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Author: hwimsey Story: The Coven of Echoes Rating: Teens Status: Completed Reviews: 36 Words: 163,077
A/N: Years ago I stumbled across my first piece of HP fanfiction entitled, “Jenny.” Although the writer never finished the story, it remains to this day one of my favorites. This chapter is a mini-homage to that piece. I’d also like to thank my beta, Iviolinist, for her patience, understanding and continued sense of humor in light of my creative use of commas. Thanks also to my supportive readers whose encouragement continuously brightens my day. The study of Trauma calls for a thorough understanding of the wizarding psyche, focusing specifically on the patient’s ability to preserve his mind after prolonged periods of violent physical assault. It is our responsibility, therefore, to guide them, through the use of various incantations and potions, out of the darkness and into the light. The Standard Book of Trauma Healing, by Eustacious Whimeycott, Chapter 11, page 1215. During the war, most of Ginny’s patients were so badly injured little was left of them, save their minds. Clinging to life, armed only with a fierce tenacity to survive, they had withdrawn deeply within that last stronghold, remaining in comas until they were strong enough to return “to the light.” Nowhere was this as poignant as with the very young. It was they who retreated the furthest into the darkness, to a place where no more harm could come to them, to a place were they felt entirely safe and secure. Many evenings Ginny would remain behind at St. Mungo’s well after her shift was over at the bedside of her younger patients, holding their hands, whispering stories or lullabies, hoping that in their dreams they found strength and courage. Oftentimes, the very small would awake, totally alert, eager to tell her how they had seen their dead mother or father. Rushing to explain, their stories were always the same: how their parents would rock them in their arms and whisper to them, “You need to be brave and strong; remember how much you are loved. Remember.” Whether this truly happened or not, Ginny could not tell. Was it the mind creating a more palatable version of the truth? Who knew? It moved her beyond words to think it was true: that our loved ones never leave us, but remain watching over us, giving us hope. “How’s the patient?” a quiet voice asked from over her shoulder. Ginny spun around. Peter Webster smiled softly at her, his eyes full of concern. Ginny paused to retrieve the chart from a cabinet near the young girl’s door. “She’s still in a coma, but she’s stable. You did excellent work with her metacarpus, by the way.” The young Healer blushed at the compliment, nodding as he stumbled over his words, “I . . . I didn’t mean her.” The true meaning of his words became clearer with the reddening of his cheeks. “Oh.” After the attack, the staff had been taking great pains to treat Ginny with kit gloves, something that annoyed her to no end. She was no shrinking violet, that much the wretched American had got right. She was a grown woman who, above everything else, was as tightly controlled as the insides of a watch and just as reliable. There was a hospital to run and patients who needed her. “Peter, I’m quite all right. I’m not going to pass out or scream or anything. You needn’t worry. I’m fine.” “So, do you think she’ll awaken soon?” he ventured, his voice taking on a forced seriousness as he held open the door for her. “She’s been unconscious for over thirty-six hours now. Is that typical for this amount of trauma?” Ginny heaved a sigh at the question. Looking down at the endless scribbles on the chart, she felt like a failure. Her patient had responded to nothing. No spell Ginny could conjure would revive her; even the young girl’s bones were taking an exceptionally long time to heal. What incantation had she forgotten to use? What ingredient had she left out? By the time the young girl awoke, perhaps she wouldn’t remember the abuse her body had suffered—Ginny had concentrated all her efforts to see that the proper spells were in place to minimize the physical pain at least. But what could she do for the other scars? There was no cure for those with the exception of memory modification and it was highly unethical to consider placing that charm on one so young. She frowned and shook her head, thinking of all the times she had considered administering it on herself—her own memories were so painful. “You can’t pick and choose your memories, Ginny Weasley,” her mother used to lecture her. “Life is like that old quilt on my bed: full of the darkest and lightest colors from all of my children’s hand-me-downs. It’s lovely--nothing much dearer to me. But you know why it’s lovely? It’s the tapestry of my life, sweetheart. It’s only beautiful because of both the dark and the light. Remember that. The dark and the light.” But where were the light colors now? The colors of spring and love and happiness? She longed for them. For herself and for this young girl. All that dwelled around them seemed brown and gray and . . . black. “Healer Weasley?” the Junior Healer asked softly, standing by her side. “Would you like some company. I mean when you examine