Chapter Text
It took twelve days before any progress was made.
On February 7, a flux of power and magic, the likes of which the Department of Mysteries had never witnessed before, all but exploded from two different subdivisions. The first occurred in the Time Chamber, where every Time-Turner within glowed a brilliant white light, rattling to the point that their glass casings cracked, and became too hot to touch. The other disrupting surge of power came from the Space Chamber, where they had recently taken on a more… obscure project, one that focused on exploring the possibility of alternate worlds.
The basis for this idea was that these "new dimensions" more commonly—and more accurately—refer to additional coordinate axes, beyond the three familiar spatial axes. By proposing travel along these extra axes, which are not normally perceptible, the traveler could reach worlds that are otherwise unreachable and invisible. Truthfully, while fascinating to think over and debate about, the few Unspeakables assigned to the project were all under the silent agreement that such an ideal was simply beyond their means to understand, let alone ever truly implement to any partical means.
It was understandable, then, how taken off guard those Unspeakables were when the Space Chamber exploded in a thunderstorm of lightning and raw magic. None had been present at the start of the incident, but Longbottom and Smythe had been nearby and as such, they were able to bear witness to the final implosion of magic that was so great, it shook the very foundations of Ministry. Smythe, with dazed eyes and an awed voice, had likened it to something like the rituals of old, insisting that a symbol had formed in the center of the room. It was described to look like a caricature of fire but emblazed in white and a soft blue lighting. Longbottom had shared his memory of the event and now, no Unspeakable could walk into another's office without seeing the strange fire symbol etched somewhere. It wasn’t a rune, not one that had been recorded at least, but there was something familiar in its design that nearly all the Unspeakables swore they’d seen before, though none of them could recall from where.
Honestly, it was quite frustrating.
As a third of their group searched through tomes to find the mark, the others focused on finding out why there had been such volatile reactions within the Space and Time chambers in the first place. Tracking down the cause quickly led them to the realization that the source had occurred outside of their walls. The Department of Mysteries had not been a focal point for the incident but merely a chain in a string of peculiar events. Reports came in from wizards and witches, ones who had rented Time-Turners from the Ministry, describing their Turners glowing and growing too hot to touch. The Time-Turners were checked over, but proved to be perfectly functional, for all that their glass casings needed to be repaired.
Again, frustratingly, it took them days of scrambling to find answers before something solid finally landed in their laps. A child’s name had appeared on Hogwarts roster for new students. While such a thing was not unusual, the fact that this child was already 14 made the whole situation unheard of. The most damning bit of news for why this mattered to the Department of Mysteries was that the child’s name appeared on February 7.
Aquila Crowley was the name listed. A name that the current Headmaster of Hogwarts could not say without a sneer and a hitch of loathing accompanying his tone. In fairness to the man, it was certainly a befuddling turn of events worthy of a good head scratch or two. There was little anyone could do about the matter besides getting Ms. Crowley extra tutelage before her enrollment her at Hogwarts. Black apparently considered the whole affair to be a hassle, and many of the Unspeakables could only lament that the mystery of the century was wasted on the man.
The Minister of Magic, Faris Spavin, was proving to be just as uninterested in the matter, though that was likely because the man was simply too old to pay much attention when they tried to explain the situation. Understandably, most of his waning awareness was aimed towards the growing reports of a goblin dissenter by the name of Ranrok. He had denied their request to speak with Aquila Crowley, and with great reluctance, the Department of Mysteries let the matter pass, choosing to focus on Unspeakable Mintumble's project on extending the 24-hour limit that existed on Time-Turners.
The Unspeakables would come to revisit the case of Aquila Crowley in the future, but that is another story for another time.
Eleazar Fig apparated at the end of a street, his haggard face cast in light and shadows thanks to a nearby flickering lamplight. His appearance was unkempt, something that would’ve been seen as worrying and unusual not so long ago. Not only had he allowed to scruffy beard to take form, where before he kept a clean-shaven face for decades, his hair was matted and a little greasy from not having bathed in days. His blue eyes, once filled with the adoration for his subject, Magical Theory, seemed to have drained of both color and life. Outside of his physical dishevelment, a defeated weariness clung to Eleazar like a cloak. Grief was an aura he radiated in depth, and none had broken through its veil, despite their well-meaning efforts.
One September 25, he’d awoken in his quarters at Hogwarts, Miriam’s side of the bed empty and a short missive written in her hand sitting on his nightstand.
