Chapter Text
Patsy wakes up early, earlier than Trixie who’s still as a log on the bed next to her, and it takes her a moment to gather her bearings and remember the events of the night before. Her head feels heavy and she curls her legs towards her chest, digging the heel of her palms into her closed eyes. She lets out a breath and then stretches back out.
She had followed the news stories of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers since she was a young girl, reading The Prophet after her father had finished with it and even taking out a subscription when she was away at school. While some of her classmates had known about the war, it was mostly in passing—small snippets they had heard about from their parents and professors of a mad dark wizard wreaking havoc in Britain. It was geographically close to them yet so foreign and far away that Patsy seldom brought it up when she was at school.
She was in her fourth year at school when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was vanquished and Harry Potter was hailed as The Boy Who Lived, and it was like a weight was lifted off of her body and she could breathe and live again. She visited England for the first time in ten years with her father that winter holiday.
But now Sirius Black was out of Azkaban and it was like that weight was back, sitting on her chest and crushing her very being.
She knew the story, of course, of how Sirius Black had murdered that poor man and those innocent muggles, how he was a Death Eater in the inner circle. Only a powerful dark wizard could have blasted off a curse like that and that’s what Black was: a powerful, dark wizard.
Patsy closes her eyes again and rolls over. She can hear the nuns rising for their morning prayers and when she opens her eyes, the sun is peeking through the coverings of the window and the room is lighter. Trixie is still fast asleep.
Reluctantly she gets up, dressing in her work robes quietly and padding out of the room.
When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she’s surprised to hear a voice coming from the sitting room. Patsy furrows her brows and edges around the corner, craning her head only to see Sister Julienne huddled in front of the fireplace, her wimple bobbing as she talks.
“Yes, thank you. I’m sure I will be in touch with you later today.”
There’s a soft pop and Sister Julienne Stands back up. She doesn’t turn around and Patsy shifts, the floor creaking beneath her feet.
Sister Julienne turns around at the sound and Patsy gives up, making her way into the sitting room.
“Good morning, Patsy,” Sister Julienne says with a smile. “You’re up early.”
“I thought I’d get a head-start on things,” Patsy tries to smile back but it’s strained. She tries to make her way out of the room, towards the kitchen, but Sister Julienne holds up a hand and stops her.
“How are you?” She asks.
“I’m fine, Sister.”
Sister Julienne doesn’t try to verbally dispute this, but her eyes tell Patsy that she knows she’s lying.
Patsy sighs. Sister Julienne could always see through her. “Has the Ministry released anymore information?”
“Not yet,” Sister Julienne says. “But I just spoke with Healer Turner, and he said the hospital is going to enhance its security.”
Patsy furrows her brows. “How so?”
“From what he knows, they’re thinking of using Azkaban guards,” Sister Julienne says gravely. She isn’t quite frowning but her features lower and her shoulders tense, just a little.
Patsy’s eyes widen at the thought of having to pass by Dementors anytime she visits the hospital.
“If St. Mungo’s agrees to this,” Sister Julienne continues, “then there is a chance they will want to extend that security to us. Normally I would be grateful at the gesture, but…given the nature of said security, I will say that I am both hesitant and reluctant.”
“Does the Ministry really think that Black would come here? To a convent?” Patsy asks, voice barely above a whisper. She’s trying to stay calm, to keep a solid demeanor while talking to the head sister, but her insides feel like someone let loose a Cornish pixie.
Sister Julienne shakes her head.
“Patsy, I know this must be hard for you, but if there’s anything we can do, please let me know.”
“There’s really not much any of us can do, except to keep moving forward,” Patsy says, trying to smile again.
Sister Julienne shifts forward, pauses, and then turns her head so that her wimple shakes.
“Patsy, can I ask…who else knows about what happened?”
Patsy’s mouth twitches and she bites back a sarcastic remark. “Not many others.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a way to contact the Ministry, to see if perhaps this is a case they may be willing to reopen?”