her?” “What? Oh, I’m sorry, Peter, of course.” The room had originally been bewitched to resemble a standard pediatric room, full of stars and animals smiling back from the walls, but Ginny had the forethought to freeze everything and remove anything threatening. The last thing this poor child needed was to wake up to a menacing hippogriff flying around her ceiling. Soft light and warm covers were the most important things right now. The patient lay asleep. A beautiful child, her skin appeared like bruised alabaster as though she were a dirt-stained effigy. If it wasn’t for the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, she could easily have been laid on a slab of marble in the crypt of some forgotten chapel. The curls of her blonde hair framed her pale face while her arms lay folded over her tiny body; bandages enclosed her fingers so that they resembled oversized white mittens. Near her side sat a lone rose in a glass, placed there by Ginny the night before, one petal already falling to the floor below. Licking her lips, Ginny approached her and began the examination while dictating notes to Peter who studiously annotated them onto the chart. “Her wounds are healing well and I believe all the bones have regrown with the exception of her far right phalange; the Skele-Gro wasn’t effective there. Make a note that we may want to distill it with an ounce of Night-blooming Cereus tincture and readminister in another twenty-four hours.” The warmth of the tiny neck seemed to remain on Ginny’s fingers as she slipped her hand out from under her head, her light blond hair brushing softly against the back of Ginny’s hand. “Her neck appears to be pliable with no apparent stiffness and I can rotate her skull without any restraint.” Taking her wand from her robes, Ginny cast a beam of light and shown it toward her eyes, lifting the paper-thin skin, fine spider-web veins coursing underneath it. “Eyes appear clear and focused.” Moving to her neck, Ginny pressed her thumb to the hollow below the young girl’s throat and paused for a moment then glanced up at Peter. “Pulse stable.” The rest of the examination showed no marked change in the girl’s progress. She was hidden within the protection of an extremely deep coma which for all intents and purposes was probably saving her life, but at a cost. Under normal circumstances she should have awakened by now. Every day she remained within the coma the likelihood increased that she might never gain consciousness again. If Ginny didn’t find a way to resuscitate her soon, the young girl ran the very real risk of becoming a permanent resident of St. Dymphna’s. The magical mind operated differently than its Muggle counterpart. The very ability to perform magic is woven into every witch or wizard’s cell; every strand of their DNA carries with it the mysterious power to create miracles. Yet there was no spell Ginny could wield against Nature. Nature knew inherently what to do despite the best efforts of witches and wizards. Nature would have out in the end; thousands of years of spell casting couldn’t change that. The thought made Ginny feel even more discouraged and helpless. Suddenly she wanted very much to be alone. “Peter, would you mind finishing the pediatric rounds for me this morning? I need to transcribe some notes on this patient and I’d prefer to do it here.” It was a white lie, but she could feel the rise of emotion in her throat; her resistance was starting to fray and she desperately wanted to maintain an appearance of control. She was a Healer. She was a Chief Resident for god sakes, why did she feel this ridiculous need to cry? “Sure, of course. Do you want me to follow up with you when I’m done?” “Yes, yes please, that would be . . .that would be fine. But wait, wait a moment. You’ll want to check on Zachary’s vision, especially in his right eye. It’s been bothering him for the past few days and Olivia, she’s retreating again. Try to get her to tell you the story of the fairy party -- that’s the only thing that seems to help lately -- but don’t push, she’s very fragile and, well, she isn’t very fond of men right now. No offense.” “None taken.” He smiled gently at her one last time before the door closed behind him. She felt guilty for not visiting her youngest patients who were always so thrilled to see her, greeting her with hugs and kisses. They seemed to thrive on her presence and during the sixteen hours she was unconscious, they refused to eat meals, claiming only “their Ginny” could make them. Their Ginny. She swallowed hard. She was still someone’s Ginny. “Hello,” Ginny whispered as she took a seat next to the bed. “Remember me? Do you mind if I keep you company for a while?” The young girl’s face remained motionless, only the soft rise and fall of her chest gave any indication she was alive. “I’m sorry that I don’t know your name. I’m Healer Weasley, but you can call me Ginny if you’d like. You’ve been so brave you know; I’m quite proud of you.” She brushed back a lock of hair from the young girl’s face while she spoke; it felt baby-fine beneath her fingertips. “You take all the time you need to heal, do you understand? You stay right where you are and we’ll wait for you; I’ll wait for you. I’m not going anywhere.” Ginny loved children which made it all the more painful to see one so badly abused. It went against the natural order. Children were supposed to be protected, loved and cherished. Why had this happened? Turning away in frustration, she conjured a seat and small writing table near the side of the bed and set upon transcribing her personal notes into the girl’s file. A while passed before Ginny looked up from her writing. She sighed at the bandages twisted about the small fingers. If only I had been conscious, she thought, I could have saved them all. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She was startled to feel the warmth of a tear course down her cheek and quickly shouldered it away, exhaling as she gazed across the room. “Oh goodness, look at me. Crying like a silly loon.” She smiled down at the still and fragile face. “It’s only that I’ve . . . " She caught herself, torn as to whether to continue. “Talk to them,” Healer Virden once told her. “Talk to them, Ginevra. Tell them stories, it doesn’t matter what you say as long as it comes from your heart. It will help both of you.” Tell them stories. “Well, you see, I’ve seen a friend of mine . . . someone I wasn’t ready to meet again. And now he’s here, in Kilgraith. He’s not my friend anymore--it’s hard to explain, it’s a grown up thing that happens with your heart.” She paused a moment and blinked hard, biting her bottom lip, fighting the tightening of her throat. “Did you ever have a best friend? Someone whom you did everything with, who was more special to you than all your other friends put together? Well that’s how my friend was to me. His name was Harry and he was, well, he was everything to me. “When I wasn’t much older than you, I saw him for the first time at a train station. I ran and ran after him, but he just disappeared out of sight. I wasn’t fast enough, I guess. I thought, ‘If only I could run as fast as that train I could see him.’ That’s all I wanted: to see his face. Then the next year I went to school and I did see his face--but I was far too nervous to string two intelligent words together.” She laughed, remembering the cringe-inducing years that followed. Until the one day she began to understand her own self-worth, her desire to Heal, her need to stand apart from her loving, but overprotective family. “Then something happened. He became my best friend. My very best friend. But he had things to do--alone. It took him years to do those things and I worried about him all that time and wondered if he would still be my friend when he came back. I’d fallen in love with him—yes, that sappy romantic love—it’s really true, I’m afraid.” She snorted briefly, the warmth of memories having their way with her heart. Then just as suddenly the smile passed from her face. “But sometimes adults are wrong, wrong in what we believe. And one day I found out my friend never wanted to be my friend in the first place.” Images of a darkened bedroom and the dim outlines of Tamsyn and Harry cut across her mind and she crossed her arms tightly about her. “And it hurts.” When she did speak again, sadness clung thickly to her voice. “I saw him the other day. And do you know something silly? It still hurts. After all this time. My insides shrivel up and I pray that he’ll go away—far, far away--because seeing him makes me remember everything. Everything from the time when we were friends. And you know something even sillier? I almost can’t remember the bad parts.” The young girl remained silent as the grave, so Ginny decided to continue, happy for the presence of another soul, a soul who would offer neither guidance nor judgment only a distant kind of comfort. “I’ve shut everything off since I left him. I never looked back; I couldn’t look back. But since I saw him the other day, every moment gets a bit harder, knowing he’s nearby. “I hate him! I hate him for what he did, I do. And I thought I was over him. I thought that I could look into his face, into his eyes . . . those eyes and not feel anything any more. But I was wrong. Seeing him again made me remember everything. And I miss everything.” She was pacing now, her hands balled in fists at her side. “But I have my pride,” she said fiercely. “I will not let him hurt me again.” She broke off, confused by her flood of emotions, and tried to grasp her composure, but it was like pulling a thread from an unwoven sweater. Finally, her calmness returned and she whispered, “But the things I remember, they keep haunting me. Little silly things really, but in the dark, when I remember them, I can see him so clearly. The way he’d insist I sleep on my side so he could hold me; he’d wrestle me, spooning me tightly to him because I wanted to sleep on my back and he wouldn’t have it. Then he’d whisper into my hair and make me laugh and squeeze me even tighter. The way he’d sing in the shower with this god-awful voice of his at the top of his lungs, but it was such a happy sound I couldn’t bear to tell him he was tone deaf. The way he always knew when to take my hand when I was lonely. He’d kiss my wrist and hold it to the side of his face and look deep into my eyes making me feel so loved, so safe.” Her eyes filled with tears as her voice began to waver more and more with each