Eleazar,
You were right about the Bowtruckles. I owe you a Knut.
Miriam
That was all it said. The last thing she wrote him before taking one of her journeys in search of the ancient magic that fascinated her so profoundly. Eleazar had chuckled at the note, had briefly considered throwing it out, before catching the time and had rushed to get ready for breakfast, lest he earn an earful of Black’s criticism on his decorum. He had forgotten it completely, absentmindedly setting a book on top of it later that evening and carelessly bending it at the corner.
Nearly a fortnight passed and Horus, Miriam’s persnickety Great Gray Owl, failed to make his appearance with his wife’s annual letter. Eleazar had not thought much of it then. Miriam tended to lose track of time when delving into subjects that intrigued her—a Ravenclaw through and through—and so he had simply believed it have slipped her mind, as had been the case so often in the past. He had smiled mirthfully as he penned his own letter later that night, jokingly chiding her forgetfulness, and send it off the next morning with one of the school’s owls.
It returned three days later, the letter unopened and the owl looking distinctly ruffled.
That was when dread had crept into Eleazar’s heart.
It had weighed on him throughout the day. He’d been half tempted to ask Black to be excused from his classes to track down Miriam himself. Matilda had talked him out of it, trying her best to soothe his growing concerns. Then the Aurors stepped into the Great Hall halfway through dinner and Eleazar had gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his hands had turned white. He left the hall with the Aurors, heedless to the stares and whispers following them out. He took them to his office, and sat at his desk, desperately trying not to fall apart when they told him that someone had murdered Miriam.
Her wand was still unaccounted for.
Four months since he’d last seen Miriam. Three months and two weeks since he’d learnt of her death. Eleazar often wondered, in that lull between those sixteen days, when Miriam had clashed with the one who killed her. Had it been within moments, had she even been able to defend herself, was it a crime of passion or convenience, like the Aurors believed? Or had Miriam stumbled upon something in her search? Had she finally found something of import, after all these years, and lost her life because of it? Had someone been stalking her, aware of her research, and swopped in to take that which she had discovered?
If he hadn't abandoned their quest nearly two decades ago, if he'd been there, could he have saved her?
These questions haunted Eleazar, and he knew not which would be the worse truth.
He can't even remember how her funeral, held three days after his talk with the Aurors, had turned out. The whole thing was a blur in his mind. Familiar faces had sawm in his gaze, but Eleazar couldn't for the life of him recall who had attended. Their words and speeches had been a muffled mess that refused to make sense. The only thing he can recall from that day is taking Miriam's ashes and proceeding to Apparate around Europe the falling week, distributing her ashes to England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. Miriam hadn't been one to settle down in life, she'd hate to be trapped in a plot of ground in death.
When he returned to Hogwarts, his students’ academics suffered due to his ever-growing apathy. He felt guilt for it, of course he did, but Eleazar could not muster up the motivation to plan out lessons or grade papers. Classes were quickly demoted to free periods or self-study sessions. He halfheartedly put chapters from their books on the board, issued the occasional assignment, but Eleazor couldn’t truly recall what topics he’d taught within the past three months. Nor could he say which of his students were failing and needed the extra help or who were succeeding and needed more challenging material.
The headmaster hardly cared. Black hadn’t taken Magical Theory during his time in Hogwarts, not that Eleazar had been teaching the subject by that point, thank goodness, so the man already possessed a dismissive opinion towards the subject. Threats of being fired came in one ear and out the other. Eleazar found he honestly couldn’t care if he lost his job at this point.
Matilda was the real point of contention in the matter. She had been supportive and understanding when the news about Miriam was revealed. The two of them had been friends, he knew, sharing tea in their off time and gossiping about this and that. When he failed to make an appearance to his classes the first two weeks following Miriam’s death, she had talked to each of his classes and directed his students to explore their own studies. When the second and third week passed in a similar manner, however, she had put her foot down. Gently, but with reprimanding disappointment, she pulled him aside and reminded him of his duty to his students. Eleazar hadn’t argued, too tired and too grief-ridden to put up a fight but had instead suggested that perhaps she should begin looking for someone else to fill his position in a more permanent manner.
The look she’d given had him in return was one full of pity.
