The Rules of Science

"An atom, the smallest unit of an element, is composed primarily of three fundamental particles: electrons, protons, and neutrons. The combination of these particles in an atom is distinct for each element."

-From Chemistry Concepts and Problems

~

I pause and look up at my prison looking school before going in. It was a habit I have developed and indulge in at least once a week. More if the week has been bad. I wonder what it would be like to be in one world instead of stuck between two. Or maybe I'm not really stuck between two worlds. Maybe I'm just misplaced. Maybe I'm jealous because I'm a witch stuck in the Muggle world, attending a Muggle school, cut off from the magical world. I wonder if I would be happier if I had attended a wizard school, instead of being taught magic at night by my mother. Or would I be happier if I had been born a squib? I consider this. Nope. My dad would still be a complete and utter bastard and my mom would probably be more depressed and neurotic if I, her daughter, had turned out to be non-magical. It would have been her fault for marrying a Muggle.

The bell rings and I drag my feet to English, quite possibly the most useless class in the world. I take a seat in the back near Elaine, a person I hang out often enough with to be considered a friend.

"You look like hell, Maddy," she announces as I drop my book bag and plop into my seat, stretching my feet across the aisle to rest on the bar of her desk preparing for a nice nap as the rest of the class prepares to plow through objective complements, direct and indirect objects.

"Said like a true friend," I reply sarcastically. "Insomnia again."

Insomnia is what I tell my friends when my mother has had me up until odd hours of the night to learn magic.

"Quiet down everyone," the teacher calls tiredly from the front. I immediately put my head down to rest. My long dark hair falls down around me. I finger it idly. I need to get a trim, these split ends are horrendous. Maybe I should try a shorter cut like Elaine's hair--with colored streaks. Not red though, that's too much for me. Maybe blue, or green?

"Grammar is so damn easy. I wish she'd hurry up and get on with it," Elaine whispers to me across the aisle. "I hope she finally gets around to passing out The Grapes of Wrath. She said she might today."

Elaine is all about that kind of stuff. She loves English. Sometimes it amazes me that she dresses the way she does. She stamps her booted foot impatiently on the back of the chair in front of her, earning her a dirty look from its occupant. The teacher continues droning up front. She is oblivious.

I lay my head down on the desk again. Sleep sleep sleep, I command myself. It doesn't work. I give up. I lift my head up, straighten up in my desk, and reach into my bag to grab pen and paper. Am I finally going to pay attention to what the teacher is saying? Am I finally going to write down notes? Not hardly. My mother gave me a paper to write on the hardships of the merpeople; I might as well get started. The paper keeps me occupied through the rest of English as well as Honors Spanish.

I make it to chemistry intact and brain-fagged. I breathe in deeply the smell of the lab. I love the smell of chemicals. It reminds me of making potions, my favorite thing to learn. It's my mother's favorite thing to teach, so maybe that is why I like it so much. Maybe it's because making potions is the closest thing to normal in my Muggle life.

Sometimes I wonder if wizards would like me at all.

We are in the lab today, which makes me happy. Today's experiment: mix un-dangerous chemical A with un-dangerous chemical B. It's actually kind of dull compared to potion making, but at least the smell is familiar.

Lunch is disgusting and crowded. I skip outside to eat my bagel sandwich and drink my over-priced bottled water. I sit quietly in the corner and eat until the bell rings to go to my next class. We work on pottery in ceramics, and I play games on my graphing calculator while the class learns about log rhythms in Intermediate Algebra. I am grateful when it is time to go home. I plan to sneak up to my room and take a nap before my mother nags me about homework

The bus drops me and several other off about a block from where my flat is. My father makes enough money that we could live somewhere nicer, but I think he doesn't want it known that his wife and daughter are witches. People don't ask about the strange smells and funny noises where we live. The neighbors just think my mom has a few screws loose, which is true; there are just fewer screws loose than they think.

I bound up the three flights of stairs to our third floor flat, the corner flat. I think I'm the only person who does not use the elevator. But then, I don't want to be seen. I open the door slowly and carefully so I won't be heard. I hear my mother banging pots and pans about in the kitchen while she sings a cantata along with the choir on our stereo. I slip quietly up the stairs to my room. It was actually a studio apartment until my father got them to connect it to our flat and make it into a single room. The linoleum floor and counters of the kitchenette are still in one corner. A cauldron sits where the refrigerator once was, and a small garden of magical plants grow where the stove used to be. My room doubles as a classroom for my mom to teach me magic in.