forgotten memory. The young girl remained still, silent, and Ginny let out a frustrated sort of sob as she lifted her hand to cover her mouth. “I just miss him.” An empty silence filled the room as Ginny stopped speaking and she let out a hollow laugh before she turned to the window and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she muttered. “You probably can’t even hear me.” “Yes, she can,” a voice answered. Ginny whirled around. Standing in the doorway was Marc Areids, leaning on a pair of crutches. He stared at her with a strange mixture of curiosity and something Ginny could not quite place. “She can hear you, of course she can. Although hearing tales of your broken heart is hardly appropriate bed-time reading in my opinion.” Ginny didn’t know what to say. She felt vulnerable and exposed in that moment, caught so off-guard. “I. . .I was just trying . . .” How much had he heard? Oh hell, he’d heard plenty by the look on his face, the bastard. Gathering up her composure, Ginny let her anger steel herself, and after taking a deep breath, she strode over to the door. “What the hell are you doing out of bed anyway? I gave specific orders to have you stay off that leg for at least another twelve hours. Do you have any idea how long this staff has spent trying to reconstruct that femur? It was obliterated, you’re lucky to have a leg at all.” The Auror didn’t answer, he merely remained staring at her. “And why in heavens name are you near this patient at all? I told you I’d contact you once she regained consciousness. Don’t tell me you’re fancying yourself a Healer now? Or perhaps the quality of care here is not up to your American standards?” They stood nose-to-nose, Ginny’s hands firmly on her hips. Her hair was slowly coming undone from its bun, forcing her to blow a crimson wisp off of her face. “Now if you’d excuse me, I have rounds to attend to and you have a bed to return to.” “You’re right. The Healing here is not what I’m used to.” Ginny stopped short in the doorway. “Excuse me?” “Things are different here; they’re not exactly--” “Stop.” Ginny’s raised hand cut off Areids cold. Her frayed nerves could handle little more of this caustic American and his endless snide remarks. Best to let him have it with both barrels and level him on the spot. “Before you begin with what I’m sure will be a pompous and over inflated view of your precious Salem Institute, let me tell you that this hospital houses some of the greatest Healers on this side of the Atlantic. Our research is second to none. And if my memory serves me correctly, nowhere in our history have any of our Healers gone missing -- only to end up dead in some alley leaving their poor orphan daughter beaten within an inch of her life with a one way ticket to the Spell Damage Ward!” Areids’ face hardened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Don’t you dare lecture me. You know nothing of what that poor . . . what that girl went through or how she suffered. Do you consider what you’ve done ‘great Healing?’ You think you can sit in that room and pour out your sad little story and somehow that is going to make her whole again? How in the hell is your broken love affair going to help a goddamn nine-year-old? Spend your time trying to Heal that hand of hers instead of using her as a free therapist! If she were back in Salem, she’d be awake, Healed and able to tell us what the hell happened!” “Is that all you care about? Getting her awake so you can interrogate her? Did you ever stop to think what it’s going to be like for her to have to relive that nightmare? She was tortured! Every single one of her fingers was broken. Do you know how many bones are in the human hand? Do you know they were nearly dust by the time we got to her?” “And if you hadn’t fainted, you’d have been able to help her! And now look at her!” “Why you arrogant--” “Bastard. Yes, I am a bastard, Miss Weasley, but I’m the bastard who’s going to get to the truth. I’m the bastard who’s not going to let this happen again. And I’m the bastard who doesn’t care how many sarcastic, heartbroken Healers he has to step on in the process. Especially ones who don’t have the brains to find some potion to revive someone from a simple coma.” He hiked up his crutches and stumped angrily back down the hall. “And wipe the tears from your cheeks.” He glanced back at her, scowling grimly. “Highly unprofessional, especially for a woman.” Ginny was left fuming, clenching the chart in her hands. Cursing loudly, she stormed off in the opposite direction, madly chucking her robes into a nearby hamper and slamming the chart on the unsuspecting receptionist’s desk, causing her to jump back in fright. Behind them, the young girl’s door thudded shut. Later, within the stillness of that room, the rose sentinel twisted ever so slightly in its vase toward the afternoon sun filtering in from the folds in the curtains, the rays illuminating the motes of dust that danced like fairy dust about the sleeping patient. It was then, from deep within the darkness, that there came the whisper of one word. One word escaping from the depths of a coma. One word which echoed softly before disappearing into the silence. “Daddy.”
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