After a month of stagnation, Matilda had somehow managed to convince Black to not only keep him on staff, but to also hire on a temporary substitute, one meant to take on half of Eleazar’s classes, focusing more so on the fifth-years and seventh-years, as they were due to take their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s at the end of term. Despite Matilda's best efforts, Eleazar's listlessness only grew as more time passed; it was as if he himself had died alongside Miriam. He started catching himself checking his chairs and bed as he rose, half-expecting to turn around and see that he’d left his body behind like Professor Binns.
Then, two weeks ago, the Quill of Acceptance had written a new name in the Book of Admittance.
Aquila Crowley.
A child of fourteen years, yet she had only just awoken her magic. It would’ve been unheard of if the portrait of Headmistress Fitzgerald hadn’t announced that she’d experienced a similar case during her tenure at Hogwarts. She, however, had been reluctant to elucidate more on the matter, much to Black’s frustration. In the end, it was decided that there was nothing they could do but help the girl learn as much as she could before the next school year started.
Hence why Eleazar was standing on the streetcorner of Amesbury, a Muggle village in Wiltshire. The girl, Ms. Crowley, not only needed to be informed that she was a witch, but she also needed to be taught how to wield her magic. Black had deemed him the most expendable of the staff, with Eleazar’s substitute taking over all his classes so that he could dedicate all his time to teaching the child. He hadn’t accepted the role of tutor, but he hadn’t voiced any objections either—Eleazar was wholly indifferent to the situation. So, when Matilda gave him the address that Hogwarts had last registered of Ms. Crowley, he'd left the castle without a word or any sort of plan.
Letting his gaze drift over the houses, Eleazar considered visiting Stonehenge for a moment. The famous site had been erected by Merlin himself, though no wizard or witch had ever been able to determine just what he’d been trying to accomplish. Most were of the agreement that it had been made for a ritual of some kind, but its original purpose, whatever it may have been, has since been lost to time. As soon as that thought had come, an ache settled in Eleazar's heart. The mystery of Stonehenge had been one of Miriam’s favorites and they had visited the ruins many times throughout the years. The thought of going there now, without her, was heartbreaking to envision. Pinching the bridge of his nose to stem the tears he felt building in the corners of his eyes, Eleazar took in a deep, shuddering breath.
“Keep it together, you weepy old fool. You have a student to collect.” He retrieved Ms. Crowley’s acceptance letter from his pocket, squinted at the words written on the face of the envelope, and frowned. “Oh, dear.” He muttered to himself. The strained expression Matilda had made when she'd revealed his Apparition destination suddenly made a bit more sense. “This can’t be right.”
Ms. A. Crowley,
Third cell of Amesbury Lockup,
High Street,
Amesbury, Wiltshire
“Lockup?” Eleazar read with puzzlement. What could the girl have done to get herself thrown into prison? “This might make things a bit more difficult.” Considering the early hour, the sun was just begging to peak on the horizon, he didn’t expect to find many people out to ask for directions, so he merely wandered further into the village. After a bit of meandering, he came across a lamplighter making his rounds and asked the young man for directions to the lockup. A few streets forwards led him to the Auror’s station, or "Bobbies" as the Muggle the had called them, while the lockup sat behind the smaller building with a curved west wall built to face the north-east angle of High Street and the marketplace. Eleazar couldn’t help but notice that the lockup was much larger than most, looking much more like a watch house.
He entered the station where he was greeted with the sight of an Au–er, with a Bobbie asleep at his desk. Eleazar, rather than wake the man up, took this as an opportunity to meet with Ms. Crowley unimpeded. Cautiously making his way past the Muggle, he entered the hallway of cells, where he was fortunate to find that his intended student seemed to be the only person present in the lockup. He approached her quietly, frowning at the small cot she was forced to sleep on. He could just make out the top of Ms. Crowley's head as she was buried deep within the folds of a thick wool blanket. Politely, and a little awkwardly, Eleazar cleared his throat, but not before silently casting the Imperturbable Charm on the door he’d just come through. It would muffle their conversation enough for the Bobbie to sleep uninterrupted.
Ms. Crowley shot up from her cot, hands rising upwards and curling into fists automatically. He didn’t know if he should be impressed with her quick reaction time, or worried that her first instinct upon waking was to defend herself. Ms. Crowley spotted him immediately, her eyebrows shooting up her forehead and mouth dropping slightly.
