Chapter Text
✦ Friday, 16th January 1892 ✦
There was something vital the young witch needed to do. A place she had to be. A person she must speak to. If only she could remember what—or whom—it was.
Boisterous chatter, chairs scraping on stone, and the crackle of charms rose in a cacophony that brutally early morning. A flurry of important-looking witches and wizards hurried into the dingy, anachronistic circular chamber. Structured like an amphitheatre, it sat right at the beating heart of the British Ministry of Magic.
The young witch sat at the centre, perched on an uncomfortable wooden chair before a dauntingly wide oak table. She faced the tiered koilon—the audience—with only a lone glass of water before her.
With shaky hands, she gulped down another swig.
A deep inhale, followed by a shuddering exhale. The young witch was scared—ostensibly due to where she was, but also because of why.
Although, something deep within told her to be more cautious than the circumstances warranted. Perhaps it was because she was wandless. They had confiscated it when they awakened her that morning.
Once, she knew a life without wands. Now, she couldn't imagine one without.
She had been sitting in that unforgivingly hard chair for nearly an hour. The first one there; forced to watch almost every member of the British Auror Office, some officials from Wizengamot, the Department of Mysteries, Muggle Relations, and the Minister’s Office, enter to take their seats.
She recognised some of the faces. Principally, Professor Weasley and Professor Hecat, who were some of the first to arrive. Two teachers who had been faithfully supervising the young witch in Professor Fig’s stead.
Both gave her a warm nod of encouragement, which melted some of the burgeoning frosty atmosphere.
Then, some Ministry officials arrived that she was told had been ‘observing’ lessons at Hogwarts for the past month. Pretending as though they were there for a routine inspection, rather than as a reaction to the… incident, that happened below the school.
An early spectator that morning was Henry ‘Harry’ Potter - an Auror who was particularly friendly to the young witch ever since they met a week before. He sat at the very front and winked puckishly over his glasses with his striking green eyes.
The next to enter was Eulalie Trout from the Department of Mysteries. An eccentric witch with curly auburn hair, dressed in yellow and purple robes. The young witch was sure she was an Unspeakable from their limited interactions. Nothing pertinent gave that away – it was just intuition.
The young witch swallowed another mouthful of water. No matter how much she consumed, her throat remained parched.
Anxiously, she tugged at loose threads on her sleeve. She had been instructed to wear a particularly heavy dress with a high neck. Since waking a week ago, she was horrified to discover her body now carved with deep, cavernous gashes.
"Too obscene to be seen before they've healed and scarred over," the young Auror had explained as he escorted her to this chamber.
This wasn't the first time her wounds had been commented on in such a superficial way.
"Young witches should be unblemished," she'd been told by a healer, who gave her a magical salve to prevent permanent disfigurement.
One lesion peeked through—a scabbing welt that cut across her wrist toward her hand like a yawning river. She hastily pulled her sleeve down to cover it.
Thankfully, not five minutes later, a door slammed open.
“Morning all, sorry for making you wait.”
A witch strode into the auditorium. Dressed in a smart black skirt and blouse, her heels clicked and echoed in the now quiet chamber, save for the ticking grandfather clock in the corner. She had short white hair with streaks of grey, and small, circular, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her long nose. She appeared young, but something about her disposition betrayed that she was actually rather aged.
It was Venusia Crickerly. Head of the British Auror Office. Another Ministry official who had been ‘observing’ Hogwarts since the incident under the school, and the one to tell the young witch she was being called in for formal questioning.
Under her arm was a thick file. Travelling alongside her was a floating quill and a tall stack of parchment.
Where she had just entered, two Ministry guards closed the doors and stood rigidly on either side. Their inky uniforms merged with the glazed black brick walls behind them.
“Thanks all for attending this investigatory meeting and for pushing aside your other commitments. The date is Friday 16th of January of the year 1892.” Venusia said as she plopped the file down on the oak table with a thud. “Unsurprisingly, it’s a grey, rainy day here in London. It’s like someone unleashed several tempests in a bottle out there!”
That comment earned some mild chuckles from the observers, mainly from the Auror Office officials.
“Don’t let Wimple hear that,” Harry Potter snickered from the front row, “he’ll use your comment as a reason to lift weather regulations.”
“Oh Merlin, don’t remind me! He’s not here, is he? The Experimental Charms Committee will be the death of me,” Venusia tittered, flashing Harry a knowing smirk, before straightening herself again. “Right, let’s get cracking. We have a lot to get through, I suspect.”