It was actually a pretty nice thing for my father to do. For awhile there, I had actually thought he cared. Then I realized this kept two reminders that there was magic in this world out of his sight: me and my magical paraphernalia. He did, however, get rid of the door to the hall so I cannot come and go without my parents knowing. Most unfortunate.

I do not turn on the lights, but go to my single window and open the curtains. I prefer natural light to the glaring fake. My father should love me for the money I save him on electricity. I throw down my book bag and kick off my shoes and socks. Time for a much needed nap. I jump onto my bed, pull a sheet over myself, and am asleep in minutes.

I wake up to a shadowy room and a grumbling stomach. I must have slept longer than I intended. I bend over the edge of the bed to examine the clock that sits on the floor of my room. Nearly seven thirty. Dinner's probably over. Bet my dad's pissed I wasn't there. I wonder if he'll nearly choke me again like he did last time. I hope not.

It does not surprise me that my mother did not wake me up--she understands why I am so tired. She also knows I'll find my way to kitchen when my stomach wakes me up.

I crawl out of bed, untangling the sheet from around me as I go. I put on my shoes and socks again before heading downstairs; my dad has a thing about coming to the dinner table "properly dressed." I hope we had salmon. We eat fish a lot at my house because my dad loves it. It's one of the few things we have in common.

I walk down the stairs. The house is oddly quiet. I can't even hear my mother banging about the kitchen trying to clean up.

"Mom?"

No answer. Maybe she stepped out.

"Dad?"

I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn right to look into the living room. I can see my dad's shadow, cast long by the light of a lamp. I walk towards the doorway. Why in the world would he be standing up? He always reads the paper after dinner. Or plays a game of solitaire. And why is he so still? He always has a nervous twitch of some sort.

I stand in the doorway and see why my father is standing perfectly still. On the floor lays my mother, sprawled out, eyes blank, open in surprise, lifeless on the floor. I can only gape at the floor.

My father notices my presence and turns to look at me. I can tell immediately he is livid. In his right had he holds crumpled piece of parchment. He thrusts it towards my face and I step back automatically.

"What is this? What happened? You--you people--what did you people do to her?! Your kind did this to her! You filthy--! You little--!" He gets closer to me with every half uttered phrase, crumpling the ball of parchment tighter and tighter. I stand ground until he is nearly on me, but when he raises his left fist I bolt for the door. My father comes after me with a roar. Unfortunately for me, my father is an athletic man and is right behind me. He cuts in front of my escape route, the front door, and forces me slowly, step by step into the kitchen, directly across from the small entryway.

I start to babble, "Let me see the owl post! Maybe I could read it and see why--Maybe there's something we could do!" I know this is a lie. There is no path away from death. I change tactics. "It's not my fault and you bloody well know it! Why don't you just calm down and we'll call the police--or--Just let me see the letter and we'll straighten it all out--!"

It's no use. He corners me in the kitchen between the fridge and the wall.

"You'll pay!" he yells, "You'll all bloody well pay, dammit!"

As he raises his fist, I happen to glance over his shoulder. Two figures have just appeared in my entry hall. I cannot tell if they used a door or not. They look in our direction, where all the ruckus is coming from, and see me cowering in the corner of the kitchen. My father either does not noticed my eyes bulge in surprise, or he takes it for utter terror. His fist comes down heavily against my temple, and my head snaps back and hits the wall hard. My vision goes white, and then everything goes completely dark.

I am laying flat on my back. I am laying on something soft. I am laying on something cool and probably cotton. I hear voices--masculine--a few feet from my head. I focus in on what they are saying. The first voice is wheezy, and rather comfortable sounding, like an old chair that fits your body perfectly.

"...is tragic, but perhaps it will be the best thing for her. Perhaps it will help her to focus. Perhaps it will be less of a culture shock if she can't--"

This man is cut off suddenly. Then another voice, very unlike the first--smooth, proper, and precise--says quietly, "She is awake."

He's talking about me. I quickly focus all my attention on looking asleep. I hear quiet footsteps towards me, on what sounds like a wood floor, and I feel someone bending over me from way up high. "You may quit pretending," the second voice says, somewhat snappily, "I know quite well that you are conscious."

I frown a little, giving away any bit of pretense I had before.

"Open your eyes," the voice commands.

I open them grudgingly, partially curious as to what these two men look like, and if they are potentially dangerous.

I see blackness.

I rub my eyes vigorously with my fists, squeeze my eyes tight, and open them again.

Blackness.

I sit up in what I assume is a bed, and rub my massage my eyes roughly with the palms of my hands. I blink several times very slowly.

