Chapter Text
My dearest Miriam:
First, allow me to apologise. I know I haven't written in a while, but I've been tirelessly, yet gladsomely engaged. I think once I explain, you'll understand. In fact, I dare say you might even be proud.
As you know, I've taught many students of varying ages throughout my years at Hogwarts, but nothing could've prepared me for Keira Crossland; a mysterious new student who, if you can believe it, will be starting this term as a fifth year. A fifth year! It's practically unheard of for anyone to be enrolled so late, but she's truly remarkable, despite being a late bloomer.
Though, I'm getting ahead of myself. During our first meeting, she was timid, excruciatingly quiet, and unopinionated. She's still like that, actually. Trying to get her preference on anything is like trying to squeeze blood from a Gobstone. Not that I blame her, of course. The poor girl's been through hell and back. When bumbling Black assigned me to be her mentor, I wasn't sure what to expect, but finding her in a dreary orphanage on the outskirts of England was the furthest possibility from my mind. Not just any orphanage either, but a Muggle one.
Upon learning all of this, I naturally worried she wouldn't know anything about the wizarding world, and that I'd have to drop a life-changing stunner on her, but I was wrong. She knew her parents, grew up with them, received a stellar education. Then she turned eleven and everything changed. Heartless radicals obsessed with blood status. Realising their daughter had no aptitude for magic, or so it appeared, they abandoned her. Resigned her to the life of a Squib. The details I've found are rather sparse, but from what I understand both parents hauled her out of bed in the middle of the night—less than a month after her birthday, might I add—and dropped her in front of a shelter. She was eleven, Miriam. Crying in the cold autumn rain, begging them to take her home.
It astounds me sometimes, the cruelty of our own people. You and I weren't able to conceive, no matter how hard we tried, so to see a child thrown away, for something completely out of her control, no less ... disgusting. Words cannot express the intense ire that tests my conscience when I think about her family, about the damage they've done, but I can't show it. I have to be gentle with her. It's obvious she hasn't lived a good life at the orphanage and she recoils if I get too close. For her sake, I must remain calm.
The first few days we spent together were, for lack of a better word, agonizing. I slept at a nearby hotel and met her outside the orphanage every morning. She looked so tired, Miriam. The bags under her eyes, the way she barely dragged her feet—it hurts to revisit. She was polite, but guarded. Attentive, but withdrawn. Curious, but too afraid to ask questions. Mostly, she was silent. I wasn't even sure if she wanted to return to the wizarding world, so I asked her. She froze.
"I don't think it matters," she lisped. "It'll be the same no matter where I am."
I'm determined to show her that that isn't true. I told her as much, but I can tell she doesn't believe me. I'll just have to prove it.
Having received no direction from the headmaster, and not wanting to leave the girl in that stinking cesspool a moment longer, I've brought her to our cottage in the Highlands. It seems the perfect place to study, even though it's still a bit of a mess. Did you know you left parchment lying around in almost every room? I just couldn't bring myself to gather it. I've grown so used to your organised chaos and cleaning it up feels...
Well, anyway. Keira. She'd never apparated before and I expected, as is customary, that she would puke, but she barely even stumbled. If anything, she was more struck by the scenery than the rocky journey. Of course, I've come to find that this resilience is a common strength of her character. Yesterday, I gave her my old wand, and to my astonishment she bonded with it instantly.
"Let's learn a spell," I said, gleefully.
She looked uncertain, if not utterly terrified. Gripping the handle tightly, she shook her head. She acknowledged that holding it felt good, but she didn't trust herself. When I asked her why she said, "Because I can't do anything right."
My heart ached. In that moment, I saw everything she's suffered. Never a kind word of affirmation, never a well-meaning or well-rounded adult to tell her she's enough. My expression may have betrayed my professional demeanor, because she then apologised, as if she'd said something wrong; which, she did, but not of any fault of her own. I assured her everything would be fine, and that if she couldn't produce a spell we would simply keep trying.
"But ... what if the magic I've been wielding is just a fluke?" she asked, eyes fixed to the ground. "What if it disappears? Forever?"
