***

THEO


There is a fissure in my clarity, and it runs deep. I can’t pinpoint the exact location, but I know it lies somewhere in the middle of my consciousness. It’s barely noticeable most of the time, choosing to appear only during those flighty moments when it cleaves open my mind, pouring out visions that I’m supposed to be familiar with.

This one, for instance:

She has hair as inky black as night, as soft as flower petals when they fall on my skin. I’m inside her, beneath her, and I can’t think of anywhere else I’d like to be. She lowers herself, her breasts coming to rest upon my chest �“ like velvet, like painful bliss. Her breath caresses my neck, her fingers sink into my hair …

It’s a girl I should know as I’m pretty sure the “I” is me. I can feel what I’m seeing. The real mystery is her. Her face is always elusive.

I am, by the way, Theodore Nott. A combination of records �“ from the Ministry, my former school Hogwarts, and a hospital known as St. Mungo’s �“ and my intact memories tell me that I was a student in the house of Slytherin, that my father was a Death Eater, and that my mother died when I was in my fourth year. The other essential information my brain managed to salvage are my vault number at Gringotts, my previous address, people from my old house with whom I bother not to keep in touch (and vice versa), and the fact that I was jobless before the traumatic event that no one knows occurred.

Traumatic event. It can mean a lot of things. I could have had a major accident. I could have witnessed someone dying. I could have suffered intense depression. I could have been physically harassed. The possibilities are many. The only thing which my Healers were certain about was that the incident had affected me so seriously that I was completely disoriented for weeks.

By the time I’d recovered enough to function as an average human being, I had gaping holes in my mind. The Healers told me they couldn’t access them. They also assured me not to worry about it: either my brain didn’t want to remember certain incidents, or they would come back to me slowly.

Of course, I worried, yet I didn’t want to waste away, struggling to catch hold of something I was better off without. I left my old flat and moved to a new one. I started afresh and got myself a job at Flourish & Blotts. It doesn’t pay much. In fact, my career counselor told me I could do better, what with kind of the N.E.W.T.s I had. At that time, I was still recovering and my magic was weak, so I couldn’t have applied for anything fancy. In any case, I got used to my job and didn’t bother with career upgrades.

That was two years ago. I am back to form as a wizard and can perform more complex spells.

Apart from that, I’m still a man with a fissure in my clarity.




THE HEALER

The clock just struck five. The party must have started now. I won’t be missed, which doesn’t matter as I’m not missing them either.

Three months ago, I left my trainee program at St. Mungo’s without completing my degree. They thought it was insane, but I’d learnt what I’d intended to. Besides, I lost the desire to take up Healing as a career long ago.

One day, I’ll leave this country and never return.




THEO

I was handing out a couple of books to three kids when this girl walked into the shop. I don’t know what it is about her; I felt an odd lump in my throat as soon as I caught sight of her. She hasn’t seen me yet. I want her to.

Should I approach her?

What if it means nothing?

You see, I can’t get carried away with things like these. Often, I come across places or people who give me a sense of déjà vu, and often, they mean nothing. One time in Diagon Alley, I thought I was certain I knew this old lady. So, I casually said hello. To my dismay, I found out she had been a teacher at school �“ a professor whose subject I didn’t even take.

It’s possible that this girl is simply someone I knew at school, even someone I secretly harboured feelings for. It would be utterly embarrassing if she turns out to be a student from another house who wouldn’t recognise me, no matter how achingly I want her to. So I stall.

But then, she’s calling my name.

“It’s Theodore Nott, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“How are you?”

Fear of sounding moronic stops me from asking her how she knows me. “I’m doing great. Working here. You?”

“Just taking a year off studying,” she tells me.

She’s standing very close to me now. Tentatively, I offer her a hand; she takes it. A brief, neutral, sterile handshake. Quite obviously, we weren’t close.

But the softness, the warmth of her hand is not lost on me. With a pang, I realise I haven’t dated a girl in two years. It sounds ghastly even to my ears, and I have been living without missing the joy of having a good shag. Until now.

“Anyway, I have to run now. It was nice to meet you.”

With a sudden smile, she turns around and leaves.

“Pleasure,” I mutter absently.

It is only when I’m leaving for home that it strikes me. She didn’t tell me her name.





THE HEALER

The human brain is a funny thing, and the research and findings conducted by the magical world aren’t enough to cover all of its wondrous mechanisms, intricacies and flippancies. Muggles have made their share of inroads in this field of study. You see, magical theorists are more concerned with cures, while Muggle ones take things beyond finding solutions. The latter actually goes deeper into the nature of things; they question a lot more than we do. They make sciences of phenomena which wizards and witches take for granted.

Science. As opposed to magic. One talks of logic; the other concerns that which would be logically improbable. The combination of these two would be profitable. Yet many of my kind scoff at the practices of Muggle psychologists and psychiatrists, or the extensive analyses conducted by them. This severely limits our understanding of many illnesses, particularly mental conditions, which cannot be easily cured by potions and herbs and charms.

Lacunar Amnesia, for instance.

Both wizarding and Muggle theorists are agreed that Lacunar Amnesia, or Selective Amnesia, is caused by a traumatic or painful event. When such an event occurs, the human brain adopts a repressive defence mechanism, preventing itself from transferring that short-term memory to long-term memory. The memory, therefore, is permanently or temporarily removed. If, indeed, it has somehow been converted into long-term, it will be reprocessed by the brain, and the patient’s recollection of the event will be altered partially or completely.

While wizarding analysts stop here, the Muggles have made further findings. According to Muggle scientists, there are two parts of the brain responsible for capturing and storing memories �“ the hippocampus, and the amygdala. The difference between the two is that the former is the normal center of memory, and the latter one of the brain’s emotional seats. While damage to the hippocampus can disable a person from forming long-term memories, he or she can still retain or form subconscious memories of the traumatic events if the amygdala hasn’t been affected.




THEO

If ever I manage to produce a Patronus, I know what it’ll be. A snail.

It’s been a week since The Girl breezed into my drab existence. If you thought the resurrection of my sexuality would have mobilised me into going out and getting myself a date, you’d be wrong. I’m not thinking about girls �“ I’m thinking about her. I want her. It’s hard to explain why; I just do.