Still a black nothing.

Panic seizes me. "I'm blind!" I yell. "I'm freaking blind! What the bloody hell did you do to me?" I look menacingly in what is hopefully their direction. "What did you do? Where am I? What the hell just happened? I can't see a damn thing!"

"We know," the voice speaks again, loudly, over my ranting.

This shuts me up very effectively.

"We know," the voice repeats going on quietly, "so if you will just calm yourself, we will explain everything in due time. Headmaster?"

"But you're doing a fine job, Severus."

"Headmaster?" I ask, cocking my head to one side. "Headmaster...?"

"Forgive us for not introducing ourselves," the kind voice says. Two warm, thin, dry hands take one of mine in firm handshake. "I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"Dumbledore..." I say weakly, realizing I had yelled at him.

"And this," there is a pause, and then I feel a cool hand with long fingers touch mine briefly, "Is Professor Snape. He is the Potions master at Hogwarts."

I nod my head, still unsure if to believe any of it. "And I'm Madeline Philips, just in case you abducted the wrong person." I pause for a moment. "So exactly what just happened here?"

"I think, perhaps, Professor, I will leave much of the explaining up to you."

I sit up straighter in the bed, and lean forward to ensure I don't miss a word.

"Ah," says, what I will soon be calling, the unmistakable voice of Professor Snape. "Your...father," this word is said with great distaste, "hit you in the temple--"

"I remember that much," I say impatiently, interrupting.

"Hit you in the temple," Professor Snape continues pointedly with barely a pause, "which in turn caused your head to hit the wall at such an angle as to damage your sight." Understate-ment, I think. "We will be taking you to an expert at Saint Mungo's to determine if the loss is indeed temporary."

I think on this a moment. I do not feel as panicky as I thought I would discovering I'm blind. That will come later, I suppose. My greatest fear is that I have little choice but to put my trust in these people who claim to be wizards--one the great Albus Dumbledore nonetheless--until I have my vision back. If I get it back. I shiver at the thought of a life in darkness.

My mother.

"What happened to my mother?" I ask quietly.

The so-called Dumbledore answers my question. "I believe that your mother died from shock. I understand her heart was not in the best condition. The letter she received contained information that the Dark Lord has risen again."

I have a feeling that both are watching me very closely to see what my reaction will be to this news.

"Ah," I say vaguely. I heard of the feared Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. My mother had talked of it little; I occasionally heard bits a pieces about him from other witches and wizards on rare trips to Diagon Alley. The name did not particularly strike terror in my heart.

The Snape-character speaks again, "Your mother did not speak of the Dark Lord much, did she?"

I shake my head. "Sounded like hard times though, from what I know." Silence for a few beats. "Wait, did you say he was back?"

"Yes."

I frown a little. I don't know what to say to this. It is obviously not a good thing. Wasn't You-Know-Who supposed to be afraid of Dumbledore anyway? I had heard something to that effect once. I wonder why the shock killed my mother. How did Dumbledore know she had a weak heart? It makes no sense. Why would anyone tell my mother the Dark Lord has risen again anyway? Who was the letter from to begin with?

"Who sent the letter?"

"We are not sure. Who ever wrote it took care to make sure one could not tell." A pause, then, "They may have written it with the intention of shocking your mother. They may have known she had a heart condition."

I glance up sharply in what I suppose is Professor Snape's direction. "How did you know that?"

"I used to know your mother." His tone does not invite questioning.

Dumbledore intercedes at this point. "Miss Philips, we came, or Professor Snape did, to escort you to Hogwarts. We have more matters to discuss there which would not be safe to discuss here. Your father did not object to this. Though after his latest display, I do not think it would have been advisable to leave him with you even if he had objected. I have other business to attend to, and therefore must be on my way. Professor Snape will be escorting you to St. Mungo's and then to Hogwarts. He can answer any questions you have about the school. It was a pleasure meeting you Madeline Philips," he takes my hand in both of his again. "I will see you again when the new school term starts. Good day."

I open my mouth to protest--what I'm not sure--but I am too late, and hear the faint pop of apparation.. I close my mouth with a small click of teeth. I turn my head to look at Professor Snape for what to do next and realize I do not know where he is standing. This is getting incredibly frustrating.

"Come along. We had better get going. We will have to use Muggle transportation, and Merlin knows how long that will take." His tone is that one of doing an unpleasant job. I resent that.

I move cautiously towards the edge of the bed and slide my feet slowly over the edge until they touch the floor. I stand on my feet carefully, as though unsure they will work.