I didn't hesitate. "You're coming with me one way or another. I promise you'll not go back to that orphanage."
I don't think I realised the full magnitude of what that promise entailed when I gave it, but I've committed to it. It's what you would've wanted, my love, I'm sure of it. I just can't leave that poor girl on her own. Not again. She belongs in the wizarding world, magic or no—and she did perk up a bit. She lifted her head for the first time, her hair falling behind her chin. Finally, eye contact.
"It'll be alright," I said. "Let's just try it. Move your wand like so and say 'Aguamenti'."
She did as I asked, but nothing could've prepared me for what I witnessed. On her first try, a stream of clear blue water burst from the tip of her wand, shooting several feet across the ground. The water charm is hardly a difficult spell, but she cast it as though she'd done it a hundred times, and with more force than some adults can muster.
I was speechless. I simply watched in awe as she took aim at some nearby flowers and sprinkled them with sustenance. For the first time since we met, a warm smile stretched across her face. Miriam, I think that was the only time in her entire life she's been able to enjoy magic. I let her seize that moment for as long as she needed. The spell maintained its hold until every bed of foliage in our vicinity was drenched, sparkling in the sunlight. Then, she glanced at me, perhaps for approval or praise, which I was all too happy to give. I nodded proudly, but before I could speak, she asked a question that sucked the air from my lungs.
"Did I do it right?"
I felt my knees buckle. "Excuse me?"
"That was supposed to happen, right?"
"My dear, that was extraordinary! Most beginners can barely conjure a drop!"
She flinched. "I ... I thought it was this easy for everyone."
"Indeed not. I've certainly never seen a student produce such a strong aguamenti charm on their first try."
She blushed, my compliment overwhelming her. "Maybe it was beginner's luck."
"Or maybe," I challenged, "you're better at this than you thought."
She shrunk into herself, but smiled. That was the start of something spectacular. I can feel it in my old, clinking bones, my love. Any worry or reservation I might've had washed away with the dirt. I can do this. I can help her. I have a little less than two months to get her on par with the other fifth years, but after that display of competence, I know she'll go above and beyond my expectations.
I only wish you were here to give her guidance alongside me. You would've been a perfect role model. I've only recently returned to Hogwarts, your death still weighing on me in ways I can't even begin to describe. I had no desire to return, in truth, but mourning at home, alone with my thoughts, only made your absence more painful. I need a distraction, a project. Not that that's all Keira is, of course, but ... she helps. I haven't told her about you yet, but she has noticed the photographs in the drawing room. I think she's too shy, or perhaps too kind to ask me directly, but I think she suspects you're...
Oh, Miriam. How I miss you. What happened to you, my love? What were you doing in those ruins and who, or what, attacked you? When I think about it ... when I think about how I should've been there to protect you, it breaks me. Everyone else has moved on so quickly. They all tell me to 'take care of myself', but you didn't simply die. You were murdered. Someone out there knows why and they're probably the one who did it! I've been told to let the Aurors handle it, but they're not even looking! They gave up months ago! Do they really expect me to sit around and
I'm letting my emotions get the better of me. Again. I'm sorry, my love. I'm trying to stay level-headed, as I know you would be, but it's been a struggle. I've sent several letters to your old friend George, asking him if he knows anything about your research—if anyone has a clue, it's him—but I'm told he's unavailable. Off doing his own research, apparently. I'll just have to wait for him to reply, though Merlin only knows how long that will take.
In the meantime, I need to focus on Keira. I can't push you from my mind, my love; I think it's impossible, but I do have another responsibility now. I admit writing to you in these journals is often cathartic—ironic, considering I thought it silly at first—and I'll try to keep at it, but my entries might become sporadic again. It will depend entirely on how much free time I'm left with. I don't know if the girl can cook or clean or take care of herself in any way, and I do want her to have fun as well, so I have my work cut out for me. At the end of the day, I am a professor. A husband, but a professor, too.
I know what you would say. You would tell me to be a guardian—and so, for you and Keira, I shall be.