“Firstly, let me assure you that no, you are not dreaming, Ms. Crowley. I am very real, as are the things I’m about to tell you.” He winced inwardly at the shortness in his tone. Likewise, the rasp in his voice probably did little to endear himself to the wary girl.
And she was wary. Eleazar looked over her appearance, making note of her long black hair and pale complexion, along with the clothes she was wearing. Britches were not so abnormal amongst wizardkind, but he knew it was a novelty to the Muggle-borns who came to Hogwarts and saw their female classmates wearing them outside of classes. The ones Ms. Crowley wore were a bit too big, held up by suspenders and with cuffs rolled at the bottom of her pantlegs. They were frayed too, with holes and patches strewn about. Her long-sleeved shirt was very much in the same condition, in that it was too big and clearly in a poor condition. Her coat, threadbare and dirty, likely did little to keep her warm in this late February weather.
Eleazar paused as he realized that Ms. Crowley was assessing his appearance in return, her face scrunched up in confusion. He had made no effort to dress the part of a Muggle, not because he didn’t see the point, but more so because it had slipped his mind entirely. In his defense, however, it was the Deputy Headmistress’s job to venture into the Muggle world and introduce Muggle-borns to the wizarding world.
“You’re a wizard, Harry.” Ms. Crowley suddenly mumbled, a flash of pain taking over her features as a hand shot up to cradle her head. Eleazar hesitated in surprise.
“…Yes. Yes, I am indeed a wizard, Ms. Crowley, however my name is not Harry.” He dipped in a little bow, seeing as a handshake was out of the question. “Professor Eleazar Fig, I teach Magical Theory.”
“…At Hogwarts?” Ms. Crowley asked wanly, looking pained and getting paler by the second. Eleazar blinked, feeling wrongfooted.
“Yes?” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I was under the assumption that you were Muggle-born—someone without magical parents.”
“My mother died last year…” She stated lowly, eyes winched shut. “Never knew my father.”
“…My condolences.” Eleazar replied weakly, his grief loosening his tongue. “I… I lost my wife just a few short months ago.” There was a moment where neither of them spoke and Eleazar once again felt tears prickling at his eyes.
“That's rough, buddy.” Incredulously, a snort left his mouth. It was completely insensitive, both her words and his reaction to them. Yet the bluntness of it was so much like something Miriam would say that he couldn’t help himself. Charisma without charm, was what he’d often said when teasing his wife's tactlessness Ms. Crowley winced. “Sorry, that was stupid. Don’t pay me any mind. It’s been a hard two weeks.”
“Yes, I imagine so.” The professor remarked with growing humor. “What did you do to wind up here?”
“Well, if you were to ask the locals, they’d tell you I tried to burn down Stonehenge.” The noise Eleazar made in response to this was caught between a cough and a chortle, though his sense of humor was erring towards disbelief once more.
“I beg your pardon?” He choked out and Ms. Crowley shook her head.
“I didn’t. At least I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” He repeated and she sighed.
“I’m having memory problems.” Eleazar eased onto his heels, titling his head curiously. “Like, memories of my childhood are a blur in most cases, but then something will jut forwards with startling clarity, only it won’t make sense. I have a memory of playing by Stonehenge when I was younger with some other kids, but I also have a memory of visiting a giant amusement park in Orlando, Florida whilst at the same age.” She must’ve spotted his frown because she explained. “That’s in the United States of America by the way, where I’m pretty sure I was born, yet the officer that arrested me says I’ve never left Amesbury in my entire life.” She glared at the wall, before her silver-grey eyes landed back on him. “Just now, when I looked at your clothes, I had this... this flash. There was a huge man with a thick beard leaning towards a kid with messy hair and round glasses. All he said was: “You’re a wizard, Harry.” and then the vision ended.”
“I…” Eleazar fumbled. This was not what he’d been expecting when coming to inform Ms. Crowley of her admittance at Hogwarts. Not at all. “You could be a Seer?” He offered unsurely. He’d never had a gift for Divination, for all that he believes and respects the craft. His teacher had lamented that his inner eye’s sight was so bad, it would need a telescope to see anything.
“Doesn’t explain why my own memories are so broken.” Her tone was growing agitated, with something like a whine underlining her words. “They tell me I’m fourteen, but I know I’m older than that. I have memories of getting my diploma from college. They tell me my name is Aquila Crowley, but I know I go by something different, even if I can’t remember what that name is right now. You’re here to tell me I’m a witch, when I know I’ve lived my whole life without magic because it doesn't exist!”