But if I were Sorted into Slytherin, I can’t figure out why. You won’t find me out on the streets, putting up posters, asking “Have you seen This Girl? Do you know Her Name?” That ambition is lacking in me. You would instead find me mulling over a book-shelf marked “Z”, wondering how I could find out who she is. And it will be fifteen more minutes from this exact moment when I hear Mark, our old and grouchy cashier, arguing with a customer who wants to exchange a book, that unless she produces her receipt, he can’t let her.

“Mark?” I call him when the customer has left.

He turns towards me, face flushed with anger. “I’ve had enough of these dimwits, I tell you. How she can just barge in and expect me to give her �“”

“I get it, Mark. I do.”

Shaking his head, he turns away. “I need a blooming cup of tea.”

“Tell you what,” I prompt, “you go have your tea. I’ll stand in for you.”

“Really? Thanks, son.”

“No problem.”

Just as the door’s closed after him, I casually point my wand at the drawer under his counter.

“Alohamora!”

The drawer slides open, and I rifle my hands through the many receipts collected over the past three weeks.

Twenty purchases were made the day The Girl came. Nicolai Warrington definitely isn’t who I’m looking for. Sarah Palmer. No. Misha Davies. Melody Austen. Frances McMahon. Gemina Walker. Felicity Travers. Woody Jackson. Terry Boot.

Parvati Patil.

That’s her.




THE HEALER

Lacuna Mentis

How does a Memory Charm work?

If you have the required skills, all you need to do is to point your wand at your victim, utter the incantation �“ Obliviate�“ and modify the victim’s memory of the most recent event. It can also be used to erase a selected range of memories surrounding a specific subject. It should, however, go without saying that the larger your choice of memories to be removed, the more difficult it is to retrieve them.

Incorrectly applied, it can go horribly wrong, resulting in a state which we have termed Lacuna Mentis. Lacuna Mentis translates into “gaps of the mind”. A moderate Obliviate produces a memory lapse, while rapidly planting false one in its place. A gifted Legilimens or trained Healer can reacquire the original one, if so needed. When it comes to Lacuna Mentis, all they would encounter are blind spots.





THEO

I don’t have an owl. I had one a long time ago that went berserk one fine day and attacked me. Since then, I’ve been staying clear of them. There are occasions when I wonder if I don’t make friends for the sake of avoiding the necessity of getting an owl. Sounds far-fetched, yes, but why not? People don’t invest in broomsticks because of their acrophobia.

That said, not all owls are bad. The thing is that, phobias aside, I don’t need one. There aren’t people in my life to whom letters can be sent. When communication is required, I use the Floo.

Now, the problem is this: how do I contact Parvati? Second, even if I manage to find the means, what do I say to her? What would she think of a man who is only an acquaintance, possibly even less than that, sending her a letter and asking her out? Would she have enough kindness to not think I could be insane?

And that’s how I’m back to square one. I know her name, but I have no idea to do next.




THE HEALER

What do we live for?

It’s interesting to note the difference between what each of us want to achieve in life before it is snatched away from us. A few of us are clear about where we desire to end up; a few of us can even determine how to get there. A few of us are seated on Thestrals, prepared to get off the invisible beast wherever it prefers to land. A few of us are tied down by Full Body Binds, unable to make a move, frozen between the ever rewinding day and night.

I, for one, hardly ever believed in long-term goals. In place of definite aims, I have instead prepared for that moment when I’d know what I want, prepared so that I’d get it without much hassle. That moment is slowly coming.

And my efforts haven’t been in vain.




THEO


She’s here.

Before this undeserving Slytherin could devise a plan, she has appeared on her own. Not specifically because she wants to see me, of course �“ she’s searching for a book. I haul my arse out of the chair and spring to help her.

“Hey! Parvati!”

A startled look that eases into her sudden smile. “Hello!”

“What are you looking for?”

“A book by Deborah Merlin,” she answers, reaching into her bag. Then she hands me a small note. “The title’s written here. I kind of forgot.”

A Niffler Burrowed a Hole in My Head

Shivers down my spine. “I … I know what this story is.”

“Well, you work here,” she says with a small laugh. “Could have seen the summary. Something like that.”

“Yeah. That must be it.”

“Don’t tell me yet,” she warns me. “I don’t want to be spoiled.”

“Just give me a second. I’ll get it for you.”

The feeling of apprehension doesn’t leave me as I go towards the M shelf. By the time I see the book cover, however, I’m numb with fear. It has the image of a black Niffler pushing its long snout into a woman’s head. A powerful sense of recognition hits me as I run my fingers along the spine of the book; everything from the silver font to the glossy cover is familiar at once.

“Are you okay?”

I whip around to see her standing next to a shelf with a bewildered look on her face. “You’re … sweating.”

“I…” Hurriedly wiping the sweat from my brow, I murmur, “It’s too hot a morning.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “It’s October. The weather outside’s dreary.”

To cover my embarrassment, I hand over the book to her. “Here’s the book you wanted. Hope you’ll enjoy it.”

This time, her laughter’s a little louder.

“What?” I ask her, somewhat annoyed.

“What you just said. It sounds rehearsed.”

“Nah I meant it. Seriously.”

“I believe you.” I know she doesn’t; there’s still that smirk on her face. “So … I’m going to go now.”

“You need to pay for it first.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Parvati!” I stop her just as she’s heading back. “Would you like to have tea with me sometimes?”

I don’t know where I got the courage �“ the madness �“ to do that. Perhaps, it’s because I’ve been wanting to. Perhaps, I like her too much without much of a apparent reason. Perhaps, I’m sexually frustrated. Whatever it is that goaded me, I’ve just asked her out, uncomfortably loud and undeniably clear.

“I don’t drink tea,” she answers. That sudden smile of hers can almost be seen on her lips.

I can’t decide whether to be amused, tickled with glee, frustrated or put off. “What do you drink then?”

“Butterbeer.”

“Right.”

“Meet me at outside the apothecary during your lunch break.”