"Hurry up, girl."

I am thoroughly disgruntled now. "Have you ever been blind?" I snap. "It's not as easy as it looks."

He steps towards me and takes my arm, setting it on his. "Come along, then," he says darkly.

I stumble along beside his long strides, not because my legs are short, but because it's terrifying walking and not seeing where you are going. "Take it easy, will you?" I say crossly.

"Step," he replies.

"What?"

My brain catches up as Snape takes a step downward, forcing me to follow, and I rock a little before catching my balance on the step.

"Step."

This time I step down with him, and we continue this way down the stairs until he tells me that was the last step. I never thought walking down the stairs was so difficult. Of course, these are unfamiliar stairs. I'm sure I could walk up my own stairs at home with my eyes closed. I think I could. I don't want to think about home.

Thankful to be on even footing, I try my best to concentrate on keeping up with Snape.

"Door," he says.

I let him move ahead of me, hand still gripping his arm, and follow right behind him, jarring my shoulder against the door frame.

"Ow!" I would rub my shoulder, but that would mean letting go of Snape, which is the last thing I want to do. I imagine he would be very cross about it if I did, anyway.

We are on the sidewalk now. The noise of the street and the fact that I run in to people every few minutes give it away. If it hadn't, I would have been able to tell by how the ground felt through my sneakers. I file it away in my brain to remember how concrete feels with your shoes on. Who knew I'd ever find think it was important?

"We're taking the Underground," my partner says quietly.

Damn. More steps.

I try to remember how many turns we have taken since we started this venture: I can't remember. I try to remember how many people I have ran into: too many to count.

"Step."

We are at the Underground. We reach the bottom of the stairs safely. I must admit, Professor Snape, if not seeming to be the friendliest of sorts, has a good deal of patience. Unlike the many people who jostled, rather unnecessarily I thought, quickly past us. I don't recall meeting so many inconsiderate people in London before. It took a lot of self control not to kick the man or woman who's briefcase swung into my shins as they passed.

We walk a few yards and then stop. I imagine we are stopping to examine the Underground map to see which train we should get on and which station we should get off. This could take a long time.

"Where are we and where are we going?" I ask. "I can tell you which train and which stop."

"We're at the West Ham station and need to get up around Gloucester Road."

I frowned in thought. West Ham to Gloucester. West Ham is in the east....

"Um. I think we just need to take the District line. I don't think we'll need to change. Check the map though, and make sure."

I stand patiently while my partner checks the Underground map. I hope I was right. It felt as though he were giving me a test and it was vital I passed it.

"Hmph. Very well," was all he says, after a minute or two. I am led off again to get a ticket.

He bought the ticket with ease. If nothing else, he was very good a pretending to be a competent Muggle.

"This yer daughter, sir?" I hear the ticket man ask.

"No," Professor Snape says shortly, and pulls me away quickly from the ticket booth. I grin cheerily at the ticket man and wave before allowing myself to be pulled away through the ticket barrier.

We weave our way through a crush of people, and for once it isn't odd that I continually run into people, because they are running into me as well. We come to a sudden stop, and Snape presses his arm closer to his side, keeping me closer as well. We must be standing near the edge of the platform because I can feel the empty air in front of me. It is amazing how much information can be gathered through your other senses to form a fairly clear picture even without your eyes.

I hear the rumble of the train coming, and feel it whoosh past me at high speed before screeching to a halt. I feel Snape's arm muscle tighten as the train stops and the doors squeak open. I wonder if he is afraid of riding the Underground.

He pulls me onto the train, and I step carefully so as not to trip. Snape takes the hand I have on his arm and puts it on a pole. I grip it more firmly than Snape's arm: it is my anchor to the real world, the Muggle world, the world where I live a normal life with a mother and father, one of whom loves me to some degree. Loved me. My throat constricts and I feel my jaw stiffen, fighting for self control. I grip the pole tighter in hopes of getting a grip on my emotions, my long fingers curl around the cold steel and bite into my palm, forcing me back into the very real reality where everything is happening too fast and too confusingly.

I can feel the heat radiating from Snape's hand above mine on the pole.

"'Scuse me, sir. Your daughter can take my seat here, if you like."

"Thank you," Snape says, politely. He does not contradict the man. I am guided to my seat as the train starts to move. Once seated, I am still and perfectly erect. For once, I am a little afraid of sitting alone on the Underground. I cannot see what or whom I am sitting next too, nor anyone else in the car.

"Have my seat as well, so you can sit beside her," the voice next to me says, getting up.