The bars to her cell suddenly wrenched, crumpling inwards and causing the lock to bust open, the door swinging free with a harsh squeal of metal. Eleazar and Ms. Crowley flinched, he by stepping away from the powerful display of accidental magic, and she by curling in on herself, breathing heavily. Eleazar simply stood there for a long moment, scrambling to find something to say. What Ms. Crowley had shouted was incredibly difficult to believe, but he also couldn’t fathom why someone would makeup such confusing lies.
The clashing memories she described, however, tugged at something from his own recollections. There were memory charms that altered or even implanted fake memories into one’s head. Such spells were generally used on Muggles though, and only done so to protect the Statute of Secrecy. They were certainly not something to be cast on a magical child. He shuddered to think that someone might have Obliviated the girl, but if the caster’s spell had been weak, or if she had a strong enough will, she might’ve partially broken the charm.
“There are Healers at St. Mungos…” Eleazar began hesitantly. “They can take a look at your mind, if you so wish it. At the very least, they’d be able to tell if someone tampered with your memories.” He watched as Ms. Crowley slowly unfurled herself, where she peeked up at him from between the tresses of her long hair. She claimed she wasn’t fourteen, but right then she looked even younger than that to Eleazar. His heart twinged a bit as he offered her a smile. “For now, how about we vacate this charming place, and you can tell me what really happened at Stonehenge? Hm?” His lighter tone was rewarded with a small smile of her own.
As they left, he cast a silent Notice-Me-Not Charm on his young companion, who stuttered in her steps for a moment before shooting him a glance. He tucked his wand up his sleeve, making a mental note to dig up his old wand holder, and gestured for her to move along. They left the station and passed through the village without incident as Ms. Crowley explained her side of the events that led to her arrest.
“I couldn’t tell you how I got there. My clearest memory from before all this was… I think I was about to start playing a video game?” Eleazar silently mouthed the foreign word. What on earth was a “video”? “I was really excited; I remember that much. It feels like I’d been waiting my whole life to play it. Then there’s this blazing white light and a rushing noise in my ears, kinda like a waterfall. The next thing I know, I’m sprawled out on my back in the center of Stonehenge surrounded by swirling white light and blue fire. It all faded pretty quickly after that, almost like it was being suck into this flame-like mark on the ground. Then the officers came running at me, shouting about seeing a fire from the village and pegged me as the arsonist.”
The trek to Stonehenge passed quickly as Eleazar soon became enthralled with Ms. Crowley’s story, asking for more details on what she saw, felt and thought. If she was liar, and he doubted it, then she was a fantastic actor and storyteller. But when her answers began to trial off into uncertainty, returning to her puzzling memory issues, he was forced to look at the bluestones and was confronted with the memory of his last visit.
He and Miriam had come during midday, and after warding the place from Muggles, they’d set up a picnic in the shadows of Stonehenge. Miriam had read aloud from her own journals; shaped and built around the legends, records, and historical texts that she’d found on Merlin and the ancient magic he’d supposedly wielded. Eleazar had been lying on the blanket, softened with a Cushioning Charm for his old bones, his head nestled in Miriam’s lap as one of her hands softly combed through his hair.
That had been three summers ago. Miriam had made a passing comment about visiting again this coming summer. They would never get the chance now. A hand, lightly, hesitantly, touched his forearm and Eleazar found himself blinking through tears as his head turned towards Ms. Crowley. Her silver-grey eyes were glassy, her smile trembling and looking terribly fragile.
“My mother loved this place." Her smile dipped into a frown, brow furrowing.
“My wife, Miriam, and I, we used to have picnics here.” He hastily wiped the tears from his eyes, a bit ashamed by his loss of composure.
“…I came here with my husband.” Ms. Crowley continued in a pained whisper, grimacing as a hand braced her head, eyes blown wide and seeing something he couldn’t. “For our honeymoon, I think. It was a weeklong trip in Europe. We saw the Eiffel Tower too. We took the train.” She listed sideways, wobbling so badly that Eleazar feared she would fall. His hands grabbed ahold to steady her, and Ms. Crowley latched onto him with fervor. “I can’t remember his name. I should know his name! I took it when we got married, didn’t I?!”
Eleazar’s breath got caught in his chest as they locked gazes. He saw her unending sorrow, her furious grief, her profound sense of loss, and the overwhelming feeling of being lost altogether. It matched the emotions he found swirling in his own eyes whenever he looked into a mirror.