“What’ll you be doing till then?”

“Get started on this book.”

“But �“ ”

“You ask far too many questions, Nott.” Smile. “We Gryffindors usually just do what we want to. What’s life without a bit of impulsiveness?”

Gryffindor.

I muse over this as make my way towards the apothecary. The information intrigues me because I couldn’t place her house at first, then I was convinced she was in Ravenclaw. Am I mixing her with someone else? Not that it would matter. Who the hell gives a shit about houses any longer?

Still, I wasn’t a fan of Gryffindor, never mind the fact that I wouldn’t have been put there even if I’d begged the Hat to. If I were brave, I’d just take that damn book and find out why it affected me the way it did. But I’m not. In place of bravery, I’ve been endowed with caution.

That’s why I’m surprised I am meeting a girl. A Gryffindor. A girl to whom, if I remember the old rivalry between the houses, I may not have spoken to even once before she walked into the shop. My instincts tell me it’s a trap; the rest of me order them to shut up.

When I reach the apothecary, it is to find her staring at the preserved reptiles and insects on display. I suddenly realise I’m thankful she chose this instead of Eeylops Owl Emporium.

“Hey.”

Without looking at me, she mutters, “You know my friend at Hogwarts, Lavender …”

“The pretty one?” I say automatically as the picture of a girl with light brown hair flashes by at the back of my mind.

“Yes.” She stows the book into her bag and continues. “She wanted to work here.”

“That’s the oddest career choice I’ve ever heard of,” I tell her. “What’s she doing now?”

“Nothing. She’s dead.”

“Sorry.”

“She died, as they say, a hero.”

“In the battle?”

A nod.

“So,” I ask her, attempting to change the mood, “have you got the Butterbeers yet?”

She takes them out of her bag. We sit down on a bench a little further off the shop and watch the people bustle by. I wonder what they think of us. Friends? A couple?

“Parvati.”

“Mmm.”

“Can I see you again?”

“When?”




THE HEALER

Trauma. A word that encompasses many things.

Trauma can be something as serious as witnessing a person getting murdered or tortured; it can also be a trivial matter, like watching someone vomit just as you were getting started on a meal. People respond to it according to what it means for them, more so than the magnitude or gravity of the incident itself.

The unfortunate death of Lavender Brown, for instance. To others who weren’t very close to her, it would be nothing more than a sad affair. But what of her father? He would spend the remainder of his life in a faraway cottage, cut off from the world she died for.

What of her best friend? Someone who spent so many influential and intimate moments of her adolescent years with her?

There would be a void in her heart. It would be a wound, a deep gash, and no amount of dittany could close it. To not think about it, she �“ the guilty survivor �“ would treat each coming day as her plaything, jumping between small risks. Subconsciously, she’ll search for a cure in the intermittent lovers’ embrace, in the whimsical motto of carpe diem, until one day, she finds herself facing still waters, and in her attempt to skim over them, drowns into their inexorable depths.




THEO

Parvati.

So deliciously lyrical.

She says she was named after a Hindu goddess. She also maintains it is cheesy to be named after a goddess. I think she looks like one, but I’d sound like a cheesy prat if I said that, so I keep mum. Instead, I revel in the delight of her presence, in the apparent lack of method in whatever she does.

We have been meeting almost everyday for a week. We go to places in Muggle London without a fixed purpose. We talk about books, about food, about wine, about a multiple number and variety of things. The nature of our ‘dates’ is just as un-graspable as the designation of our relationship. If we are platonic friends on Tuesday, we are flirting on Wednesday.

I don’t regret any of it. Sometimes, I wonder if the lethargy and inaccessibility of my twenty-five years of existence were building up to this, to her.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Hold out your arm.”

Confused, I ask her, “Why?”

“So that I can take you there.”

I haven’t Apparated in a long time; it makes me nauseous. However, she doesn’t give me much time to dwindle. Her fingers are around my wrist, there is a sharp jerk in my stomach, abrupt darkness, and then the feel of wet grass against my cheeks.

My eyes open to an expanse of fallen yellow leaves. I turn to my other side and find Parvati lying next to me, looking up at the beech tree under which we’ve appeared. Warm sunlight filters through the dense network of branches and leaves, casting little flecks of gold on her.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her.

She sits up and slowly unpins her cloak. I hold my breath, wondering what she’s doing. When the cloak is flung away, a bright green dress surfaces - breezy, floaty, lined with black polka dots. Neither of us says a word as she proceeds to take that off too.

In the silent seconds during which she undoes the buttons of her dress, my senses go into overdrive. The background noises become much more audible �“ the rustling of the trees around us, the trickling of water in a nearby stream, the twittering of birds, my heavy breathing. I can smell the earth, recently drenched by rain; even the mustiness of the beech’s trunk isn’t lost on me.

The dress is discarded; a black satin bra and lacy pants stand between us now. She leans down on me, her hair falling loose. I’m acutely aware of her breasts swinging slightly, acutely aware of saliva travelling down my dry as sandpaper throat.

She picks up her wand from the ground and gently pushes the tip against my chest. One by one, the buttons of my shirt pop open on their own, but I’m too preoccupied to notice when my shirt disappears, leaving me half-naked. I’m looking into her deep brown eyes, liquid with emotion under heavy black lashes. Somehow, I find enough strength to raise myself up a little until my lips have met hers.

So cool, so soft, so sweet to kiss.

My arms pull her lower so that I can unhook her bra strap. When I manage to, she breaks off and sits back. Without hesitation, I get up and slide her pants down. All the while, she holds my gaze steadily as though she’s searching for something in my eyes. I have, at this moment, nothing to give to her except unflinching devotion and unrestrained passion, so I give her those.

Her breasts are on my tongue; her thighs are on my hands. Warm. Smooth. Silky. Wet. Salty. Each movement is the discovery of a new sensation. She lies down, beckoning me into her, securing me with her legs. Wondrous pleasure in every thrust.

“I love you,” I whisper to her over and over again with tears in my eyes, and I mean it, too. In a tiny part of my consciousness not yet overwhelmed by the combined forces of lust and affection, something has been drawing closer like a train about to pull into the station.

