CONTROL | harry potter

TWO

Helena watched as Cordelia stuttered for a split second, and then lifted her chin and took the Headmaster's hand.

She gripped it firmly, which surprised her; she had expected the young girl to have a flimsy hand, easily malleable like her mind. Helena would have presumed that she'd not feel friendly toward the girl. She, after all, did not quite appreciate dimness and lack of intelligence in a youth. But Cordelia was not like that. She had seemed clueless, yes; but also wise and innocent, as if she had forgotten all that had corrupted her. Helena had thought that as you aged, you became wiser; but maybe being free from the complications of life, you could be more insightful than a sixty-year old man. Perhaps wisdom is the art of overcoming the difficulties of life, Helena thought. Whatever it was, Cordelia had seemed a hell of a lot wiser than her, and she had existed for a long, long while. Perhaps that was what had prompted her to act as friendly as she had. She had not spoken to someone the way she had spoken to Cordelia in a few centuries.

Dumbledore drew his hand back and waved the girl into his office. Helena followed, even though he had not laid eyes upon her. "Forgive my insensitivity, but - would you educate me about exactly who you are?"

"I am Cordelia Hale," she said. "However, beyond that, I do not really know who I am. You see, I woke up in a dark room with no recollection of my life, save for my name."

Helena would have expected a regular person to look baffled, as she must have looked when she had met the young girl in the seventh floor corridor, but of course, the situation was not pertaining to a regular person. It was pertaining to Albus Dumbledore, and she, among many, knew it took much more than a single memory wipe to baffle him.

"Well, Cordelia. I suppose you don't recall where you came from? Or, perhaps, whom you came from?" the professor asked, shifting through papers on his desk. He looked as if he did not really expect a useful answer, or as if the thought of a random girl obliviated was not very concerning.

"No, I've already said: I don't remember anything."

"Except for your name." Dumbledore paused and looked up. "Curious, isn't it? I suppose you would be quite a bit less carefree if you didn't know your name. It's peculiar how our names hold a piece of ourselves, how they symbolize our identity."

"Why is that so strange?" Cordelia asked. "If I didn't know my name, I wouldn't know who I was."

"Well you don't know who you are anyway, dear girl. Names don't really mean anything at all, if you think about it."

Helena did not think Cordelia agreed with Professor Dumbledore, judging by the look on her face, but she didn't say anything as the Headmaster stood up and looked at Helena, acknowledging her for the first time since the two of them had entered the room.

"Dearest Helena," he began. "I would like to thank you profusely for bringing Cordelia to me as straightaway as you did, but I have some private matters that I must discuss with her. For her story is a long one, indeed."

She immediately took this as her dismissal. She had been waiting for it, after all, as Cordelia's situation was not one that involved her. "Of course, Headmaster, I should have departed a time ago." With that, she turned and drifted through the wall.

- - -

After Helena left, Cordelia promptly turned to the professor.

She had found herself in a very odd room. The first thing that had caught her eye had been the large, claw-footed desk that sat at the front of the room. It was laid with papers, inkwells, and small bowls of wrapped candies. Behind it, was an empty shelf; well, almost empty. On it, resided a very battered, very worn, wizard's hat. Cordelia couldn't seem to fathom why a lone old hat could be sitting on a shelf as if it was a trophy upon a pedestal. Surely, the man wasn't so poor that he could not afford himself a new hat? Cordelia thought. Arranged about the room were spindly tables, upon which were set a number of delicate-looking, silver instruments. They emitted small puffs of bright smoke and odd, whirring noises. Ornately framed portraits of sleeping men plastered the walls, and a whole panel of it was covered with the spines of books; hundreds of them, doubtless.

"Mr. Dumbledore, unless I am mistaken, I heard you tell Helena that my story is a long one," she said. "If you would kindly relate to me what in Merlin's name that is supposed to mean, I would be very, very grateful, because, as far as I know, you are not even aware of who I am. So how you would know my story, when even I do not know it, confounds me, to say the very least."

"Of course, Miss Hale," replied Dumbledore. "You only need to take a seat."

She drew a chair out from one of tables, careful not to disturb any of the devices sitting on it, in fear of one of them exploding, or causing some other unpleasant occurrence.

When she sat down, Professor Dumbledore spoke. "I know who you are, even if you do not. There is absolutely no way for me explain to you your current predicament, only for me to show you. A natural, magical phenomenon has transpired, and it has taken your memories. Fortunately, this event was foreseen, and your memories preserved."

"What is withholding you from simply giving them to me?" Cordelia asked, even though she knew before she asked that if the solution was so straightforward, they would not be speaking the way they were.

"It is not quite as simple as you make it out to be, Cordelia. Your memories hold more than the events of your life. They are your experiences, your emotions, and your knowledge. They have shaped you, and with those taken away, you are a different person; unmolded, untouched. By having them back, you will return to who you were before, and you must consider whether you want that or not."

Delia looked down at her hands, and wondered what the Headmaster meant by saying that she was unmolded. Although she couldn't remember anything, she knew that she didn't not have the mind of an infant, because she was aware of things that babies were not; how to walk, how to survive, how to be aware of time, and how to communicate. But everything that made her herself? Nonexistent.

"You may retrieve your memories and remain here at Hogwarts, although I must warn you: they will cause you pain. A lot more pain than a girl your age should have to undergo, but it is your decision. The very aspect that you sit before me, with no knowledge of your life before, means that you have lost too much, that you have lost the ones that tied you to your previous life." Dumbledore paused. "Or, you can forget about the memories you have lost. You can travel to France, and you can pretend we never had this conversation. You can choose to avoid the unnecessary grief and consequences that your memories would bring."

She was a little frightened at this point, but she tried not to show it. "Why France?"

"France houses the largest wizarding community untainted by your past. Over there, you are free from your parents and your history. Here, you must face it as sure as you must face an oncoming train when you are tied to the tracks it drives upon. You can turn away and clench your eyes shut in fear, or you can stare straight at it, defiantly, but it will hit you regardless."

"And will it kill me?" she whispered.

"I think that truly depends on just how strong you are, Miss Hale," Dumbledore replied. "I must tell you, I have high hopes for you."

Delia looked away. "No one can survive being run over by a train."

Dumbledore smiled. "I think you will find, Cordelia, that you are very mistaken in saying that. Now, have you made your decision?"

---

(A/N)

hello loves! this chapter was definitely not as long as the previous one. just a bit more than 1390 words. let's just think of chapter i as being a kind of pilot to a tv show. be sure to let me know in the comments what you're thinking so far about cordelia hale!

i'm thinking it's going to be really hard to write from the point of view of someone who has no personality, but i am willing to accept the challenge! also, this book is going to progressively sound less and less oldish as i lose the motivation to do that.

love,
raya.