“I couldn’t give you a name of who did, sister,” Patsy says, looking anywhere but at her superior’s calm and earnest face, “The Ministry was flooded with reports and attacks at the time. We weren’t even in England. When they found out, they waved it off to the Chinese Ministry. No one wanted to get involved.”
A moment of silence passes before Sister Julienne looks Patsy square in the face and says, “I’m sorry.”
Patsy’s third attempt at a smile comes off as a pained grimace. “I thought that it would get easier after You-Know-Who’s downfall. But now that I’m away from the walls of my childhood and school, now that one of his worst followers has escaped…who knows what else is out there? Waiting for us?”
Sister Julienne moves to take Patsy’s hands in her own, sharing a strength that Patsy didn’t know she needed until now.
“We don’t know, and perhaps in this lifetime we never will. But I urge you to stay strong, and to remember that God and your magic will see you through this.”
Patsy nods. Her face feels flushed and a rush of gratitude soars through her body.
“Thank you, sister.”
*
Winter, 1983
They’re staying at a hotel in London for the holiday.
Her father said he had business to take care of in Britain and had sent her an owl in the last week before her school break that they would be celebrating in London as apposed to their home in Hong Kong.
Patsy didn’t mind. She likes London, likes the buildings and the people and the accents that sounded like her own.
The hotel they’re staying in is across the street from Diagon Alley on the muggle side. It’s muggle owned as well, but the top floor, Patsy notices, seems to be inhabited only by wizards. They also seem to have their own, private room for their Christmas dinner, accompanied by other Gringotts workers and Ministry officials.
Patsy doesn’t question it, though, and spends the dinner next to her father, listening to him talk about the Wimbourn Wasps latest match and whether or not England has a shot at the playoffs for the World Cup.
“Do you fly at all, Miss Patsy?”
Patsy looks up from her plate. She’s the youngest one at the table; most of the people her father works with are either unmarried or childless. The man speaking to her is older with a receding hairline, his robes lined with gold that clearly show off his wealth.
“I took lessons in my first year,” she says, setting down her fork. “I’m afraid I didn’t take to it very well.”
The man gives a hearty laugh and Patsy doesn’t say anything else.
“Patience is excellent with charm work,” Mr. Mount says proudly. Patsy smiles up at him. “And not a bad dueler, either,” he adds.
“Oho! A dueler, eh?”
Patsy purses her lips before saying, “I have a very good Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”
“Who do they have now at Hogwarts?” Another man calls out, goblet in his hand. “Old Merrythought isn’t still there, is she?”
“Oh no, no,” Mr. Mount says. “She retired before I started.”
“Besides, I don’t think Patsy attends Hogwarts, is the right?” The first man turns to her, questioning.
Patsy shakes her head. “Beauxbatons.”
“Best in her class,” her father says, raising his goblet.
Patsy smiles awkwardly, wishing they would go back to talking about broomsticks and Quidditch instead of about her.
*
It’s the day before New Year’s Eve when Patsy and her father make their way to Diagon Alley. She watches, eyes squinting, as he briskly taps a brick wall outside of the Leaky Cauldron with his wand. He smiles at her as the bricks move to create an opening for them to walk through.
The cobblestone street is bustling with holiday shoppers and kids out of school for the break; Patsy had only ever been to Diagon Alley twice before and doesn’t remember it ever being this busy.
They weave their way around the shoppers, happy and laughing, until they end up in front of Gringotts.
“I should only be about an hour, maybe two. The Goblin Liaison office can be a bit slow to start,” her father says. He reaches into his inner robe and pulls out a small pouch of coins. “Fancy yourself some new dress robes?”
Patsy smiles, taking the pouch and holding it the palms of her hands. “Thanks, dad.”
He squeezes her shoulder gently and then walks into the bank.
Patsy pockets the pouch into her own cloak and pulls her scarf tighter to keep out the chill; the air is crisp and there a small piles of snow lining the road.
