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.