Sufficient
I open my eyes. Morning. Three quarters past seven, judging from the length of the shadow in front of me. I forcefully stop my hand that tries to fly up to the neck, and the other hand that attempts to grasp around for – something – anything – a wand – a vial – an escape.
I order myself on my feet, reminding myself that there is no more need to grasp at the neck, no more call to look for an escape. I am alive. What a disappointment.
A hot shower takes away some of the soreness that is a direct result of another night in an armchair. Some day, one day, I will be able to sleep in a bed. Until that day, permanently stiff neck and shoulders are a small price to pay for being able to fall into a short-lived blackness before being drawn into dreams that are almost vivid enough to be mistaken for reality. Almost. There is always a part of my mind watching – observing – reminding myself that those are dreams.
Much better than the mind being seized from the midst of the twilight zone, and forced into reliving – believing – the inability to escape. For a few brief moments – judging from the number of times it can happen during the night, or during the few hours I can last before giving up and spending the rest of the night on my feet, pacing the house or wandering the streets under a Disillusionment charm. For hours at a time – judging from the fact that I relive the entire night every time, before opening my eyes and staring in front of myself. This part is possibly the worst – the brief seconds of reality during which I still believe myself to be… back there.
A range of bottles lines the shelf proudly as I open the cupboard. Firewhiskey. Dreamless Sleep. Oblivious Unction. Calming Draught – a particularly concentrated formula, used in the St. Mungo's long-term residence ward.
Every single bottle – untouched and sealed. Leaning to them on one side are two smaller vials. One with a perfectly – almost Veritaserum-clear – transparent liquid, which, as I had the opportunity to find out, does not kill through contact with wounds, and manifests a hitherto unknown added benefit of reacting with blood to leave scars of perfect Avada Kedavra green. Another, almost empty, with a small amount of silvery substance at the bottom.
I retrieve the tea box, a cup and, after a moment's consideration, the near-empty silvery vial.
Only after making a few sips of tea do I realize that I could have been saved the trouble of preparing it the Muggle way – lighting the fire with matches, handling the teapot, pouring. After all, the night was a relative success – according to my estimation, I spent three quarters of it sleeping. Today there is hardly any need to discipline myself by my own self-invented wand veto, imposed for the entire duration of every day preceded by a night spent wandering, pacing or thinking.
For the pure thrill of it, I down the scalding tea in one mouthful and pour another cup by means of a swish-and-flick. I smirk at the odd unconscious sense of elation, as the first spell in a week feels inexplicably like the first spell ever might to a Muggleborn first-year. Holding the wand in front of my eyes, I marvel at how the feel of it is almost unfamiliar after seven days of a completely Muggle existence, and muse on one of the central premises of the Statute of Secrecy. "Muggles would ask for magical solutions to their problems," the Ministry claims. In that case, the Statute serves to protect the Muggles rather than the wizards, because the former would be in for some of the most bitter disappointments in their lives. For what solutions could magic offer to the real problems? What could magic possibly do to bring back the dead, or earn forgiveness, or return self-respect, or hold on to a rapidly slipping sanity?
Magic can kill. But killing is probably one area where Muggles have surpassed the Wizarding World in inventiveness tens and hundreds of times. Magic can heal. But only the body.
Soul, mind, heart – the harming and healing of these have nothing to do with either magic or Muggle technologies. This is one side of life where magic or lack of matters not. The most important side of life.
What could magic possibly do to make someone understand things before it is far too late?
Magic can help one forget, I think, looking at the vial with the silver liquid. Yet however removed the actual memories are from one's mind, they leave traces.
One can remove the memory partially, to simply know the facts of it but isolate the feelings spurred by them. To know, however clichéd, in the mind but not the heart.
One can remove the memory completely. Yet that leaves an uncomfortable hollow in the midst of one's mind, a hollow that feels like a persistent tooth-ache, yearning to fill up, causing one to try to restore the missing moments, and slipping in strange sensations upon encountering notions that are somehow related to the banished events. I estimate that the many-times-considered but never tried course of action of forcefully removing all memories of the night in the Shrieking Shack from my mind would not aid me in getting proper sleep at nights. I would still be unable to bear the thought of lying down, only further aggravated with the inability to explain the reason.
On better days – like this one – I do ponder removing some of those memories temporarily, for the sheer curiosity of whether shreds of memories would still appear smooth and silvery, or roll up into drops, or freeze in shards.
Is there an impassive clerk with a self-inking quill that records everything, watching from the midst of a mind gradually slipping away? Is there any way to retrieve the log of a sinking ship?
There is a way to find out, currently stashed away on the topmost shelf of the same tantalizing cupboard, the result of a few weeks of meticulous crafting, and something I had started working on ever since I discovered my inability to retrieve the last memory from the vial in front of me. Its persistent refusal to settle in my mind finally made me realize that it was simply – not mine. Yet given to me. By accident – hardly.
It took me all these months to get to the bottom of the vial. However tempting it was to pour out its entire contents into my mind immediately and face the welcome death through sheer melodramatic emotional shock, I extracted one memory at a time, wishing I had access to a Pensieve to do them justice.
For want of a Pensieve, I decided to do the best I could, and made a point of visiting every possible place that resurfaced in the memories. A playground across the town. A forest clearing. Platform nine and three quarters – sufficiently Disillusioned. Hogsmeade station – likewise. An unremarkable windswept hilltop. Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. A lake deep in the Forest of Dean. That only left places within the Hogwarts grounds, and therefore out of bounds for me. I did my best to find sufficient replacements.