When I collapse against her with my body shivering under the shockwaves of a blinding orgasm, I finally determine what it is: the feeling of completion, of wholeness that can only be attained when you’re in the arms of a long lost lover.

THE HEALER


Looking at his case file �“ stolen, of course �“ I’m amazed we didn’t hear anything about him at school.

Name: Theodore Nott
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Wand: Rosewood, 12 inches, Dragon Heartstring
Ailment: Unstable Temper
History:
1) Received the Cruciatus Curse at the age of 10; caster believed to be subject’s father, Christopher Nott.
2) Tortured a pet owl at the age of 13.
3) Fatally injured a wizard at the age of 19; claimed to have done it in self-defence; claim verified.
4) Suffers from temporary memory lapses.
Healer-in-Charge: Healer Smith, Healer Clearwater
Period of Treatment: 4th August, 1993 to 18th July, 1994

I wouldn’t have learnt about this had I not attended Professor Little’s lecture on Alternative Treatments for Mental Deterioration. As soon as we had finished discussing Muggle psychotherapy (as a lesser form of treatment), I overheard Tracey Davis whispering to her friend.

“You remember Nott from school? He was in our year. I heard his father tortured his wife because she suggested they take him to a Muggle Healer.”

“What? I didn’t know that.”

“Oh yeah.”

I am usually not one who likes to eavesdrop, but they were walking in front of me, and it was hard not to pay attention to what they were saying.

“That’s mad, Tracey. I didn’t even know he was mental.”

“No one did. He was a loner at school. I’m laughing at the memory of girls falling for him because he was such a brooder.”

“Were you one of them then?”

“Haha! Don’t be a twit. I was too busy drooling over Sub-Zero Zabini.”

“What was wrong with Nott?”

“Apparently, he used to kill pets during the summers. There were also rumours that he had temper fits, but we never saw that.”

“Wow. He hid it well.”

“He was a Slytherin, my dear.”

I’ll admit I found his case fascinating from a Healer’s point of view. Yet, the thought of someone having a clandestine affair with a person like that is one that I cannot digest.




THEO

I have a visitor.

As visitors go, she doesn’t do much. In fact, she hasn’t said anything at all. She’s just been sitting on a stool next to my bed, her black hair draped over her front. Curious, I reach over and part the curtain to see what she looks like.

There isn’t a face there.

I try to scream, but the sound never escapes my throat.

“Theo?”

A familiar voice. A feeling of safety. Parvati is shaking me awake. Still, I check the room for faceless visitors; there are none.

“Are you all right?” She looks concerned.

“Nightmare.”

“I’m here, darling.”

Burying myself into her arms, I beg to her. “Don’t ever leave me.”




THE HEALER

A Niffler Burrowed a Hole in My Head

Deborah Merlin is one of the pioneers of modern magical theorists, specialising in memory charms and recovery. She teaches at a German university these days. She wrote A Niffler four years ago, a story about with a witch who casts a Memory Charm on herself in an attempt to forget her dead son. The book focuses on the repercussions of that act �“ that folly, rather �“ and how the woman eventually goes insane, unable to determine what happened in those missing gaps of her life.

A Niffler is ostensibly a caveat to witches and wizards not to take Memory Charms lightly. It was mandatory for us to read it as part of our CALM (Course in Accessing Latent Memory) degree. It was and is to this day, one of my favourite books. Someday, I hope to build up on Merlin’s work and write a tale of my own.

Perhaps, I’m living in it already.




THEO

A fissure in my clarity. Growing narrower.

I am having more random flashes between dreams, nightmares and waking moments. There is a room, splashed blood red. A woman’s laughter. A man’s scream. Shadows on the wall of a wand slashing through the air over and over again. Blinding white light. Naked limbs. A faint smell of roses.

Often, I become aware that I’ve been staring at space, unmoving. Finding that damn book next to my pillow in the morning didn’t help either.

“I was reading it last night,” she tells me as she summons a kettle full of steaming tea from the kitchen.

“How is it?”

“Boring, actually. Not the kind of thriller I was hoping it to be.”

“Who recommended it to you?”

“My sister.”

“Who?”

“My twin, Padma.”

I search my brain for confirmation. Nil. “Okay.”

She waits for me to elaborate as she pours tea into two empty mugs. I determinedly ignore her. Finally, she sighs and asks me, “You don’t remember, do you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Besides, I bet you didn’t even know her.”

“I hope so.” We leave it at that, but as I chew my toast, something else bothers me. “But there’s no logic in what I can recall and what I can’t!”

“Hmmm?”

“See, some of the information that is missing seems vital, like … like this room I keep seeing. Others are so trivial. If your twin and I didn’t know each other at school, why should her memory be wiped out from my brain?”

Frowning, she suggests, “Maybe you didn’t like her. A lot of people didn’t.”

“Why?”

“She was a smartass at school, not that most of the others in her house weren’t.” She pauses. “Do you remember the other Ravenclaws in our year?”

I concentrate for a while. “There was … Michael Corner.”

“Cute one. Everybody remembers him.”

“Anthony Goldstein.”

“Yep.”

“Terry �“ Terry …”

“Boot.”

“Him. And Kevin something. And another bloke whose name I can’t place. ”

“You don’t remember any of the girls?” she asks me with a snort.

“Susan Bones. Hannah -” An incredulous look. “I’m getting them mixed up with the Hufflepuffs, aren’t I?”

With a roll of her eyes, she reels off, “Su Li, Mandy Brocklehurst, Lisa Turpin, Morag MacDougal and my twin.”

Slowly, their faces appear in my mind. “Yeah. Yeah … I can sort of see them now. You know,” I say excitedly as something clicks in my mind, “I did think that you were a Ravenclaw the day we first met. I guess I just forgot you were twins.”

“Like there were a hundred pairs of twins in Hogwarts, Theo,” she says as she shakes her head.

“Hey, give me a break!” I reply tetchily. “You’re not the one with an impaired memory.”

She gets up, walks over to my side and kisses the top of my head. “Right. Sorry.”

“When’ll you be coming back?” I ask in an unintentionally whiny voice.

