Remembrances

Remembrances:

The room was dark. The curtains were pulled tightly closed; no slivers of moonlight penetrated. He was not alone. He knew that as he knew what would happen before the dream ended. As he knew he would not wake until the dream had run its course. He knew through experience.

The dream was based on reality, though it was not his reality. Freya had lived this in the real world. A potion had caused him to relive her experience. Dreams would not let him forget. The smell always reached him first; the stink of alcohol on stale breath flooded the air surrounding him. He tried to shut off his mind, to disconnect from what was about to happen. It was futile. It was always futile. Yet, he always tried.

A large, rough hand ran up his arm and he shuddered. A voice murmured in his ear and the stench of alcohol rose. A tongue was thrust into his mouth. Fighting was pointless; he had no control over this body. Still he fought until the dream ended and he woke in a sweaty tangle of sheets and limbs.

***

The owls at Eeylops Owl Emporium hooted as loudly as they always had. The narrow streets of Diagon Alley were as crowded as they always were. Freya disliked being there as much as she always had. No, not always. She had initially enjoyed Diagon Alley. It was only when memories of her first visit were combined with other memories that they became something that haunted her. Everything featuring…had long been tainted.

A hand pulling on hers snapped her back to reality.

“Mum, are you listening to me?”

“Of course I am, dear.” Freya smiled down at Michael. “But why don’t you repeat that last bit anyway.”

With a sigh, Michael resumed telling his mother everything they still needed and where they had to go to get it while the pair headed to Flourish and Blott’s.

***

William caught up with the pair in Madam Malkin’s Robes. He placed a hand on Freya’s shoulder as he came up behind her. Freya turned around quickly when his hand touched her. William saw her close her mouth and slip her wand back into her pocket when she recognised him.

He smiled at her. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be constantly vigilant, not you.”

“You’re late,” she replied, ignoring his remark.

“I was buying your son a birthday present.”

“Really? And what did you buy him? Not a broom I hope.” She turned from watching Michael being measured to look up at him with interest.

“Nah, first-years aren’t allowed to take their own, anyway. I got him a nice barn owl; it’s not nearly as snooty as that eagle owl of yours.” He smirked.

“I suppose I should be grateful it’s not a screech.” She added, “And Apollo is not snooty,” almost as an after thought.

Michael raced up to them at that moment, preventing William from having another attempt at getting Freya riled up. William gave Michael a hug before the boy turned to his mother and handed her the change left from purchasing his robes.

“Mum, can we get my wand now that William’s here?”

“Is that all we have left to get?” Freya asked, and at Michael’s nod she smiled. “I suppose we had better go get it then.”

“You didn’t have to wait for little old me,” William whispered in Freya’s ear as they walked.

“Don’t worry, if it was up to me, we wouldn’t have,” Freya replied, and it was her turn to smirk.

William felt Freya’s grip on his hand tighten as they entered Ollivander’s wand shop. Her hand jerked as if she wanted to remove it from his grasp and he gave it a small squeeze. He knew too well the sorts of memories she was trying to push aside.

***

Later that day, while Michael unpacked his new belongings, Freya and William sat drinking tea and their conversation turned to friends.

“Are you going to Elizabeth’s wedding?” William asked as he helped himself to another biscuit.

“Yes, but that’s not for a month or so. Are you?”

“No, I can’t. I’m working.”

“Working? You’re always working.”

William could tell from her tone that this would not be a short discussion. “I’m not working today, am I?” He went on the defensive.

“That’s because you’ve had yesterday and today off and you’ll work for six days starting tomorrow, then have another two days off.” Freya raised a speculative eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be catching up on sleep on your time off? You almost look worse than you did after working for six days.”

“I’ve just been having a little trouble sleeping lately.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Just a few dreams, that’s all.”

“What sort of dreams?”

William hesitated. He could not tell Freya the truth, that what had happened to her was haunting him. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“It might help you to talk about it.” Freya placed a hand on top of one of William’s.

“Maybe, but not to you.” He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Not to me? Why not to me? I’m as qualified as any other medi-witch around. You know me, you know you can trust me, or I thought you did.” Though she jerked her hand away and got up from the couch, she did not raise her voice, and that made it worse somehow.