"Thank you. Very much."

I retract my earlier statement about the many inconsiderate people in London. Sixty percent are more inconsiderate, forty percent are more considerate.

Snape sits down beside me, careful to not touch me. I wonder if he is a hypochondriac. I wonder if he is obsessive compulsive. I wonder if he is married. I wonder what he is thinking. I wonder what he thinks of Muggles. I wonder how the hell he got assigned to baby-sit me. It is very boring sitting on a train if you can't watch people. I count the stops until Gloucester Street. In between numbers I conquer thoughts of my mother by reciting the elements and their common oxidation numbers to myself. Then I recite, in detail, the twelve common uses of dragon blood. Then I go through the seventeen uncommon ones. The Underground feels like a vacuum from reality.

The train slows down to our final stop. Snape rises beside me and braces himself for the final stopping jolt. He reaches down and takes my arm, pulling me up. I put my hand on his arm, bracing myself for the stop as well. The train halts, the doors squeak open. The cooler, less stale air of the Underground station pours in, and we step over the threshold and back into the real world.

Through the crush of people, up the evil stairs of doom, back out into fresher air and even more hustle and bustle. We walk for several blocks--we seem to change directions an alarming amount of times. I wonder if Snape is worried someone is after us (they say my mother may have been murdered--but I'm not thinking about that right now), or if we are walking through some of the worst constructed street systems of London.

My partner slows down and finally stops. There is something large in front of us, and I wonder if we have made it to St. Mungo's already. Wouldn't there be something to block it from prying Muggle eyes? I resist the temptation to reach out and touch whatever is in front of me in hopes of identifying it.

Snape leans forward slightly beside me. Should I do the same? Before I can make up my mind, he speaks in a low voice. "I have a patient here with me."

There is a pause, and regardless of the fact that there was no audible answer, we march forward. Instantly, the noise of the street is gone, replaced by the noises and smells of a hospital. Some rather odd sounds, I thought cocking my head to one side, for a hospital. We have obviously come on a very busy day. I wish I could see what the inside a real wizard hospital looks like. I wish I could have seen the outside, for that matter.

People scarcely acknowledge me as I trip over a few legs to keep up with Snape's strides forward to...somewhere. I guess they have other things on their minds. Or bodies. We pause for a moment, Snape mutters, "Artifact accidents, ground floor. I guess that will have to do," before leading me off again.

The noise dims a little as we walk down a hall. I can at least hear my sneakers striking a hard surface, like tile. We haven't gone far when we stop, and I feel my shirt brush up against something like a counter.

"Excuse me," Snape says. We must be at some sort of reception desk. I put my unfettered hand out and touch the top of the counter, laying my palm out flat on it. It is real and solid. I use this as an example to prove to myself that what is happening to me is real and solid as well.

"Yes? Can I help you?" The voice is young, soft, lilting, and, inexplicably, slightly irritating. It's the kind of voice that would go on determinedly cheerful after you had a leg removed because a building fell on it, destroying all you had, killing your beloved kitten, and addling the brains of your family so they did not recognize you. It was a voice that confused ebullience with sympathy.

"A wand misfired and knocked Miss Philips here into the wall at such an angle so as to blind her. We need to see an expert so we will know how long this impairment will last, and what we can do in the meantime to ensure to her a relative independence."

"Oh my," the receptionist says in cheery dismay, "take a seat, and fill out these forms. I will contact Healer Lucy Raphael; she's the best for this sort of thing. Just fill out those forms and we'll show you to a room."

Snape helps me to a seat, where I sit down, ramrod straight again. I have never been one for posture, but being blind makes me feel as though my body must touch as much of the seat as possible to assure myself I am really sitting in a chair. I spend the next half hour quietly answering the questions Snape poses on me about my family and medical history out of the corner of his mouth. He finally stands up and turns in the forms to the witch up front. I fidget while he is away, feeling insecure. I put my hand out to feel the empty chair next to mine. The fabric is smooth and slippery (no wonder I keep wanting to slide out of my seat), and there are no arm rests (my arms are aching for something to rest on).

The witch's voice floated towards me from the reception desk, "Room 106 in the Gregory Neocaesarea ward. Healer Raphael will be with you shortly."

I can barely hear the movement of feet towards me, and suddenly Snape is standing over me again. "Come on, now, Miss Philips."

I stand carefully and put my arm tentatively on his arm again. He sweeps us off in some direction, down a hall I assume, that was even quieter than the previous one. We pause and turn to the left.