“Not later than eight.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

A quick kiss, and then she’s gone.





THE HEALER

Something the Hogwarts’ curriculum doesn’t include: righteous murder.

The act of taking someone’s life is considered such a heinous crime that the Killing Curse was made illegal. Yet not all killers are sent to Azkaban for life. You see, there’s a process called a trial, carried out at the Ministry with the Wizengamot in attendance. For a specific period of time, this trial will run, giving the accused a chance to explain his actions. He can either claim he didn’t do it or plead guilty, citing his reasons as to why he committed the murder. Was it done in self-defence? Or had he simply lost his sanity?

The Ministry considers self-defence and insanity as conditions whereby the accused isn’t banished to Azkaban. The only difference is that an accused with the former excuse walks free of all charges, while one who has presented the latter ends up at St. Mungo’s for treatment. Better than Azkaban. Temporary, too, considering the fact that murder convicts get life sentence.




THEO

It’s ten. She isn’t home yet.

I hate the fact that I can’t go looking for her when she’s away. I don’t even know where to look. It’s one of the unwritten clauses of our relationship. No questions from my side about where she disappears to when she’s not with me. Frustrating, but I take care not to ask. I don’t want to lose her.

Unable to stand the waiting, I go to my bedroom and lie down. Perhaps, I could sleep it off. She can wake me up when she's back, and I’ll rip her clothes off and pull her into the bed.

A hot shower later, I am on the bed, still straining to hear that crack of Apparition. Seconds inch by. Nothing. I can feel something stirring within me. Cursing loudly, I roll over and dig my hands under her pillows. A hard surface. I pull it out, although I’m dreading the thought of seeing it again.

Yes, it’s the book.

The worst thing about facing this book is that it makes me feel like a coward. I don’t care what Parvati thinks; it has some unknown yet heavy significance in my life. So why can’t I open it and see for myself what it’s about?

“Fuck it.”

I ignore the goosebumps on my skin and flick the cover.

A Niffler Burrowed a Hole in My Head
By
Deborah Merlin



This book belongs to Parvati Patil.

That wasn’t so bad. Taking a deep breath, I open the first page of the story.

For Beth Chambers, nothing could be more nauseating than the smell of wool. It never failed to trigger in her the sensation that she was forgetting something. Fearing that she might have become forgetful with age, she invested in a Sneakoscope, and even made long notes about her daily routine. Wool seemed to make all her efforts futile: she often had headaches from the stress of trying to remember.

Beth was, of course, aware that there was a dark hole in her brain where wool gathered. She only didn’t want to have to think about it. Whatever memory the hole had sucked in appeared irretrievable.

What Beth didn’t know was that �“

“You’re reading it.”

She’s back.

I snap the book shut. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“I took the Floo.” Shaking ash off her hair, she remarks, “You’re sweating again.”

As I wipe my brow, I notice that my heart has been going fast. “Where have you been?”

She ignores my question and, with a wave of her wand, vanishes her clothes. “I’m going to go wash up. See you in a bit.”

I jump out of bed and follow her. “You’re three hours late, Parvati,” I snap at her. “Would it cost you a hundred Galleons to at least tell me where you went?”

A deep sigh. “Just let me shower first, okay?”

“No! I want to know right now!”

I instantly know I’ve crossed a line. There’s a quick flash of anger in her eyes. Glaring at me, she steps under the shower tap, which magically sprinkles her with water.

“I …” I begin, and then stop.

“You.”

“I hate not knowing what you get up to.”

“What I get up to?”

“Parvati.” I go to her. The water is cool as it is whenever she’s using it. It is soothing, and I can feel my irritation washing away. “I can’t tell if you’re safe or not. I get worried. At least, let me know where you’re going. Please?”

She places her hand on my cheek. Now, there’s only infinite sadness on her face. “Kiss me.”

I kiss her.




THE HEALER

Love.

If only it was as easy to rationalise as memory gaps.

I haven’t been in love yet. I’ve had my fair share of crushes and flings, but to be hopelessly in love? To gain the myopic ability of looking past somebody’s imperfections and return to their arms again and again? That is one concept I refuse to buy. When I watch others succumb to it, I can only wonder.

More disturbing than its persistence is its power to destroy. Love often tends to ravage, to create ruptures, to make things a hundred times worse. It warps a person’s sense of self-preservation. When love goes on a rampage, it leaves more casualties behind than hatred could hope to.




THEO

Parvati doesn’t use perfumes. So, why does her blouse smell of Eau de Cologne?

Cologne that isn’t mine, anyway.

The scent is driving me crazy. A mixture of citrus and thyme. It stings my nose and flies straight up to my head.

I crush the satin blouse in my hands and throw it away, unable to stand it any longer. But long after I’ve left home, I can still catch whiffs of the stench. Strangely enough, I’m convinced I’ve already smelt it a long time ago.




THE HEALER

Vengeance.

Now, that is perfectly logical. Somebody hurts you, and you hurt them right back.
Measure for measure. A balanced equation.

Unlike the labours of love, the results of which one finds it hard to calculate, those that go towards the pursuit of revenge are seldom wasted. You can expect to reap at least the feeling of satisfaction at having brought some justice. As destructive as it is, it is gives you the opportunity to exorcise the anger within you.




THEO

How can she make love to me every night and then spend her days with another man?

The cologne has spread to her skirts, cloaks, bags, even shoes. It hangs in my flat, a miasma of betrayal and ridicule. I think and think of who it could belong to and keep drawing a blank.

“Where were you in the afternoon?” I ask her.

To my surprise, she caves in. “The library.”

“And yesterday?”

“Same place.”

“What about the other days?”

“All day, every day, Theo. I go to the effing library.”

“So why are you telling me now?” I flare up. “What’s so bloody sinister about being in a library that it has to be kept a secret?”

“I don’t have to report everything to you,” she replies in a scathing voice.

“Who have you been fucking?”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t have to bloody lie to me! I know you’ve been with someone. I can smell it.”

“You’re crazy.”

