . . you could really use this to your advantage. You could build quite a career out of it.”

She sighs. “I do not want it that way . . . I want to be normal, but I cannot understand how to do that when everyone I knew is dead. That’s why I don’t want to go back to school. Everything will just remind me of all my dead friends.”

Now, Percy sighs, and she looks up at him, but he is staring at something in space that she suspects does not exist. “Lots of people are dead. You can’t really escape the reminders.”

“I read about the Wars,” she whispers as she looks down at her skirt and the mud below her feet. “I’m sorry about your brother, by the way, and I feel a bit grateful I missed it.”

Silence passes between the pair, and only the songs of the birds, as they lay themselves down to bed, sound in her ears. She listens to the sound of her breathing, and a question rises in her mind like a bubble surfacing from the depths of the ocean.

“That day . . . in the hospital . . . you said you were doing an inspection,” she says in a slow, deliberate voice. “When you were in my room, could you tell?”

“What?” Percy’s voice squeaks as he asks the single word question.

She looks up at him, but she cannot tell if he is blushing because the sun is hitting his pale face and turning it the color of his hair anyway. “I never told the Healer how I felt when I woke-up,” she explains. “I . . . I was aroused.”

She sees his eyebrows shoot up, and he jerks his head away so he does not stare at her. She sighs and says in a clipped voice, “I told you because I thought you might have seen . . . might have seen something different that caused me to wake. I . . . I woke sweating . . . and I was flushed all over, but my lips were wet . . .”

He jumps a bit, and she feels the pieces fall together in her head. “Ahh . . . so you kissed a comatose girl? Did you do -- ”

“No!” Percy exclaims as he rocks back on his feet. He turns to look down at her, and she thinks he must be red, even though she cannot tell, because he looks severely embarrassed. “I . . . it’s the spell, you know . . . my grandfather did say it made you irresistible . . . I know, I was a bit sleazy �“”

“I was going to use the word degenerate,” she replies tartly.

“That, too . . . I . . . I’m sorry for it. I really could not help myself,” Percy stammers as he continues to look at her with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

“I would not be sorry,” she replies. “I wanted to thank you for your degenerate act . . . it woke me like nothing else probably would have done. I don’t think anyone would buy the story, though.”

He shrugs. “I think you should still write it down . . . maybe write a tell-all about those people you knew . . . a bet a bunch of them became famous.”

She giggles and says, “I could . . . but I do want to be normal.”

“Average is a bit over-rated, if you ask me,” he gives his opinion without a hesitation, and she feels herself grinning.

“So it’s good that I am abnormal?” she asks teasingly.

“Yes I �“ wait! No, what I mean is . . .”

She giggles and says, “It’s fine . . . I’m only teasing. You know,” her voice drops a bit and becomes more serious, “you aren’t personally responsible for me just because of what happened. Do not feel you owe me anything. Don’t try to lie that you haven’t been around almost every night just because you love your mum’s cooking, either.”

“I do love my mum’s cooking,” Percy replies, but then, he rushes forward and says, “but you’re right . . . I suppose I did feel responsible to take care of you. I mean, I did wake you . . . I suspected that’s what did it, but I obviously didn’t want to say anything to the Healer. Well, can you imagine it? She would have -- ”

She grasps his hand, and he whips his head towards her. She takes his gaping jaw as a sign, and she presses her lips to his. Immediately, as if she has triggered a reflex, he grabs hold of her waist and presses her into his body. She can feel herself smiling, and after a moment, they part.

He is speechless, and she can only laugh before she explains, “I just wanted to know what it felt like . . . by the way, that could wake any lady from a slumber.”

She knows he is blushing, but the sun has concealed his embarrassment. She sighs and shakes her head. “Am I that unattractive now that I’m not irresistible?”

“What? Oh, no . . . well, it’s not the same as the spell . . . but what I mean is that you’re still very pretty, but if I wanted I could go �“ no! That’s not what I meant �“ ”

She grins, and presses his hand into hers. “I understand. I’ll just have to do it the old fashioned way.” She reaches for him again, and there is no real fight as he intertwines a hand in her hair. She feels a smile upon her lips when his tongue parts her lips, and after a time, they part, and she takes a deep breath to gain her bearings.

“You seem quite good at ‘the old fashioned way,’ Morticia,” Percy says in a low, slightly husky voice.

She wrinkles her nose. “Please . . . don’t call me that. I can’t bear it.”

He shakes his head. “What can I call you? What where you going to change your name to?”

She shrugs. “I was going to use my middle name . . . it’s the only one that’s not on a Ward sign. I suppose I would keep my last name. Gregel isn’t too conspicuous.” She looks up at him and tilts her head to one side, and her dark hair swings with it like a curtain. “What do you think of Audrey Gregel?”

He shrugs, but she feels his hands gripping her waist. “It sounds a bit less morbid than Morticia . . . less stogy, too. As long as you like it, Audrey.”

She cannot hide the bright smile upon her face. “Fine . . . that’s fine,” she murmurs as she pulls his head down towards her again.