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i. the loony bin
Rowan awoke in what some might euphemistically refer to as "The loony bin." Of course, its legal name, registered with the Ministry of Magic, was St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Not that Rowan was ever one with much concern for semantics.
Her mind was as blank as the parchment she swore she wrote her transfiguration essay on. She was devoid of anything and everything as if someone had cast a particularly effective Memory Charm upon her. Though, admittedly, those charms rarely did their job with adequacy.
Silent and numb, she lay solemnly in crisp white sheets that most definitely weren't her own. Her parents wouldn't be caught dead with paper-like covers such as these. Not with the precious, 'pure' blood that ran through their family tree. Not with the fortune in blood money they inherited from her father's family in Scotland, nor her mother's in France. Most definitely not with that from their roots in Great Britain.
Merlin forbid.
She stared blankly at the sterile, white plaster ceiling above some stranger's metal-framed bed, confusion clouding her thoughts with a thick fog, obscuring any semblance of comprehension. It reminded her of one of her first Charms lessons with Professor Flitwick in first year. They practiced the incantation for the Confundus Charm, and some mousy dimwitted Gryffindor boy flicked his wand the wrong way. The little string of light struck the Slytherin side of the classroom, hitting Rowan in the crown.
She thought it was funny, when she came to; Giggled about it to Narcissa for weeks, in secret of course. Her parents, however, weren't nearly as amused. Her parents. Oh. The haze lifted, smacking her in the face like a bludger. Without hesitance, without warning, without the slightest remorse. The fire! Oh, the fire! How had that happened? She wasn't sure.
With furrowed brows, Rowan shifted her eyes around the room. Paper curtains. Metal bars. Chalky walls. Bandages. Her hands, studying them as if they belonged to a stranger. They were unblemished, save for a freckle just below her knuckle on her right hand and a few faint scars.
Bandages wrapped her in a cocoon, hiding away the telltale truths. She was not in any means in a rich to uncover those truths. There was shuffling not far from her. Shoes scuffing the polished floors. Shoes with heeled soles. Probably leather.
Her eyes flickered to the table next to the scratchy cot, to the copy of the daily prophet that rested on the edge. On the front page, in big block letters, was one of the answers she was lacking.
WIZARDING MANOR BURNT TO A CRISP.
SYLVIE FAMILY PERISHED ALONGSIDE THEIR VELVET HOME IN THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS.
HEIR THE LONE SURVIVOR.
And just underneath, next to their ashen manor, was a picture of their pretty little family. It was from the Sacred Twenty-Eight parties her mother had forced her to attend earlier that summer.
"Don't pay too much attention to the papers, sweetheart. It's all rubbish. Mostly a new reporter trying to make a name for herself."
Rowan eyed the paper skeptically before facing forward. Professor McGonagall's voice was steady and reassuring as she entered Rowan's hospital room, her eyes soft with empathy. Her expression was a mixture of resignation and disbelief. The headlines screamed of tragedy, of a prominent wizarding family consumed by fire, of lives lost and futures shattered.
They knew nothing of the horrors that were her truth. They knew not the pain and the aching that she felt. They knew not of what a burden it was to be born into that, into this thing that claimed to be a family. She couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped in a nightmare from which she couldn't wake.
Professor McGonagall settled herself on the edge of the hospital cot, her robes rustling softly as she adjusted her position. "Rowan," she began gently, "I'm so sorry for what you've been through. Losing your parents in such a horrific manner... it's unimaginable."
Rowan nodded silently, fighting off a scoff, unable to find the words to express the tumult of emotions churning within her. She felt as though she were drowning in a sea of grief and confusion, struggling to keep her head above water.
She wasn't sure what she was grieving, but it sure as Merlin wasn't her parents. McGonogall knew enough to know that much.
"I understand that this must be a difficult time for you," Professor McGonagall continued, her tone sympathetic. "But I want you to know that you're not alone. You have friends who care about you, who want to help you through this."
Rowan scoffed.
"Friends? Really? The only genuine friends I've ever had are you, and Narcissa, who by the way would never stray away from what she's just married into."
Her gaze flickered up to meet the professor's, her eyes searching for reassurance amidst the turmoil. "What am I going to do now?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
The professor's expression softened even further, if that were possible. "That's entirely up to you, my dear," she replied. "But know that you have options. You don't have to face this alone."
Rowan swallowed hard, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on her shoulders like a leaden cloak. She had never felt more adrift, more unsure of her place in the world. It was painted out in green and silver for her the second she left her mother's womb, beforehand even.
"You confided in me about your situation at home," Professor McGonagall said gently, her voice tinged with sorrow. "And I want you to know that I believe you, truly. I have from the moment you stepped into Hogwarts. No one should have to endure what you've been through."
Rowan's throat was tight. She had carried the burden of her secrets for so long, fearing judgment and rejection. But here was Professor McGonagall, offering her understanding and support without hesitation. It was strange to her, even now. She was slowly getting used to it.
"I know it's a lot to take in," the professor continued, her tone gentle but firm. "But I want you to consider something. Hogwarts is always in need of talented witches and wizards to join our staff. And I can think of no one better suited for the role than you."
Rowan raised a brow.
"I know it's a big decision," Professor McGonagall said, her gaze unwavering. "But these kids. They need someone to keep them above water. You know well what happens when you leave the vulnerable to their own devices. You, Rowan Sylvie, were made for wonderful things. This could be one, if you let it. I, for one, have found great anguish in your absence."
"Thank you, Minerva. I suppose its worth a try."
Professor McGonagall returned the smile, her eyes sparkling with pride. "You're welcome, my dear," she said warmly. "Now, let's focus on getting you back on your feet. We have much work to do."
mooni tunes !
idk. we're working on it. any thoughts? opinions? queries? no?