Cemetery at Little Hangleton. Cemetery at Godric's Hollow. Making tea by hand for two weeks after each.
There was something wrong with the memory resting on the bottom of the vial. It took me several failed attempts to understand it. Moreover, I knew perfectly clear that all my memories were returned to me. Nothing was forgotten. Nothing was hazy. I made sure of that.
Therefore, I became curious. Not as to whose memory I was presented with. That issue was crystal clear. But as to what that one wanted me to see. The very notion of that person going to a certain length to let me see something – was intriguing.
I was hardly busy these days, especially after successfully completing my meticulous tour of memorable places, my afternoons mercilessly idle save for experiments with purely non-magical herb mixtures, the most successful of which had eventually found their way to the local Muggle teashop, saving me the need to inquire whether my never overflowing Gringotts account was terminated by virtue of the owner being a war criminal. There was only so much Meadow Smile or Sunset Delight one could prepare before feeling extremely married to Madam Puddifoot – especially after learning the above 'marketable' names for the perfectly sensible 'chamomile and cornflower' and 'black rose and mint' mixtures. Still, they sold, and I was saved the trouble of interrupting my reclusion.
I occupied my free time by making a Pensieve, however arrogant it was to call the resulting crude disposable affair by that name. I was hardly in a position to procure proper materials. Dumbledore's Pensieve, according to my estimates, was made of magically blended granite and obsidian, while the runes around the edge appeared to be cut manually by a diamond chisel rather than any known or unknown spell. I did not have an opportunity to study any other Pensieves, however little of those were available these days, but I knew enough to understand that I needed the strongest material possible. However, assuming the temporary nature of the thought receptacle required, as only one memory would be viewed, I settled for wood, thoroughly soaked in the most concentrated Strengthening Solution I could brew, and coated with a new level of hardening spells every day of the two weeks it took to mature.
When the last of the Solution was seeping in, I added a drop of Veritaserum in it as an afterthought. Not necessarily the safest course of action, yet the nature of the memory I was going to place in it required precautions, and avoidance of a misleading, whether deliberate or unconscious, was as good as any. The same notion was reinforced by the runes I carved along the circumference.
The hourglass – to show the past. The eye – to see the whole of it. The water – to flow freely. The star – to show the truth through. And the portal – to be able to leave at will.
That last one was not cowardice, I told myself firmly. Simply a precaution. A necessary one, given the source of the memory.
I rise from the table and open the cupboard again, pleased to find my hands steady as they place the homemade Pensieve on the table, as they uncork the vial, as they pour the silvery liquid. There can be nothing in that memory that can possibly hurt me. Not anymore.
I force my eyes open as I smell smoke. The hardened wood is smoldering. I let go of the table edge, having to pry my fingers open with every ounce of strength and vaguely surprised to find the wood of the table not charred like the Pensieve… Don't think of it! Too late…
Don't you DARE.
On your feet. Now. Turn. Three steps to the sink. Cold water in the palms. Careless enough to catch a glimpse of a reflection, pale just as my own face seen in the memory...
I'm not fussing, Hermione, but you cannot possibly understand…
Hands shaking, pouring lukewarm tea, the cup slipping and smashing on the floor before I can bring it to my lips. A puddle of tea with porcelain shards in it…
I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley, I'm fine. Sorry about the cup.
No tea. A glass of cold water. Opening the cabinet. The row of potion bottles…
What do you mean, 'beyond our efforts'? What do you mean, 'all we can do is wait'?
Four shaky steps towards the armchair. Sitting, folding, falling down.
Yes I can bloody well spend the night in this chair if I want to!
A sip of water. Teeth almost clattering against the glass.
I'm NOT losing it, Ron! Your Mum and Dad need you – you should go to them.
The green scars on my palm are observed briefly through the clear glass before it is hurled across the room and shatters on the wall. Face buried in the palms. Wrong thing to do.
Not you too. Everyone's gone now. Not you too.
I wish I had another glass to throw. All I can do is stare at the ceiling, as if the chipping plaster can possibly hold any answers.
"Damn you, Potter."
The words spoken into the silence do not seem to have any impact. I find myself on my feet, and a few seconds later the hapless teapot follows the glass.
"Do you realize what you've DONE?"
The shout in the empty room, accompanied by shattered glass, seems somehow more satisfying. I run my fingers through my hair, staring at the ceiling again. You may have learned earlier that any combination of Potter and Pensieves in one picture results in broken glass, a voice remarks at the back of my mind. A voice I have not heard for almost a year now.
I may have lost another of the few remaining shreds of my sanity just now – but it was good to have a different piece of my old self back. Were it not for the almost-forgotten caustic commentator, I would succumb to the overwhelming urge to sink to my knees and into despair. Anger, however, is a much more constructive emotion.
"Accio wand! Reparo! Reparo! Evanesco! And Hell," I curse, looking down at the state of my own robes. "Tergeo!"
I look around the room, disappointed at the lack of appropriate spell targets, then stride to the table holding the still slightly smoking Pensieve and bring my wand to my temple.
If I am to relive the events of that night, I will do that on my own terms, and through my own eyes rather than through a pair of pitying green ones, I think, tossing my own memory, sufficiently fluid and silvery, into the wooden bowl without removing the one still in it. The dangers – of viewing two related memories, of the unstable Pensieve, of the portal rune barely intact – discarded, I plunge forward.