Another chair was conjured and Venusia sat in it opposite the young witch. She huffed out heavily, tossing some white hair over her shoulder. After tucking herself in under the table, she peered over her glasses. Her silver eyes were beady yet prepossessing, and her focus was solely held on the girl before her.
“Thank you for agreeing to attend today’s hearing." Venusia said, as if the young witch had a choice.
"First, I’m going to ask you a few questions from your file here, and you’re going to tell me if the information we have is correct or not.” Venusia continued, tapping the brown leather cover with her wand. It was neat, yet clearly dense and well-read, with some rogue notes sporadically sticking out, “I will assume your answers will be truthful and that we have no need to administer you with anything. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” the young witch said in a croak; her throat still arid.
“Good,” Venusia wordlessly flicked her wand, and the file thumped open. The first page looked like a Muggle police suspect report.
The young witch’s enchanted photograph from her fifth school year was paperclipped to the top. The same one in all the Daily Prophet articles about her. Her small smile growing into a beaming grin just before the flash played in a loop.
Something about her picture made her wistful – she looked so youthful and… untainted.
“Let’s start with the basics. Ready?”
The floating quill quivered then stilled above a piece of parchment.
“Yes,” the young witch responded while placing her hands in her lap, watching as her words were furiously etched into the levitating parchment.
Venusia cleared her throat.
“You are Phoebe Jane Honeyball. Seventeen-year-old witch, currently in her sixth year, studying for N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Sorted into Ravenclaw house,” Venusia raised an eyebrow, “correct thus far?”
“Correct, Officer.”
“Muggleborn witch, with no history of magic in both the maternal and fraternal lines,” Venusia continued, “mother: Jane Honeyball. Deceased. Father: Vincent Honeyball. Living, but with an unknown yet debilitating medical condition. No siblings. No uncles, aunts, grandparents or cousins. Born and raised at seven Rose Park Close in Derbyshire, near Bakewell. Only notable childhood friend is Muggle Emma Wright, of twenty Baker’s Lane. An apprentice seamstress.”
“All correct.”
“I don’t think we need to go over physical appearance and defining features in much detail… I can see you’re fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall… and it’s quite obvious you have gapped front teeth.”
Phoebe closed her mouth.
“So – magical powers first materialised at age fourteen on 21st June 1889, the summer solstice. Found by the now deceased Professor Eleazar Fig, former Magical Theory teacher at Hogwarts. His account of that day reads: ‘Phoebe was found with her magical abilities out of control, with fires consuming the surrounding area atop a hill in the Peak District. Not an Obscurus, but a fledgling witch potentially overlooked by the wizarding community. I believe she lost control of her magic due to her mother dying suddenly in front of her, and she was yet taught how to regulate her powers.' Is this true?”
Phoebe tensed and began picking at the skin on her finger. She hadn’t comprehended that Professor Fig would have needed to report on the state he found her in on the day he came across her by auspicious chance. On the day she discovered she was a witch, and her life was irrevocably changed.
Both fortunately and unfortunately, she remembered that day all too well. From the horrible moment her mother collapsed and died out of nowhere, to being miraculously found and calmed by Professor Fig, who happened to be in Derbyshire trying to continue his late wife, Miriam’s, research.
“Yes, all correct.”
It was a lie – but only partly. The fire – blue fire charged with ancient magic – consumed her in a vortex when she was clutching at her dead mother. It didn’t harm her, and it was a hapless side-effect of possessing such raw magic.
But witches don’t produce blue fire. Especially ones so inexperienced. The Ministry did not know of her ancient magic abilities, and she intended to keep it that way. Who knows what they would do to her if they discovered her secret. Would she become a magical test subject? Whisked away to be prodded and analysed?
Phoebe didn't like to think about it too much.
“Regrettable, indeed,” Venusia’s tone tempered, and the quill was momentarily serener at scribing their words.
The head Auror leaned over the table. “Though, I must ask, Miss Honeyball – was that truly the first moment you ever showed magical ability?”
Behind Venusia, the audience also tilted their heads in intrigue. Eulalie Trout readied her quill over a notebook.
Phoebe understood why – it was incredibly rare that a witch or wizard only began to exhibit magical ability at such a mature age. There had only been a handful of others in recorded history. Professor Rackham, the Keeper, and Isidora Morganach, being two of them.
“Of such a degree, yes,” Phoebe answered truthfully, “the year before that, I could manipulate flames in a hearth, and I think I was able to push a cup or two across a table with enough concentration. But those occurrences were so few and far between, I assumed my mind was playing tricks on me. When my mother died… t-that was the first time I could use magic like I can- today.”