“That’s not what I meant.” He tried to back out of the argument.

“Then why don’t you say what you mean.” Freya met his eyes with a frown.

“I meant that…that I do trust you, but I can’t talk to you about this.”

“Why not?” She refused to let the topic go.

“Because…just because.” He struggled to find a valid reason without revealing too much.

“’Because’ is not a reason.”

She sounded so reasonable, and at that moment William hated her for it. He hated that she could be so reasonable, and so persistent, when he wanted her to just let something go for once, for her own sake.

“Did it ever occur to you that it might be none of your business?” he asked sourly, trying to ignore the pain that flickered on her face at his words.

“Fine,” was all she said.

***

The next time William saw Freya and Michael was at King’s Cross Station. He had been at work on Michael’s birthday, so Freya had given his present to Michael on his behalf. He had avoided Freya as much as he could after their argument, he knew he had said things that he should not have, but he justified them to himself as being for Freya’s own good.

William stood next to Freya as they watched the Hogwarts Express pull away from the platform. He watched her blink back tears as Michael was taken away from her. She turned away from him without a word and Disapparated with a pop he could barely hear over the noise of the station.

***

The house was dark. William crept along pausing at every noise, checking every shadow. He knew there were other Aurors there, though he could not hear nor see any of them. That was for the best; if he could spot the them, so could those the Aurors were concealing themselves from.

The red glow of a curse appeared suddenly through a doorway to his left. A figure appeared in front of him and William stunned it before they had a chance to strike. Moore, his partner, moved past him while William paused only long enough to bind the man tightly before moving on. He moved from the passage into a room. Moore stood just inside the entrance, concealed from anyone entering, while William searched.

He had just reported the room secure when a scream was heard from down the passageway.

“That’s Jenkins. I’m going to assist.” Moore dashed from the room.

“No, stick to procedure.” It was a wasted breath, Moore was already gone. That was when the curse struck him.

***

William woke in a bright white room, which smelt oppressively of clean. He knew where he was immediately, St Mungo’s. There was a pain in his right leg and his head pounded. A cool hand appeared and was placed on his forehead.

“Your fever has lessened,” a familiar voice told him, “but you’re not out of the woods yet.” The hand was removed, and the voice returned. “How do you feel?”

William groaned as his attempt to turn his head only served to increase the tempo of the pounding at his temples. “Like someone’s been using my head for beater practise.”

“And your leg?”

“Bloody sore.”

A soft laugh sounded and then the hand was back. It held a goblet in front of his head while another hand slipped behind his neck to help him rise enough to drink. He felt the pain lessen as the potion began to work, though he still found comfort in the cool pillow that met his head as the hands lowered him back down when the goblet was empty.

He could feel the sedative flowing through his body, and tried to turn his head to identify the hands and the voice. He noted dark hair that was tied up, brown eyes, a nose, and mouth that he knew, but the features refused to join together into a face. His eyes closed and he slept.

***

Freya knew she should not do it. It was not against any rules, and indeed was used in some cases to aid in healing, but she knew it was not needed in this case. There were risks associated with it, there was no way to leave before the end of the dream, and indeed some healers had been driven mad by being trapped in the dreams of some patients. Freya knew William would be livid if he knew she had taken advantage of his injury to invade his dreams; she justified it to herself as being for his own good. Hopefully, he would never know she had been there. She would be an observer, nothing more. As far as the course of the dream was concerned, she was not even there.

William’s face was set in an expression of fear, anger, and pain. Freya was decided. She had to do this. She had to help him. She placed the tip of her wand against William’s temple and whispered the spell.

***

There was something familiar about the room she found herself in. It was dark. The curtains, beside which she stood, were pulled tightly closed. Freya’s eyes adjusted slowly to the lack of light; she heard the occupants before she could see them. She moved closer to the sounds, and halted a scream from passing her lips when she was able to make them out.

It was him.

He had his mouth pressed to hers. But it was not her. Her uncle sat on the bed, mouth pressed against the mouth of an eleven-year-old Freya, one hand stroking her arm, the other snaking down to hitch up her nightgown. Freya met the eyes of her dream-self and knew at that moment why William had refused to tell her about the dreams. They were not her brown eyes that were wide with terror, they were William’s blue. Freya turned away from the sight, but could do nothing to stop the sounds from reaching her ears.