"Door," he says, and I manage to not bang my shoulder against this one. We sit down, and I take my hand and fold it with my other one in my lap, and imagine myself waiting calm and poised for the Healer to arrive. My back is getting tired of all this good posture.

Quick, light footsteps from the hallway, a pause, and then a female voice, "Now this is a rather unusual case." A few more steps, "Madeline Philips, I presume?"

My "yes ma'am" is drowned out by Healer Raphael's exclamation of surprise.

"Severus Snape? Aren't you still teaching at Hogwarts?"

"Lucy," my friend replies cordially (I'm sure he gave a curt nod in her direction), "Yes, I am still the Potions master."

Potions master?! This could be very good, or very bad.

"Poppy Pomfrey is a more than qualified Healer. Why isn't this student...?"

"Miss Philips is not yet a student at Hogwarts. She has been taught at home until certain circumstances have removed her from that home. She is in my charge at this time."

"I see." Although what she saw, I could not be sure; Snape had given a very ambiguous answer. I couldn't see a thing, both literally and figuratively. "Well, then. Let's see how extensive the damage is...."

She has pulled a chair across from mine and is leaning in rather close. I stay perfectly still and ignore the instinct to pull back a little. I hear something like a wand being waved around my face and feel the slight breeze of it passing by my temples.

"That was quite a knock back." I can hear the frown in her voice. I bet she's giving Snape a once-over. I bet she thinks our cover story is utter shite.

I nod once, cautiously.

There is a long pause.

"Will I be blind...for the rest of my life?" I ask, finally, unable to bear the suspense, barely able to get the words out of my mouth.

"No. No you won't," her voice is heavy, and not entirely reassuring. "We should be able to get, if not all, then most of your vision back. Professor Snape, I'm sure you've heard of the Anticaecus potion." He must have nodded because the Healer continues, "It will take several months, but it should slowly be able to restore your vision. Until that time, you'll need to spend a few weeks with one of our rehabilitators who will help you learn to get by while your vision is temporarily impaired. You will need to come here for that, as well as the weekly administrations of this potion. It will take me about two weeks to make the potion, as your ailment is not a common one. If by that time, however, you will be at Hogwarts, Madame Pomfrey is thoroughly qualified to administer the potion." It was a half question. I must admit I am curious myself as to when I'll be heading to Hogwarts. School had been in session for about two and a half months at this point.

"Miss Philips will be at Hogwarts at that point, yes."

"I will write a note to Poppy, then, for you to give to her."

Healer Raphael got up from her seat in front of me, and I heard the rattle of her opening a drawer to get out parchment and quill.

"How many times a week will this therapy have to be?"

"Every day." The answer was absent minded.

I feel Snape stiffen beside me from...surprise? Shock? Anger? I have the distinct feeling his eyes were on me. "Is there any way we could have the rehabilitator come to Hogwarts? Making sure she is in tune with our studies at Hogwarts is rather vital right now."

"I don't see why not," the Healer seemed rather surprised at the idea of it. "Wells would probably do it. He's still in training, but he's our best. Just owl him to set up a time. I know he won't mind going back to Hogwarts."

"We thank you," Snape says politely.

"Ah, yes. Thanks," I add quickly, feeling I should say something.

"And you, young lady, should be very careful. Don't be surprised at all the bruises you'll get running about knocking into things," the Healer says kindly, but sternly. Her steps move closer to where I am sitting. "Here's the note."

"Thank you," Snape says, "we'd best be going. I need to get back in time to be ready for classes tomorrow."

Great, now I feel even worse. He's taken a whole day off so he can cart me around places.

I stand meekly when Snape takes my arm again, and we head out the door. We walk in silence for awhile until I work up the nerve to speak.

"I'm afraid I've become more trouble than I'm worth," I say, hoping that will work for an apology.

A moments pause before he replies, "Unfortunately, you're not."

This cryptic answer does not make me feel better.

"Do you think you could handle using the Floo Network on the way back?"

I shrug, feeling worse than before, though I was not sure why, "Sure."

We keep walking, the noise of the hospital gradually growing louder and covering the silence between us.

"Door."

Turning right, I make it through the doorway just brushing the edges. This room is quite crowded. The voices in the room blur together into a low roar, each voice we pass seeming louder than the last: "I told you not to touch the bandage! Just look at the mess you made! Now we'll have to go back and..." "Now I smell all funny, Mommy!" "If you don't settle down we'll take the Muggle way home!" "Children didn't act like this when I was young!" "Really must hurry! I have an important meeting on regulating the thread count of flying carpets...."