She window-shops, mostly, the gold hanging heavily in her pocket. She walks past the broomstick shop without bothering to stop, having no need to peek at the new Cleansweep model, but does stop in front of Eyelops Owl Emporium to stare longingly at a pearly white, snowy owl. The owl ruffles it feathers behind the window, straightening itself on the perch it’s sitting on, and Patsy tilts her head, blonde hair falling over her shoulder.
She knows, in her heart of hearts, that she would hate having an owl—the constant flying in and out of rooms, the hooting, the talons, the mess. Animals are not her thing; but she still loves the idea of having a companion with her while she’s away at school.
In the end, she doesn’t even go into the shop. Beuaxbaton provides owls for students to use. She doesn’t need one.
Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions is relatively empty when Patsy walks by so she does a double take, steps backwards, and walks in.
“Hello dear,” Madam Malkin says, turning her head from where she’s adjusting robes on a young looking wizard, no older than Patsy. “I’ll be right with you in a moment.”
Patsy doesn’t say anything and gives a polite nod instead. A majority of the shop is filled with Hogwarts school robes, cloaks and scarves delineating the different houses lining the walls.
Beauxbatons doesn’t have houses, not like Hogwarts does. She remembers stories her father would tell her when she was younger, before she started school, about his youthful days in Slytherin. School Prefect, president of the Gobstones club (which he would say proudly), and he even made the Slytherin Quidditch team as a beater in his seventh year.
Her mother had been a Gryffindor, fiery to the core, and one-upped her father by becoming Head Girl. The two had met when her father was a seventh year and her mother a fifth year, both stuck in the library studying for their N.E.W.T. and O.W.L exams, respectfully.
Patsy looks away from the Hogwarts robes, pushing thoughts of her mother out of her mind.
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
Patsy turns around to see Madam Malkin standing behind her, pincushion floating next to her head.
“A new set of dress robes, perhaps,” Patsy says.
Madam Malkin squints. “Are you a Hogwarts student?”
Patsy shakes her head. It’s a question she gets every time she’s in Britain. “I attend Beauxbatons Academy.”
Suddenly, Madam Malkin’s eyes go wide and she says, “Oh! You must be Samuel Mount’s daughter.”
“You know my father?” Patsy asks.
“I knew your mother,” Madam Malkin says, smiling sadly. “She worked in my shop the summer after she finished school.”
“Oh.” Patsy swallows. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. Well.” Madam Malkin claps her hands together and the floating pincushion bounces. “Let’s find you some new dress robes, shall we? Anything special coming up?”
*
Patsy leaves the robe shop with a set of pale blue robes. She has no immediate need for them, but with her father’s work and no one else to attend functions with him, she’s sure she’ll have an occasion in the upcoming months.
She’s about to head back up the side street, towards Flourish and Blotts, when she stops herself. To her left is Madam Primpernelle’s Beautifying Potions, and Patsy, against her better judgment, walks into the shop.
She had never been inside of Madam Primpernelle’s before, never even ordered through owl delivery service, choosing instead to purchase all of her skin care potions back in France, closer to school.
Madam Primpernelle is standing behind a low counter when Patsy walks in. Her hair falls down her face in perfect, blonde waves, and her lips are a deep red shade.
“Afternoon, love. Can I help you?”
Patsy grips the bag that her robes are in tightly. She thinks back to what Madam Malkin told her, how her mother spent a summer working in her shop, and she feels in ache deep in her chest. She looks at Madam Primpernelle’s blonde waves, thinks about her own blonde hair, and exhales.
“Do you have any potions for dying hair, per chance?”
*
When she returns to France after the new year, Carlotta Marchal is the first one to say anything. They’re in their dormitory, unpacking, when the smaller girl turns to her and reaches a hand up.
“J’aime tes cheveux roux, Patience.”
Patsy lets her touch the ends of her hair and her breath catches in her chest.
“Merci,” she says quietly.