Whether her turmoil came from the passing of her mother, or a husband she can no longer recall, Eleazar held no misgivings that her pain was real. There was no ploy here. Something awful happened to Ms. Crowley, and if he couldn’t find out the cause, he could at least help her heal from it.
In that moment, however, he had no words to offer her. Not when he was still so deeply entrenched in his own mourning, not when Eleazar knew that mere condolences would only sound like empty platitudes to her ears. So, he decided to provide comfort in a manner he himself had wished for but, hadn't been able to accept in the wake of Miriam's death. He telegraphed his movements, giving Ms. Crowley plenty of time to stop him, before carefully pulling her into a gentle hug. She went soundlessly, her smaller form rigid at first, before slackening into his arms with a shuddering breath.
Eleazar, quite suddenly, could not recall if he’d ever hugged a student before.
Words of praise, a proud clap on the shoulder, or a conjured hankey for when there were tears, were the extent of his care. He was not a Head of House, so students did not often confide their problems in him. Magical Theory was a Third Year elective alongside Divination, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, Alchemy, and Muggle Studies. His class was the second least popular of the electives, beating only Muggle Studies in class capacity. Of this low number of students only half of them would ever continue onwards into his N.E.W.T. classes. He had a handful of students from over the years that he’d spoken with outside of the classwork, and none of them had kept in contact after graduating. There was line of propriety between student and teacher, one that he had always abided by—until now, it seems.
“It’s alright.” He murmured as Ms. Crowley shook against him. He had never been a tall man, and age had made him lose and inch or two in the past few years, but the top of the girl's head just barely reached his chin. “We’ll figure things out. We just need to take things one step at a time.” A minute passed before she pulled away with a little sniffle, her head bowed, and eyes trained on the ground. He opened his mouth to try and soothe her pride, wondering if she felt embarrassed by her outburst as he had, when she pointed to something a few feet ahead of them.
“That’s the mark. That’s what seemed to suck up the light and fire. It was still glowing when the police carted me off, but they said they didn’t see anything.” Eleazar turned and immediately his eyebrows furrowed. He knew Stonehenge, knew every rock and the soft moss the creeped up its surfaces. He'd fought a Graphorn here in his youth and had to painstakingly repair the site himself afterwards. Now, in middle of the ruins, the ground dipped into a shallow pit where circular grooves had seemingly been carved into the stone. In the center of the pit was the flame-like mark Ms. Crowley had mentioned, made from some sort of silver metal and gleaming in the brightening sunrise. His chest tightened as recognition flooded him.
“Godric's heart.” Eleazar breathed, not daring to speak above a whisper. “I know this symbol—it's the Mark of Merlin!” His eyes shot over Stonehenge, his gaze turning ravenous, but he spotted no further changes. What did this mean? “More specifically, this symbol is associated with the ancient magic he supposedly wielded.”
The same magic Miriam had been studying before she was killed.
What did this all mean?
With no answers and a seemingly endless supply of questions, Aquila waited as she watched Fig slowly grow more and more manic as he studied the Mark of Merlin from different angles, muttering incantations under his breath, and swearing when a wave of his wand provided no results. She let him work without a word, recognizing the wildness in his eyes as desperation rather than madness. She'd probably sported the same expression herself a number of times during the past two weeks as she tried to figure out who she was.
There were her blurred memories, the ones that smeared over each other like a water painted portrait left out in the rain. In those memories, there's a core of knowledge, a seemingly solid foundation to build from, but when she poked at it, she saw just how shaky it was. One harsh gust of wind and it would all come tumbling down like a house of cards.
Her full name, evidently, was Aquila Beatrix Crowley. She was a bastard child, born out of wedlock, and her mother was considered the town harlot for this fact alone. Elanor Crowley hadn't let herself be beaten down by society though. She worked as a seamstress, her talent with a needle and her eye for fashion made her dresses fairly sought after, enough to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.
Elanor had taken ill last year during winter, inflicted with an awful cough that slowly but surely stole away her breath. She passed in the spring, the anniversary of her death coming at the end of March. Aquila has been on her own since her mother's death, living off the money Elanor had kept stashed away for emergencies, and trying to take over her mother's business as a seamstress. She'd been taught how, but Aquila lacked the talent that had made Elanor so successful. The villagers had taken pity on her at first, buying the occasional scarf and socks. It was enough to pay for food, but not enough to keep her home. Three months after Elanor's passing, Aquila was officially living on the streets. Luckily, by then it was the start of summer, so she didn't have to worry about the cold for another few months.