I shake my head. Who knew the wizarding world was so busy? My life had been extremely mundane. Some of that, I'm sure, was due to my father's watchful eye. I am not thinking of my father.

We wait in line for awhile. At least that's what I think we are doing. We walk two steps, stop, walk two steps, stop. My companion chooses not to fill me in on what is going on, so I am merely guessing. Finally we get to the head of the line. A bored voice intones, "A sickle per person. That will be two sickles please."

Oh lord, Snape will have to pay for that. I open my mouth to say I will pay my way when I realize I can not. All of my mother's wizard money, as well as mine, is stored safely in Gringott's bank; only taken out on our few excursions to Diagon Alley. I sigh. I am feeling worse by the minute. I can't wait until I get ho--to the castle. I hope they let me go straight to bed when we get there.

Snape must have handed over both the sickles because he moves me forward into position in front of what I hope is a fireplace, stuffing the bit of floo powder in my palm, ordering, "Throw the floo powder, walk straight ahead about two steps, and say 'Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office' very clearly. Understand?"

"Yes," I deadpan. "Just because I was home schooled doesn't mean I don't know how floo powder works."

"Just get in there," Snape snaps.

I throw the powder down, I pray it's in the right direction. Hearing the fire roar a little, I walk forward roughly two steps saying as clearly as possible, "Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office."

I tuck in my elbows as the warm flames lick around me and warm air flies past me on all sides. It all stops suddenly, and I stumble and fall out onto hard, cool stone, coughing a bit.

"I thought you would be showing up soon," a kind and familiar voice says above my head. An old, strong hand reaches down and helps me up off the floor. "Have a seat, won't you please?" Dumbledore. The words Snape had instructed me to say and I had repeated without analyzing them clicked into place. I am in Headmaster Dumbledore's office. This makes me more than a little nervous.

He guides me to a chair, allowing me to feel around myself with my hands as we go. I am very careful to touch very lightly just in case I break something. When we got to the chair, I sat down gratefully. It is a comfortable chair, padded, cushy, slightly bouncy, with a high back and (Thank Merlin!) arm rests. I could fall asleep right now.

"Ah, and here is Professor Snape," Dumbledore comments. He sounds farther away than before. He must be sitting behind his desk, or something, I think.

Professor Snape must have arrived with much more grace than I did. I hear no stumble or fall, and not even the slightest cough to betray inhaling any soot. I do hear him lightly brushing off his robes.

"Good evening, Headmaster. I apologize if we are late or interrupting anything."

Damn it. I didn't even think of that. Why can't I ever think of the proper thing to say? The Headmaster must think I'm very rude.

"No, no. Nothing terribly important. Have a seat, Severus."

Snape brushes past me on his way to sit. I straighten up, realizing I am slouching.

"Well, then. What is the report?"

"The Healer thought Miss Philips' condition could be cured."

"Excellent."

"It will, however, take a few months. Madame Pomfrey may administer the potion for the cure once a week. I have a note here from the Healer," Snape pauses, and I hear the rustling of paper as the note is passed between Snape and Dumbledore.

"Good. I can send this up to Poppy, if you'd like Severus."

"I may as well do it. Miss Philips also needs to learn how to handle her current situation, and I took the liberty of requesting that the Healer come here to do his therapy. I hope the Headmaster doesn't mind...?"

"That is perfectly fine. I thank you for taking the initiative, Severus."

"His name is Wells, and I need to owl him to arrange a time and place. I'll send the note to Madame Pomfrey before I send the owl."

"Wells. Silas Wells? A delightful young man. He was one of the top students in his year. It will be good to see him again."

"Yes Headmaster." It hardly sounds as though Snape really agrees. "If there is nothing else for us to discuss, I can escort Miss Philips to her room and...."

Dumbledore interrupts as Snape trails off, "You go ahead, I can escort Miss Philips to her room. I know you would like to see the notes the substitute left behind, as well as look over tomorrow's lesson plan." There is a hint of humor in the Headmaster's voice as he says this.

"Thank you Headmaster. Good evening Miss Philips." Snape walks past me again, and I hear a door open and close behind me. I am alone with Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

He is first to speak, "I trust your journey went well?"

"Yessir. I'm a little sore from running into things, though."

The headmaster chuckles a little, "I suspect you will have to get used to that for the time being. You must be very tired from all that bumping. I'll escort you to your room."

I hear him move around the desk as I stand from my chair. He takes my arm in his, and moving me carefully around the armchair, we maneuver out the door without incident.

"Step down just once, and the staircase will carry us the rest of the way down."