“And you’re a sodding liar.” I point my wand at the closet; the doors fly open, making the clothes tumble out. I pick up a skirt and shove it under her nose. “Whose cologne is that?”

Her face closes. “What is your point?”

“You don’t use perfumes, and that is definitely not the smell of my cologne. So whose is it?”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” She snatches the skirt from my hands and stamps on it. “I �“ can’t �“ fucking �“ believe �“ this!”

“Are you or are you not going to tell me?”

“I’ll tell you all right!” she yells at me. “I go to the library every day because I’m preparing to apply for a job! It’s not my effing fault if my tutor wears his cologne too strong.”

“Who gives tuitions at a library?” I ask her suspiciously.

“A bleeding librarian.”

We stare at each other for a while as I try to catch falsehood in her eyes, and she dares me to contradict her. “Why wouldn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because it really isn’t any of your damn business.”

She leaves me with a resounding crack. Pulling on my cloak, I move towards the kitchen. Then, I take the Floo to the only wizarding library in London.

It takes me over thirty minutes to search the entire place. She’s not here.




THE HEALER

What is your biggest fear?

After having spent the last two years preparing for the kind of game where I won’t be allowed two shots at the target, mine is the failure of the best laid plans.




THEO

“I’m sorry about what happened in the morning.”

Sudden smile.

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispers into my ear.

“I guess I just want to be included in your life.”

A kiss on the tip of my nose. “Theo, I… I have a lot of baggage right now, okay? I just want everything to settle down before I can let you in.”

“How long d’you reckon that would take?”

“Not too long,” she says tiredly.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” I ask her, genuinely concerned in spite of the fury festering quietly inside me.

“I think I will. I’m seriously knackered.”

I lie awake. As I watch her sleeping peacefully, the odour of the cologne weaves in and out of my consciousness. On a whim, I reach her under pillow, searching for the book. To my dismay, it’s gone.

It’s hard to work out what time I could have fallen asleep, but when I do wake up, she’s left. Call it luck or fate, she’s forgotten to take her handbag. I take out a handbook from my study desk, one I haven’t bothered to open for many months. Chapman’s Learn It Yourself - A Guidebook Guaranteed to Help You Perform the Most Vital Spells and Charms. What I’m looking for is under J: Anti-Apparition Jinx.

Anti-Apparition Jinxes are classed under Level C in Chapman’s. That means it requires the caster to be very skilled. I may not be very adept, but at this moment, my head is crystal clear and there is a strange humming in my ears. For reasons that aren’t completely discernible, I have complete faith that I can do it.

I point my wand in the general direction of the room, wave it in a semi-circle, anti-clockwise and say, very firmly, “Repello Ingressi!”

There is a tug at the wand-tip, followed by a glimmer in the air. I’ve done it. Then, I purposefully stride towards the kitchen and yell, “Colloportus!” The fireplace shuts down.

The only way Parvati can get in now is through the door. I secure that with another Locking Charm and return to the handbag. Casually, I pick out the contents and set them on the center table. Handkerchief. Purse. Cosmetics. Hairbrush. A mirror. Two self-refilling quills. A cleaning spray for her wand. Finally, an address book.

She has only one entry: 79 A, St. George’s Road, Battersea.

The address book slips from my hands as I fall onto the sofa. 79 A, St. George’s Road, Battersea. The familiarity rushes with a powerful force, bringing tears to my eyes. A terraced white house in the middle of a narrow street overcrowded with Muggle cars.

Gripping my wand, I undo the Anti-Apparition ward and twist on the spot.




THE HEALER

The last question that remains: do I have the strength to kill?

THEO

Upon arrival, I crash into two rubbish bins and upset them. A flash before my eyes: fallen bins, a cat hissing, blood dripping from my little left finger. But when I check again, there’s no cat around, and my finger is intact. Shaking my head, I head out of the alley and move along the road.

With every step, I’m convinced I’ve been here before. Perhaps, more than once. What intrigues me more is the connection between Parvati and this place. Had I known her before? Is she the faceless girl in my visions? But if she is, why hasn’t she talked to me about this?

The sense of foreboding increases as I reach the house, nevertheless I’m bent on uncovering the truth. After checking if anyone else is out on the road, I walk up the front steps.

“Alohamora.”

It swings open easily. One last look outside, and I am in.




THE HEALER

I can hear him going up the stairs now.

A single tear runs down my cheek. I hurriedly wipe it away and follow him inside. Then, I lock the front door and lift the Disillusionment Charm from my body.




THEO

The door is open.

“Homenum Revelio!”

Nothing. I’m alone. Taking a deep breath, I enter the flat and close the door behind me.

The living room is small and done in pale green. No pictures on the wall. Sparsely decorated. Nothing of interest in the kitchen either, save for unflinching tidiness. Finally, I walk into the remaining room, which turns out to be the bedroom. Next to the bed is a huge table, which immediately grabs my interest because something is lying on it.

The missing book.

I pull out the huge drawer and come across another copy. Upon reading the cover page, I realise this one belongs to Parvati’s twin. Below the book, I find a prospectus for St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, followed by a separate set of forms for CALM (Course in Accessing Latent Memory). The last content is a photo of two identical girls in their Hogwarts robes, a Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor.

It’s only after I’ve pushed the drawer back in that I notice the bookmark in Parvati’s copy. Not knowing what else to do, I open the page. There’s a whole section marked in red waiting for me:


Beth was looking at the tiny jumper.

“It stinks,” she snapped.

“Beth,” said the Healer. “That belonged to your son.”

“I don’t have a son,” she insisted.

“His name was Joshua. He drowned in a pond.”

“I never had a son!” she screamed. “If I had one, I wouldn’t forget him!”

“You can’t remember him because you erased the memories connected with him,” the Healer said emphatically. “Beth, please. We need you to try.”


My throat goes dry as I stare at the last line and read it repeatedly till my head hurts.

You can’t remember him because you erased the memories connected with him.

“But who am I supposed to have forgotten?” I ask aloud, raking my fingers through my hair.

“Are you sure you don’t know the answer already?”

I whip around and find her standing there. Before I can say anything, my wand flies out of my hand. She deftly catches it.