The dream stretched on; she pressed her hands to her ears to block out the sounds, but they only seemed to grow louder. Curled up in the corner, her chin tucked onto her knees, she could no longer tell what was the dream and what was her memories.

***

Freya could not stop herself from throwing up when the dream ended and she was returned to St Mungo’s. She paused to look at William’s face, peaceful in sleep once more, then turned and fled the room. After the initial bout of nausea, she was able retain her composure until she made it to the nearest bathroom. She did not leave until long after her stomach was empty.

***

William awoke to the same oppressively clean smell, though the bright white of the room had been dampened by nightfall. A strange cold hand was pressed against his forehead. He was relieved to find that the pounding in his temples had gone, and the pain of his knee had receded to a dull ache. He turned to look at the healer seated beside him and was disappointed to see a blonde head.

“Your leg is mending well; you should be able to be discharged tomorrow,” The healer told him, glancing up at him from her notes only briefly.

“Where is the other healer, the one who was here before?”

“Healer Corday? She has decided to take a leave of absence effective immediately, but that is of no concern to you,” the healer informed him, standing and smoothing her robes. “You should get some rest.”

The clicks of the Healer’s shoes on the floor faded from the room and William felt the question he wanted to ask die on his lips. Why?

***

William knew Freya was a creature of habit; she did not like sudden changes to her routine, which was one of the reasons why he found her decision to take leave to be so out of character, and so troubling. He did not visit her house the day he was discharged; it was Tuesday afternoon, a day Freya would usually have off regardless, and he knew she should be shopping. Still, he was relieved when he spotted her in Flourish and Blott’s.

“Freya,” he called, knowing better than to sneak up on her, “can I talk to you?” He found the way her face paled when she turned to look at him disturbing.

“No,” she replied, making it sound more like a question than an answer. William smiled inwardly at that. This was obviously not a fight she expected to win.

“Why don’t we go for a walk,” he suggested, hoping that she would be more comfortable talking in the relative privacy provided by walking in a street filled with people rushing about taking care of their own business. Freya simply nodded and walked ahead of him out of the store.

William waited until they were walking down a street in Muggle London before he spoke again.

“One of the Healers at St Mungo’s, she said you had decided to take a leave of absence. Any chance you’re going to tell me why?”

“Did it ever occur to you that it might be none of your business? I mean, apparently, it was none of my business that the dreams you’ve been having were about…him, and that night,” she continued, not looking at him, “and don’t tell me you’re just concerned about me, because I was concerned about you and that didn’t mean squat. Or is there some sort of double standard going on here that I don’t know about? A different set of rules for you? Were you ever planning on telling me? It has been eight years after all, or were you going to wait for a nice even number, a decade say?” William had winced as his words left her mouth with the same acid tone he had used when he had said them to her and now Freya was looking up at him with a glare that made William wish she was still not looking at him.

“I haven’t been having them for eight years. Sure at the beginning, right after the potion, I had them for a while, then they just sort of went away, but they’ve come back recently, not sure why exactly, I guess it could be- Wait a minute. How’d you know what my dreams were about?” he asked, immediately suspicious.

“That is not the point. The point is that-”

“Frey? Is that you?” a new voice cut her off.

“Do I know you?” Freya asked the newcomer, a middle-aged man with dark hair just beginning to be streaked with grey, and dull brown eyes.

“Now is that anyway to speak to your favourite uncle Frey? I know I haven’t changed that much.”

William turned his attention back to Freya as soon as he realised who the man was. She appeared to shrink somehow. Her eyes, filled with anger just a few moments before when she was speaking to him, were empty now. It was almost as if Freya had fled, leaving only a shell behind.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any uncles.” William was slightly surprised she had retained the ability to speak, though her voice was quiet and flat. He did not trust himself to speak, he could feel rage building inside of him, rage at this thing for what he had done to Freya, rage that he dared speak to her, rage that he was unable to help the scared little girl that had replaced his Freya.

“Now, what would your mother say if she knew how you were treating her brother Frey?” The mouth that spoke the words smirked in a way that William could only think of as triumphant. He obviously knew every crack in Freya’s armour.

