Voldemort's Origins Chapter 4

Well-Wishers and Prats

Sorrow's eyes opened.

The light in the room was painfully bright. She squinted and moaned then shut them.

Where was she?

She could hear the faint chattering of birds. She could feel a slight tickle on her face and arms. It grew stronger then fainter then stronger again until finally she decided the sensation was a breeze.

Was she outside?

Humming could be heard from a distance; it grew louder until the song was uncomfortably close.

"Marvelous! You're awake!"

Not only did the bright light hurt her eyes, but apparently loud voices were just as abrasive to her ears.

"What?" Sorrow whispered. Her voice was strained and scratchy. As soon as she asked the question, she had to fight the urge to cough.

Something wasn't right.

"Can you see, dear? Is the light too bright? Here, I'll draw the curtains."

The sound of squeaking shoes was followed by a heavy sliding noise. It sounded like fabric scraping against metal.

"There, sweetie, try opening your eyes, now."

She did as instructed.

The light was much dimmer and the breeze was gone. She was lying in a fluffy bed surrounded by other, identical fluffy beds. The room was large and sterile and smelled faintly of cleaning solution. A plump nurse was hovering above her with wide, purple eyes.

Sorrow was in the Hospital Wing.

"What am I doing here," she asked, finally.

The nurse smiled and patted her head, "you had an accident in the library."

"What?"

"Do you remember?"

"No…l," she coughed, "no, I don't remember."

The woman looked disappointed.

That irritated Sorrow.

"What happened?" this time the question sounded more demanding than she intended, but seeing how she had lost her memory and was suffering from a splitting headache, she couldn't care less if she insulted the woman.

Her rudeness didn't seem to faze the nurse; Sorrow guessed the woman must have been used to cranky behavior. No one woke in a pleasant mood when they were injured...did they?

"Peeves happened."

She considered this information for a moment. Long ago she'd discovered asking questions at the end of a discussion was more successful – and certainly less annoying – than blurting each one separately.

She waited patiently.

The plump woman hesitated then continued, her jowls wriggling with each word, "Peeves's ectoplasm was found in the library. We're unclear what happened exactly, but we do know his excretion combined with brass. If you aren't aware, that is a very deadly combination. Never toy with a ghost's ectoplasm around metal!"

Had she been toying with a ghost's ectoplasm?

"I can't tell you how many children I've had to reprimand for flinging the substance around like snowballs. It's nothing to be taken lightly! One moment their snowball warriors, the next moment someone splatters a door handle and it's, 'My finger's blown off!'"

Now Sorrow was completely confused.

"But I know not to play with ectoplasm," she blurted.

"Do you? Most kids don't know that…" the nurse looked surprised.

"Yes, I know not to touch the substance unless I'm wearing gloves, and I know not to combine it with alloy unless I want a small explosion of hot gas or a buildup of pressure. I'm even aware that trace amounts of ecto is used in gnome repellant because of its pickled scent. They find it appalling. I find it nice, actually, but then again I suppose it's an acquired smell…" she was rambling.

"I take it you're a Ravenclaw." It was more of a statement than a question. She wasn't sure if she should be offended or proud at being place in the correct house. The nurse, however, looked ruffled.
Insult.

"Yes."

"This isn't good," the woman finished.

"Excuse me?"

"If you weren't playing with ecto, how is it that you inhaled the burnt fumes?"

"I inhaled fumes?"

"It was enough to render you unconscious for three days. It also seems to have blurred your memory."

Sorrow was speechless. She'd been unconscious…because of ectoplasm poisoning?

"Count your lucky stars you didn't end up like John."

"John? What happened to John?"

"He…he suffered chemical burns to the face and neck. St. Mungo's Hospital is caring for him. I'm not equipped to handle extreme cases..." her voice trailed off. Clearly whatever had happened was bad.
Poor John.

"Did you ask him what happened? Maybe he remembers." Sorrow asked.

"Not possible. He's still unconscious."

"Oh, yes…that makes sense."

"Is he going to be all right?" she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer.

"He's recovering, but I think it's safe to say he won't be seen around Hogwarts for his summer duties. Poor child probably wouldn't even want to set foot in the library again."

Sorrow stared at the woman as she walked toward a linen cabinet.

"The library is no place for students at night, especially young girls; most have gone to bed. If it hadn't been for Tom and Dianthus, we would never have known you two were injured," the nurse began placing sheets on an adjacent bed.

Tom?

Tom!

"I remember!" Sorrow exclaimed. Her sudden excitement caused her head to throb.

"Do you, now?" the nurse's eyebrow rose in a suggestive manner, "Yes, I'd imagine that boy would spark anyone's memory. Isn't he something? Polite, smart, good-looking, and now your personal hero," she winked.

"Don't forget Dianthus," Sorrow corrected.

"She's a snooty little thing. I wouldn't doubt she tagged along to be by the boy's side. I got the impression she didn't care much for your wellbeing."

"I've never met her…"

"She's a typical Slytherin. Forgive me if that offends you, but I'm sure you understand what that statement implies," she finished tucking the last corner of the bed sheet onto the mattress, "Now, what is it that you've remember?"

This woman was starting to annoy Sorrow with all the flippant comments about houses.
She frowned, "Peeves had been in the Restricted Section; I'm guessing to prevent me from getting my book. He always torments me. I'm a personal favorite of his," her jaw clenched in frustration before she continued, "He jammed the door. I had to ask for John's help in unlocking it. When we finally broke it open, something attacked him. I'm aware now that it was steam, but when it was happening, I was so frightened that I dropped and lost my wand. I left to find help."

"Then what happened, dear?"

"I can't remember; it's blank after that."

"You need to rest."

The woman was right; their short conversation had drained all of her energy. How was that possible after three days of sleep?

"I'm sorry; I didn't ask your name."

"Mrs. Demzai, dear. Shall I send for brunch? I'm sure you're famished!"

"I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense! Of course you are!"

What do ya know, it didn't matter how she answered; Mrs. Demzai was going to fetch brunch either way. Sorrow had the feeling she might be force-fed, too.

Already she wished she was sitting in the Ravenclaw common room.

"Would you like to look at the menu or would you prefer to be surprised?" Demzai asked.

"Oh, I love surprises."

Why should she participate? She wasn't going to eat.

She shifted in bed, turning away from the fat nurse. Her eyes rested on the end table next to the bed. On it sat a vase of dead roses, a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, an edition of How to Avoid Accidents when Accidents Won't Avoid You (Oh, how funny), a pile of get-well cards, a bundle of quills taped to a piece of newspaper (odd), and a long parcel.

Naturally, the package deserved attention first. After all, she knew the contents of the rest of the presents.

Her ribcage ached when she leaned across the bed to pick it up. The fumes must have burned her lungs.

Stupid Peeves!

Atop the box in neat handwriting was written, "Get well – Tom"

She had to admit he beat her in calligraphy; her script looked like chicken scratch. She wasn't sure why, but the realization made her blush with embarrassment.

She tore the parcel open.

There, amid the slivers of paper and packing tissue, rested her wand.