“Parvati,” I say, and my voice is shaking, “what is going on?”

In reply, she waves her wand around her. I can only gasp as the room swiftly dismantles itself, and then changes into another at the speed of light. The pale green paint is gradually replaced by a dull white; the well-made bed crumples and the pillows slip to the ground; the daylight dims so that it’s dark inside and illuminated only by two silvery orbs on the ceiling; a bunch of roses explodes and the petals fly everywhere; finally, to my horror, there is dark red blood splashed over the side of the wall where the bed stands.

I fall down, clutching my head as floodgates burst and the memories come rushing forth.

“Does that help?” she asks me coldly.



She danced her way into his life.

It was the first time Theo had come to a party, a really crowded party, and he wasn’t sure which one of his legs he was supposed to be shaking. Just when he had thought of giving up, she brushed against him, slightly drunk, and pulled his arms around her waist. He wanted to make clarifications, but she was grinding against him, her eyes locked with his, and he stopped thinking.

A few minutes later, they were in the back of the club, kissing feverishly, hands all over each other’s body. She broke off suddenly and asked him, “What’s your name?”

“Theo,” he panted. “Theo Nott.”

“Slytherin bastard.”

“Yes,” he replied without thinking.

“Fucking coward.”

“Damn right.”

“There’s nothing I’d like to shag more right now.”

He hesitated and asked her, just so he wouldn’t get into trouble later, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, leaning in, “I’m tired beyond repair of bloody heroes.”


That night, he fell in love with her, even though he didn’t expect her to return. To his surprise, she did. Again and again, he prepared himself not to expect her to knock on his door, and again and again, she proved him wrong. It went on until his despair was replaced by absolute faith.

“As long as it’s our little secret, I’m yours,” she promised him. He believed her.

And then, the trouble began.

“Where have you been?”

“None of your business.”

“Actually, it is my business to know if you’ve been seeing someone else.”

“You’re not my effing husband.”

“Then marry me,” he pleaded. “I promise I’ll keep you happy forever.”

She looked up at him incredulously. “You can’t keep me happy now, forget about forever.”

“Then tell me what I’m doing wrong!”

“It’s not you,” she snapped. “No one can make me happy. NO ONE!”

After that, she didn’t visit for days, and he had no clue where to look for her. When she came back, they fought and argued, and she blasted his things and cried afterwards.

“Please, please tell me what I can do,” he begged her.

“It’s Lavender,” she whispered against his chest. “And all those people who died. They haunt me, Theo. They follow me everywhere.”

“But, sweetheart …”

“If Padma comes to know about this, she’ll give me to the Healers. I don’t want to go to the Healers. I am not mad.”

He knew enough about St. Mungo’s and the Healers to understand her fears.
“Come with me,” he said earnestly. “ We’ll leave this place and settle somewhere. I’ve got money and I’m not unskilled. We’ll figure out something.”

“You don’t understand. I can never stay long enough at a place.”

That night, he finally put a Tracking Spell on her as soon as she had fallen asleep. When she had disappeared three days after, he followed her and found her entering a terraced white house at Battersea. It turned out to be her flat.

When she returned to him, he didn’t question her. They had two happy days together at the end of which, she told him, “I love you. I honestly love you.”

He thought that was the confirmation he’d been waiting for; he decided she merely needed to spend some time alone at her flat. So when she left the next morning, he tried not to worry about it. Two nights later, he was at the flat, armed with a bunch of roses, wearing the cologne she had recently got for him.



“You’re Padma, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she says.

It’s only now that I realise how different she is from Parvati. Her eyes are less communicative, her lips more set. Less attractive, more dangerous.

“How did you know?” I ask her, genuinely curious.

“She could never hide anything from me,” she answers in a neutral voice. “I knew you were going out. I told her not to.”

“Why?”

“Because of this.”

The scroll of parchment hits me hard across the face. I pick it up and read it, and then laugh bitterly. It has to be a copy of my file at St. Mungo’s.

“You thought I was dangerous.”

“You were dangerous,” she snaps. “You exhibited all the tell-tale sign of a mentally ill person, no matter how carefully you hid it. I knew that my sister’s behavior would set you off one day. I kept warning her to stay away from you, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

“She loved me,” I murmur, though I’m not sure for whose benefit I’m saying it.

“She loved the threat you presented,” she rationalises, now pacing around the room. “I was convinced it wouldn’t be long before you saw red and harmed her. That’s why I -”

“She loved me!” I yell at her suddenly.

Her wand moves quickly. Something sharp cuts across my face, and I taste blood.

“If she did, that doesn’t make you sound any better, you son of a bitch! You killed her!”




She opened the door and her eyes went wide with shock.

“What are you doing here?”

“Parvati,” he said in a soothing voice, “let me explain. I know �“ ”

Glaring at him, she cut him off. “Get inside!”

He followed her to the bedroom, trying to explain from the beginning. There was no complaint until he mentioned the Tracking Spell. She went off on a rage. It was as though her wand had taken on a life of its own; again and again, it rose in the air, ripping the bedsheet, flinging the pillows around. He tried to stop her, but a jab of her wand sent him flying backwards. The bouquet he had brought blew up, showering the room with rose petals.

She threw herself down on the bed and broke into a high-pitched laughter.

“Parvati, please…”

“Theo,” she said, clutching her stomach, “Theo. I’m fucking deranged.”

“No, you aren't,” he said as he got up and crawled towards the bed. “You’re just fine, darling.”

“Am I?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

He had just reached the bed when she cried, “Immobulus!”

Instantly, his whole body froze on the spot. With his eyes, he beseeched her to free him, but she shook her head.

“Listen to me, Theo,” she said, “and you listen to me good, okay? I’ve lost my sodding marbles. I’m no good for anybody, okay? I thought I’d live between lovers as long as I could. Then I met you.”

The tears were falling down her face again as she kneeled in front of him. “You’re the best thing that happened to me. If I were okay, I’d spend the rest of my life with you.”

She kissed him softly on the lips and rested her forehead against his. “But I’m not. I’ve thought of everything, even erasing my memories…” With a giggle, she summoned a book from the side-table. “This fucking book here telling me I could blot out what I don’t want to remember. Nearly tried it. It’s not what I really want, though.”