“And what would your sister say if she knew how you treated her daughter?” William surprised himself by speaking, surprised that his fist still had not connected with the face in front of him.

“And who might you be?” The smirk was directed at him now, and an appraising glance was cast over him.

“William Attwood. I already know who you are. Freya, let’s go.” William took her by the arm and began to lead her away.

“Been telling stories have you, Frey? Never mind, I’ll forgive you. Remember Frey, I know all your secrets.” The voice taunted them as they walked away.

Once they were back in the relative safety of the Leaky Cauldron, Freya removed William’s hand from her arm and Disapparated. William could not bring himself to follow her. He did not know how to help her, how to bring his Freya out of hiding.

***

William lay in bed that night unable to sleep. There was an image in his head that he could not get rid of: the image of Freya, closed off and withdrawn, so scared that her only defence had been to flee, although her body had remained. He had replayed that afternoon’s events over and over in his mind since he had lain down to sleep. Still there was nothing he could think of to do, nothing he could think of to say. His knee twitched as if to remind him of the other problems and he wondered where they had gone, those reasons that had caused him to seek Freya out that afternoon. Those reasons that had seemed so important a few hours ago. Those reasons that had disappeared so quickly.

The thing that had plagued his dreams for months now, that had haunted Freya for more than a decade, had not been in reality what William had expected. He was short, barely taller than Freya; his build was larger than hers however, though in a flabby rather than muscular way. Despite how William searched for it, there was no flashing ‘I’m an evil creep’ sign. There was nothing immediate about Tom that suggested he was the type of person to do what he had done. Only when he spoke to Freya did it become apparent.

When William finally drifted off to sleep that night, he did not dream.

***

Freya, it appeared, had not slept. William found her seated at her kitchen table, chin propped up on one hand, still wearing the clothes she had been in when he had last seen her, the only movement was that of one finger around the rim of an obviously old cup of tea. He sat across the table from her and she continued to look straight past him and out of the window above the sink.

“Bugger off.”

He had opened his mouth to speak but she had beaten him to it. “Pardon?”

“Bug-gah-off,” she enunciated slowly. She still had not looked at him.

“You don’t swear.”

“Yeah and Uncles don’t rape their eleven-year-old nieces.”

“Tom is, is.” He struggled to find the words. “Most aren’t like him.”

“Really, what a surprise that is, and here was me thinking my family was normal.” She stood to leave them room, still without even a glance in his direction. “How would you know, anyway? You never saw your parents, let alone any of your extended family.”

He followed her out the door and into the living room. Tired of the cat and mouse game, he grabbed her arm and forced her to look at him. As soon as he did, the lost little girl came back and the other Freya retreated.

“Did you spend all night rehearsing that little speech? Did I ruin it early or was that it?” he asked, the harsh words softened by his gentle tone and that he was pushing stray strands of her hair out of her face when he spoke.

“That was about it. I figured you’d get mad at me after that and I never know what you’re going to do when you get angry, but then you made me look at you and that ruined it. It meant I wasn‘t just rehearsing it anymore; there was really another person here.” She rested her forehead on his shoulder and her next words were whispered, as if she was talking to herself and he just happened to hear her. “Sometimes I just want to scream you know, just want to let it all out, but I don’t even know what it all is, or where it comes from, and I hate him so much, for what he did, but he gave me Michael. I know he didn’t mean to but he did, and how can I hate someone who gave me my angel? But that means that part of him is in Michael and I don’t want Michael to be like that, to even know that there are things like that out there. I want to protect him so badly, make sure he doesn’t have to suffer the kind of pain that I did, but how do I protect him from himself? And he knew my mother; he grew up with her, how can he be so…so…if she was wonderful enough for my father to love her? The same people that created my mother created him; so that means some part of me must be like him, but I don’t want to be like that, be like him. I never want to see him again. I never thought I would have to see him again, but he was there, in the middle of the street. How can I walk down a street again and not be afraid that he’ll be there? I’m so tired of being afraid. When someone touches me, when I fall asleep, I’m always so afraid. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

She moved away then, to sit cross-legged at one end of the couch, a box of tissues sitting on her lap, her fingers already shredding one. William had not even noticed she had begun to cry. There were no loud sobs, no raking breaths, no stilting of her words. He sat at the opposite end of the couch, sitting slightly sideways to face her, her position meaning that she was already facing him. This time when she spoke she looked directly at him.