There were some murmurs in the audience. In his chair, Harry scribbled something down in his notebook and then tapped his finger on his lips. Squinting down at her charily.
Phoebe returned his look, but only for a fleeting moment. Because...
Because-
Her ears began ringing.
Like a spear launched and thrust through her torso, Phoebe’s stomach convulsed.
A roaring heat flared and ebbed from the source through her limbs. Not from fear or anxiety or stress, but from something evil that she was inflicted with just a week prior.
It pulsated like it was trying to escape its confines solely to harm her. To get her to react through a gossamer prison that did not relent to its incessant thrashing.
The heat no longer pained her like it did before, but it was still an unnerving sensation. A constant reminder of the horror that lived within her alongside ancient magic.
Fortunately, as quickly as it arrived, it dissipated again, leaving only an acrid taste in her mouth.
“Thank you for clarifying,” Venusia drawled, not noticing how Phoebe had paled, before scanning through the file. Flicking through the pages, she stopped at a section titled ‘academic career’.
“Since then, you were admitted to Hogwarts. This file says you perform best in practical magic, noted in your Summoner’s Court attendance and in a certain unsanctioned duelling organisation. You seem rather intelligent, too. You hold the second-best exam results in your year, second only to your friend, Master Ominis Gaunt. You’re noted as a gifted spellcaster and an assiduous learner, often found in the library with your nose in a book. You associate with several students, most notably Samantha Dale, Amit Thakkar, Poppy Sweeting and Natsai Onai.”
“Correct, I guess,” Phoebe swallowed - her throat was dry again. It was alarming how much information they had collected on her, including on her Crossed Wands attendance. She thought she saw Professor Hecat stir in the audience.
“But… it says here: ‘subject spends most of her time with Master Ominis Gaunt and Master Sebastian Sallow. In lessons, at lunch, after school, and sometimes, all three are missing at the same time. Miss Honeyball and Master Sallow, as confirmed by their peers, are especially close. Enough that in interviews with Hogwarts students concerning Miss Honeyball, Master Sallow was mentioned in every single one. You cannot speak of one without the other; to do so is like removing a head from its torso,” Venusia cocked her head to one side, “now, I know this to be true because I wrote this account. No need for you to corroborate.”
Phoebe’s cheeks flushed. The mere mention of Sebastian often precipitated such a reaction. Always against her will, too.
“Okay, Miss Honeyball, now that we have the basics pinned, I would like to move onto the matter at hand.” Venusia clucked her tongue and planted her interlaced fingers over Phoebe’s file. She regarded the young witch with a serious, and somewhat sceptical look, “you should know the Department of Magical Law Enforcement holds the right to ask any question, but you are also in your right to deny an answer. However, this will be noted in our investigation, as well as any obstructions with be documented and used in potential future inquiries. Do you understand?”
Phoebe nodded, knowing all this interrogating was only going to exacerbate.
“I need verbal confirmation, Miss Honeyball.”
“I understand.”
“Good. I know this may be difficult for you to relive, but we must get the facts straight,” Venusia flicked through Phoebe’s file again until she landed on a page with several excerpts from the Daily Prophet. The wizarding newspaper that was obsessed with her.
Ranrok was on several of the cuttings, either as an enchanted photograph, or printed in bold lettering.
Phoebe nodded again while suppressing some bile in her throat, “it’s all right.”
“Okay… what we have here is that on your way to Hogwarts, ready to start your first term as a fourth year, your flying carriage was attacked by a dragon. Ministry official George Osric perished, but you and Eleazar Fig miraculously survived. You managed to get back to Hogwarts in one piece, eventually. But- you were attacked by an armoured troll in Hogsmeade alongside Master Sallow on your second day. You were also targeted by local Dark wizards Victor Rookwood and Theopolis Harlow in the Three Broomsticks, but the Landlady, Sirona Ryan, and the patrons protected you.”
“Yes, all correct.”
“See, after this, things start to get murky for me,” Venusia squinted and tapped on the file, “it seems that both Ranrok and Rookwood continued to target you, as if they needed you for something… or that they wanted to eradicate you. And, you are seen on several occasions sneaking off school grounds and never seen returning. Professor Fig, too. Sometimes together. We know he was still enquiring about his late wife’s research with the Ministry and Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black, but nothing that intrinsically links you and him to Ranrok nor Rookwood.
“Then, next we know, you’re found in the caves beneath Hogwarts. Clutching Fig’s dead body after you had just defeated an augmented Ranrok all by yourself. Hogwarts’s professors recount that both you and Fig ‘found’, or merely stumbled upon a lost repository of magic while idly trying to figure out what Ranrok was after. As if in a bout of vigilante justice with no interest in informing Officer Singer first-”
“Because the Ministry were refusing to investigate Ranrok.” Phoebe protested in a persecuted outburst.