Suddenly, he understood what she was going to do. In vain he tried to struggle against the charm. In vain he watched her raising her wand one last time.

“I love you,” she whispered, and then the wand struck.

Blood flew everywhere. Even if it hadn’t, he would still have known she was gone because he was screaming and holding her lifeless body in his arms.



“You thought you’d get away,” continues Padma, carrying me back to the present. “But I knew it was you, Nott. Her clothes stank of your cologne. Citrus and thyme. Unfortunately for you, we bought it together and I identified it right away.”

She pauses, as though expecting me to deny it. When I don’t, she resumes her speech. “I have to hand it to you, though. You’re thorough. You used her wand for the murder. And you knew that if you acted up your insanity card just a little bit, you’d get away from prison.”



He didn’t know how long he sat there embracing her; he only came to his senses when a Muggle car started honking right below the house. Something was expanding inside of him �“ the crushing weight of helplessness that had dogged him for years.

He was ten and hiding under the table as his father raged.

“Come out, you imbecile! Show me that you’re the son of a wizard or I’ll be whipping you.”

His mother was crying in the adjacent room, unable to come in. Theo crept further inside the table, but he couldn’t hide from his father forever. The latter’s face appeared; so did his wand. Theo screamed as he felt his body consumed with invisible fire.

It went on for a few more seconds until the table exploded into a thousand splinters. His father lay ten feet away from where he had previously been crouching, face and neck bloody. Yet he was grinning. “There you are! I’m proud of you.”

Theo had eventually managed to show he was a wizard; he had also been scarred by the incident. For years, the magic inside of him often burst out whenever his father was around.

He was thirteen, and his owl’s name was Isis. She was bitten in the eyes by a snake one day. Theo was trying to help her but Isis screeched and attacked him with her claws. When his father found him, Theo was trying to hold her down. The man, however, seemed to think differently.

“You little rascal! You bleeding coward! You can’t take out your anger on me, so you turn to this owl instead? I won’t be wasting any more gold to get you a pet!”

He was fourteen when his mother, who had a Squib sister, suggested they take him to a Muggle Healer, as those at St. Mungo’s couldn’t figure out what the problem was. She was put under the Cruciatus Curse. Three weeks later, she died.

He was nineteen. It was nearing midnight. He was just leaving Diagon Alley when a man accosted him. The man’s hollow face was overrun with scars and he had hair growing all over his face, but Theo would have recognised him no matter how much he changed.

“Father,” he muttered.

“Get me out of here,” demanded the man in a husky voice.

“You should be in Azkaban.”

The man went purple-faced with rage. “You ungrateful swine,” he muttered. Theo could see him taking out his wand. “Cruci-”

“Protego!” he shouted.

Perhaps, his father had lost his touch. The force of Theo’s spell sent him sprawling, and he hit the brick wall of the entrance hard before sliding down and losing consciousness.

Theo spat on the body of the man he had detested since childhood, the man because of whom he was falsely assumed to be mentally unstable. He couldn’t care less that people were coming out, telling him to drop his wand as someone shouted for an Auror. When his father was pronounced dead from the injury, and later buried by the Ministry as an unidentified drunken tramp, he only felt insufficient relief.

Those were the worst times of his life. Yet nothing was more horrific than what he was feeling now. His hand automatically reached for the book lying on the bed. The cover had the image of a Niffler digging its long snout into a woman’s head. On the back page, it read: The spell-binding story of a witch who uses the Memory Charm on herself to forget her dead son.

As though on cue, he stood up and left the flat. His head was humming as he walked towards the alleyway which he used for Apparating. When he reached the spot, he tried to twist into the familiar darkness; instead, he fell headlong into two dustbins lying nearby, disturbing a cat that meowed and hissed irritably. A sharp pain told him he had cut the little finger of his left hand.

Getting up, he forced himself to clear his head. This time he succeeded at reaching his own flat. He sat down on his sofa, pointed the wand at his head, and cried, “Obliviate!”

He remembered no more.




“You’re right,” I say to her. “You’re absolutely right about everything. Just tell me one thing. How did you save my hide?”

“I found her dead body the next morning.” Her voice threatens to break, so she takes a deep breath. “I cleansed her clothes of the leftover scent of your cologne, wrote a suicide note and then informed the Aurors. As all of the damage was done with her wand, they bought it.”

The beauty of the irony makes me laugh. Once more, I’m hit with a spell across the cheek�“ this time, a Stinging Hex.

“How dare you laugh?” she demands me. “How dare you!”

“Mad, aren’t I?” I say casually.

“Yes you are! You - ” She stops, perhaps because she’s become aware of losing control. When she speaks again, her voice has gone several octaves lower. “I’d have killed you right away, if only �“”

“If only I hadn’t been admitted to St. Mungo’s,” I help her. “The perfect escape.”

“Correct. By the time I’d found out your address, you were already being treated. I wanted you to face death knowing why you deserved it.”

Her voice is confident, yet her fingers tremble ever-so-slightly as she traces the length of my wand. I can’t afford her to lose her resolve now.

“So you ran the long charade of the past few months.” I clap my hand in mock-congratulation. “Well done, Padma. Really. Your efforts have paid off. I’m here now and I perfectly recall everything. No lapse of memory, no gaps in my brain. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for. Take it before you change your mind.”

“Oh! I definitely am not going to change my mind, Nott,” she says simply, and I now believe her. I can almost see the muscles of her face tightening as she readies herself. “There’s no way I’m letting my sister’s death go unavenged.”

I look her in the eye, challenging her, goading her to hurry up. It seems to take her an eternity, but she lifts my wand at last and points it straight at my heart.

I try to imagine her as her sister.

A glorious eruption of green light, and it’s all over.




THE HEALER

They found his body in his bedroom two days after I had hit him with the Killing Curse, along with a note. That would be the last time I ever copy somebody’s handwriting.

They ruled it suicide. I felt nothing when I read the news and left for India the next morning.

I won’t be going back to England.

And I won’t be writing a book.