“Don’t tell me I don’t have to be afraid if I don’t want to be. It isn’t like there's some switch somewhere in my head that I can just flick and that will make everything alright. Nobody understands and I can’t explain, and I don’t want to explain. I just want to forget, but I can’t and it’s been twelve years and if I can’t forget by now, then will I ever? And I still dream, always. I can’t remember the last time I slept, you know just slept, without dreaming, without waking to something, just sleeping and waking when I did. And it’s just not fair! I know that is the worst argument in the world, life is never fair and all of that rubbish, but there is such a thing as too unfair, or is Michael supposed to balance that out somehow? ‘Sure you were raped when you were eleven by your uncle and ended up pregnant, but hey your son is a pretty good kid.’ He’s a Gryffindor by the way, I thought you’d be proud, proof you’ve been a corrupting influence on him. I’ve known for a month or so now, ever since he was sorted, but we were never talking so I never got a chance to tell you. He seems happy there, a small miracle in itself. You don’t think I’ve irreversibly messed him up, do you? You know mentally, emotionally and all that seeing as I’m such a nutcase? I’m not that terrible a mother or a person, am I? I’m sure he would be delighted to know that not only had he screwed me up, but that he’d messed with you and Michael too. Not that he will ever know about Michael, of course, but then I was never supposed to see him again and I did on the street yesterday, but then you know that, you were there, and that’s why you’re here now, not to yell at me for going into your dreams while you were unconscious at St Mungo’s, but to treat me like I’m broken, and to be careful and cautious because obviously I’m delicate. I’m so sick of being broken. I’m even more sick of being treated like I’m broken. I just want the ride to stop now; I’ve had enough.”

The tears stopped before she finished talking, which was probably good because there was a large pile of very small pieces of tissue paper sitting on the couch in front of her, next to an empty tissue box. William did not know what to say when she finished talking; he was not even sure of exactly what she had said. He stood, walked the couple of steps to where she sat at the other end of the couch, scooped her up into his arms, then he walked the couple of paces back to his end of the couch and sat again, repositioning Freya into a more comfortable position on his lap.

“Sleep now,” he told her, speaking it quietly into her ear, “you don‘t have to be afraid while I‘m here. I promise I’ll do my best to keep the dreams away.”

She did sleep, which surprised William a little, that she could go from where she had been when she was talking to him to asleep so easily, but she had been up the entire night before. He did not know what effect he thought him being there while she slept would have, he did hope it would make things better, help somehow, and for a while he thought it had. They had been on the couch for hours William supposed-the only gauge of time he had was the movement of the weak sunshine across the floor-when Freya began to cry. The tears came without a sound and trickled slowly down her cheeks while she slept. Her hands curled up and clutched at his robes, pulling closer or trying to push him away, William was unsure.

There was no cry when Freya woke, no noise at all, but she let go of him and scrambled to the other end of the couch, scattering pieces of tissue paper as she went. William approached her slowly, making soothing noises as if he was approaching a scared animal. She was curled up in a ball, face pressed against her knees, arms wrapped around her legs, William sat next to her, arms around her warped form, and kissed the top of her head gently.

“I guess I can’t keep your dreams away,” he said quietly, still wary of startling her. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be so surprised,” she whispered back, leaning against him slightly. “Why should you have any control over my dreams when you can’t even stop yours.”

“I did stop mine; well, it’s only been one night, but still…he’s just a cruel little man who gets some sick pleasure out of tormenting you, Freya, that’s all.”

She lifted her head and looked at him, her cheeks wet, brown eyes harbouring yet more tears. “Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve analysed it all to death, looked at it all from every angle, told myself all of these things, but I’m still in the same place, still broken.” She spoke the last word bitterly and replaced her face on her knees.

William had never wished for anything more than he wished for the ability to help Freya, to be able to heal her scars. He did not know what to do, what to say, so he sat there, with his arms wrapped around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.

***