I could kiss the man for having moving stairs to his office, I think as we slowly spiraled down.

We disembark at the bottom, and wait a moment. I hear the sound of stone scraping against stone. "I have a stone gargoyle that guards the entrance to my office." The Headmaster remarked.

"I see," I say, noticing, too late, the irony of my statement. We walk forward and I hear it scraping closed behind us.

"Headmaster," I say tentatively, as Dumbledore starts to take a step to our right, "would you mind if we went very slowly and along the wall so I can start learning my way about? D'you--do you have the time?"

"Certainly Miss Philips. I think it a very good idea indeed." He edges me over towards a wall, and I put out my left hand out to gently trail along the wall as we walk. I decide I would try counting steps until turns and so forth to see if I can keep track of where I am going. I command my feet and fingers to remember whatever my brain does not. "The castle has been told of your coming. It will help you. And if you feel that you have lost yourself, then just ask for help from one of the portraits, and they will give it." He says this as my fingers trail across the bottom of a gilded frame.

"Thank you." I reply. It does not surprise me that the castle had been asked to help me. I had read about the castle in Hogwarts, A History, as well as numerous other books on the awareness of man-made structures. Buildings, especially arcane and magically built ones such as this, have a level of consciousness and can be spoken to, in a loose sense of the word. They have a long memory, and the very walls have ears, so to speak. Talking to buildings is not an easy thing. But, of course, Dumbledore would be able to handle such a thing as that.

We head down a staircase now, and I count the number of steps it has.

"Jump over the thirteenth step, it's missing," Dumbedore says suddenly.

After counting step number eleven, I jump, landing on the fourteenth, and count the last four down. So thirteenth step from top, fifth from bottom. I file this fact away in my brain. We turn right and continue down a quiet corridor, taking two flights of stairs down at the end, each with twelve steps. We must be in a subterranean part of the castle, like a dungeon perhaps, because the air iss much cooler and felt faintly damp.

The Headmaster and I must have walked nearly two hundred steps before coming to rest before something made of cloth. A curtain? Or a tapestry?

"Your room is behind this tapestry," Dumbledore states. "Your things from your room are in there, as well as some new things you'll need for school, such as your school robes. You will not become part of a house, for I would not find it in your best interests at this time. And," he sees me opening my mouth to ask if my things had been paid for by someone else, "the new things were bought with your mother's money, all of which now belongs to you. So do not worry about being beholden. Someone will come and fetch you in the morning to help you find your way to your first class, which--I think--is History of Magic. Then Charms and Advanced Ancient Runes."

I nod my head. I want to ask a thousand questions: Why wasn't I to be sorted? That was the thing I had been looking forward to most, to belong somewhere, to have a surrogate family. What other classes would I be taking? Why was I taking Advanced Ancient Runes? I hope he hadn't put me in any classes I hadn't studied at home, like Herbology or Divination or studying magical creatures. If I weren't feeling so drained of energy, I would panic. But all I do is nod my head tiredly.

"Good night, then, Miss Philips. I hope you sleep well."

"Thank you, Headmaster." I let go of his arm and turn around to move the tapestry aside. I stumble through the opening behind it. Catching myself before I fall, I put out both my arms to feel my way into bed. I shuffle forward moving my hands back and forth until I catch onto what feels like one of the bedposts. I feel my way across the bed sheets to the lumps of pillows at the top. My bed cover is already turned down, waiting for me to crawl in. On top of the pillow nearest to me, I feel the familiar texture of my worn pajama pants and tank top. Smiling for the first time that day, I strip down and put on my sleeping clothes. It feels so wonderful to be in such familiar, comfortable clothes.

I hop into my bed, which is rather high, banging my shins in the process. I am going to look like I fought with a staircase and lost, I think ruefully. I lay my head back into the soft, feather pillows, closing my eyes. Not that it makes a difference, I think a little bitterly.

Unfortunately, I do not fall asleep as soon as I hope. Thoughts of the past two days events run over and over through my head, and I can't stop seeing my mother's lifeless body. I always loved my mother, but had never been overly fond of her. She had never stood up to my father for herself, or for me, and she had kept me out of the proper world I belonged in, or thought I belonged in. I still cry for her though. She was not always a supportive mother, but she had always been loving.

"You're the only thing I have to remind me of that other world, that other part of me," she had told me every once in awhile, usually while we were working on a spell or a potion. Well, now it's just me, sitting alone in a strange bed, remembering that other world I had lived in, that other part of me I would never, ever go back to again.