She managed to pick up odd jobs from there. Helping the Thomas's with their garden, cleaning out Mr. Foley's barn, helping with delivers from Mrs. Shrilling's bakery. She was frugal with what she earned, eating just enough to stave her hunger, but never enough to satisfy it completely. She was a hard worker, and her community recognized that. She was always paid for her work, given a fair wage, and when winter came, she was able to rent a new apartment. She'd had to sacrifice a few meals to keep her residence, but an aching stomach was preferable to frostbite.
She lived a hard life.
Aquila frowned as the memories she can't recall in full, argued otherwise. She didn't know what it felt like to go for days without eating. In fact, she'd had a little bit of a weight problem since her mid-teens. She remembered, not being outright fat, but being unhappy and overly self-conscious about the pudge that had clung to her stomach and thighs. Aquila glanced over her body. It was thinner than what was probably healthy, and what weight she did have came from the muscles she'd built from months of manual labor. Her palms were littered with callouses and scars, but she could recall her soft hands being treated to manicures. Her hair was black, but she had the distinct memory of dying it the same dark color for months as a form of rebellion, before eventually returning to her natural blonde locks.
She remembers working, not as a seamstress, or undertaking a motley slew of backbreaking jobs, but working as a... well, the specific word for her job escaped her at the moment, but it had something to do with books made for children. She drew the pictures to help explain the author's story. Aquila glared, knowing that the word for her job was on the tip of her tongue. In any case, that was how she'd met her husband. He'd been a writer. They lived comfortably, the only manual labor coming from an endeavor they'd chosen freely to take part in.
She lived an easy life.
The contradiction between the sets of memories pulled at her. The people and actions from the easy life clicked in a way that just felt right. The memories from the hard life came far more easily, the details not so vague or impossible to grab a hold of, but there was a disconnect. Aquila knew the street she lived on, knew the apartment number, new how few skirts and shirts were tucked in her closet, but these facts came to her with less impact and more like... it was as if she were remembering lines from a play. It was a play she knew, a role that felt familiar and well-rehearsed, but at the end of the day, the hard life felt very much like it belonged to someone else.
Aquila Beatrix Crowley didn't feel real, not in the same way as the nameless woman who lived the easy life.
Aquila was brought out of the memories of her identity as Fig let out a particularly vulgar curseword. She whistled, impressed, and he flushed as his eyes jumped to her. She smirked at the professor who had seemingly forgotten that she was present. He cleared his throat, red lingering on the tips of his ears, as he apologized.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that, Ms. Crowley. It was completely unbecoming of me."
"No worries sir, I've said worse." He raised a brow at her, and she realized that yes, she'd cursed much worse than him in that easy life. In this one, however, Elanor had heard a much younger Aquila say "shite" once and had stuffed a bar of soap into the girl's mouth as a result. Needless to say, she'd lost the taste for swearing after that, and had only rediscovered her aptitude for cursing during the past year.
"Yes, well, as much as I'd like to know why the Mark of Merlin has appeared here, and it's connection to you, it does seem that this is a dead end. For now, at least." Despite his words, he was still reluctant to leave the Mark. He hovered over it for a moment longer before sighing in defeat. "I'm not here to investigate old legends anyways. My purpose is to inform you of Hogwarts and the plans created with your unique situation in mind."
"Right. Hoggy Warty Hogwarts." She muttered sarcastically and Fig chuckled at this for some reason.
"Oh, I completely forgot!" The wizard declared suddenly as he dug for something in his robe, retrieving a manila envelope with a soft "Aha!" He held it out to her with a warm smile. "Here, your letter. This might clear up a few things." Aquila took the missive, her heart beating fast. She remembered this from her youth—from the easy life. Apparently, imagining that she'd received an acceptance letter from Hogwarts had been one of her favorite pastimes. There wasn't parchment inside with a list of items she needed for class, like she half-expected, but as she read, Aquila could rightly say that it was indeed an acceptance letter.
Dear Ms. Crowley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a fifth-year student.
Term begins on 1 September.
Preliminary supplies will be provided to assist in your studies under Professor Eleazar Fig's tutelage. As the new year approaches, you will journey to Diagon Alley and appropriate any further supplies you may need for your classes. As you may be unaware, the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery prohibits the use of magic by those under the age of seventeen outside school. However, due to your unique circumstances, the Ministry has graciously agreed to allow Professor Fig to help you hone your spellcasting over the next few months before escorting you from London to the castle for the start-of-term feast and the Sorting Ceremony.
Yours sincerely,
M. Weasley
Professor Weasley
Deputy Headmistress
"Hm, and what if I said no thanks?" Aquila mused to herself, but Fig froze, the thought of her refusal clearly never crossing his mind.
"Do you want to?"
"No, but it's pretty presumptuous of you all to just assume that I'll accept so readily." She replied airily, carefully refolding the letter and sticking it back within the envelope. "Maybe I wanted to go to Ilvermorny or Durmstrang." She paused at the words that left her mouth, but no memory accompanied them to explain what they were. "Those are... other magical schools, right?" She asked unsurely and Fig gave her a confused look as he nodded. "Right. Anyways, you'll be cramming four years' worth of magic into a span of..." She paused to do the math in her head. It was February 22 she knew, keeping track of the days was one of the few things she'd been capable of doing while sitting in her cell, and her letter stated that school started on September 1. "Huh, that gives us 190 days to work with. Five months wouldn't be too bad if it was just one year to catch up with, but four?"
"We'll actually have double that. The Ministry has allowed us the use of a Time-Turner, so we'll have ten months to work with. Plenty of time to at least master the basics." He winced here a little. "I will say now that some of your subjects will get less attention than others. For Astronomy, Herbology, and History of Magic, you'll be relying on your books to supplement real experience. Mapping the stars at night would impede on our timetable too much and my home is no place to introduce you to a Venomous Tentacula. More often than not, you'll likely have to keep up with them in your free time. I'm afraid that the elective classes will receive even less attention. Although, seeing as those courses were implanted in your peers' Third Year, covering the material won't be as lengthy as the core subjects. Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts will be the main subjects we'll explore in depth."
Aquila was silent as she absorbed this explanation. 280 days to learn the basics of four subjects and something resembling adequacy in at least three others. Already she felt it best to cut her losses and deem both Astronomy and History of Magic as lost causes. She got a vision of a... spirit? A ghost, perhaps, who was lecturing a class of sleepy-eyed children. It passed quickly but left the impression that Aquila was wise to write off History. She would learn enough to hopefully keep her teachers happy, but she by no means had any plans to excel in the two subjects. Herbology she tentatively deemed as somewhat important, more so than Astronomy and History, but she wasn't sure how it weighed against the elective classes. In any case, she had to prepare herself for Herbology to be one of her weaker subjects as well.
The other four subjects, she knew would be important, especially Defense Against the Dark Arts. A series of flashes came to her then, most of them featuring the messy-haired boy with glasses. She saw him facing down a giant snake, dark beings flying at him in black, wispy robes, and exchanging spells with a white-skinned man who had red eyes and... lacked a nose for some reason? Yes, Aquila was absolutely certain she needed to learn how to defend herself.
The wizarding world was as dangerous as it was wonderful.
"...You said we'll be studying at your home?" She asked after a minute, head aching the way it always did when she had too many visions, and Fig nodded.
"I was prepared to make the trip here every day to pick you up and return you home, but–" He paused, likely looking for the words to sum up the sorry state of her life as politely as possible.
"But I don't have anything here." Aquila concluded and she spied a pained look flash across his face before he hid it. She shrugged, seeing to no reason to pussyfoot around the issue concerning her lack of family. It wouldn't spare her feelings any, not really. "That's fine with me, professor, so long as I won't be an inconvenience for you?"
"Not at all." He replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Why, I imagine your presence will help me keep my mind off of... well, it'll help keep me focused on your education." She gracefully ignored his fumbling. Just because she had no issue confronting her own loss, that didn't mean she was incapable of respecting how others handled their grief. With a weak smile, she gestured to the village in the distance.
"Alright. I just need to grab a few things and I'll be good to go."
"Then let's be off." They hadn't taken more than a few dozen steps before Aquila shouted.
"An illustrator!" She cried, heedless to the how she startled the man beside her. "I was an illustrator for children's books."
"Well," Fig replied faintly, bearing a bemused smile. "that sounds like a lovely profession."