The scratching of quills on parchment ceased. The audience stilled and bewilderedly stared at her.
“We weren’t refusing. Investigations needn’t be publicised, especially ones as significant as this,” Venusia chastised in a teacher-like tone, “don’t believe everything you read in the Daily Prophet, girl.”
“I didn’t need to; I could see the dire situation for myself. Every day. The threats were as close as Hogsmeade! There were goblins and leagues of Ashwinders terrorising the area, with only two Aurors on duty! Hamlets like Feldcroft and Marunweem were suffering to no end. If we didn’t act immediately, it would have been too late. It was the rational thing to do-”
“Miss Honeyball, watch your tone-”
Phoebe scoffed and pointed at the file, “-and it’s rich of you telling me not to believe the Daily Prophet when you’re citing directly from their articles.”
There was a harsh cough from the audience. Phoebe glanced up to see Professor Weasley accepting a handkerchief from Professor Hecat. She hacked again, several times, while glaring down at the young witch.
Be quiet.
Phoebe crossed her arms as another bout of dreadful heat coursed through her body. She exhaled a shaky breath to calm herself. It was cruel how often it struck.
“Look, like I said, I understand this will be difficult for you to recount, Miss Honeyball, but I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what happened,” Venusia said. She closed the file and pushed it away purposefully so Phoebe could see she wasn’t going to read straight from it, “and you’re right, it’s wrong of me to cite directly from a newspaper that wasn't privy to what happened. It remains a useful source of information, however, and in one article, it details how you were admitted to Hogwarts’s Hospital Wing for treatment for a fractured leg, and some minor cuts and bruises. That was all - is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“Extraordinary that’s all the injuries you escaped with after killing the most notorious and powerful goblin we’ve seen in a century-”
“I lost Professor Fig that day,” Phoebe cut in again, “cuts and bruises weren’t the only injuries I escaped with.”
“Indeed,” Venusia nodded, “even still, you healed very quickly. Far quicker than Nurse Blainey expected, as documented in her triage report. And then, you gave your accounts to Deputy Headmistress Matilda Weasley and Professor Dinah Hecat, who then reported to us. Next, you just went home for the summer.”
Venusia stopped speaking abruptly, peering pointedly over her glasses again, as if expecting Phoebe to expand.
Phoebe was confused by this, so she responded simply with, “I did, Officer.”
“But that wasn’t all, now, was it?” Venusia tilted further forward and pursed her lips. She tapped on the table with her nail, “by all accounts, you recovered mentally over the summer, and jovially returned to Hogwarts for your sixth year, now finally able to enjoy your first ‘normal’ term at school. You diligently focused in all your classes, engaged with your friends, and even attended the Yule Ball with Master Samuel Greengrass. Carousing and schmoozing your way through me and my colleagues who also attended as if nothing happened the term prior.”
Phoebe swallowed and a moue began forming on her face. Those comments made her unexpectedly and invertedly sad. The pit in her stomach distended.
“If you say so,” she muttered pitifully.
“But we have been watching you, Miss Honeyball,” Venusia lowered her voice, so it was a hiss, “while we have no formal evidence of what you were doing, we know you were still up to something in relation to what happened with Ranrok. Because, enlighten me, how does one end up in Cragcroft, miles away from Hogwarts after curfew, with Master Sallow, once again, only to encounter Victor Rookwood, of all people? Not merely him, but George Goldhawk – a prolific Dark wizard and curse-experimentalist we’ve been trailing for the best part of ten years?”
Phoebe opened her mouth, but Venusia cut her off.
“Actually, how does one come to face twenty Ashwinders and emerge mostly unscathed?”
Phoebe balked, “unscathed? Officer, I was cursed. I lost-”
“Yes, cursed with the same affliction that Master Sallow’s twin sister, Miss Anne Sallow, was struck with just two years earlier. Correct?”
There it was – that sickening heat. Back again, as if summoned by the mere mention of it.
Phoebe gulped and grimaced. It still pained her to hear it all over again, so she strained to say, “correct. That’s what I’m told.”
“Yes, well, you were in terrible shape when you were brought to St Mungo’s. But it has been only a week, and look at you.” Venusia derided, “mostly healed, walking, talking and spellcasting without a hitch, and not suffering from the curse the way that Miss Sallow was debilitated by it. Even if our diagnostics confirm you’re still cursed, you’re well.”
“Not well, clearly.” Phoebe rebuked as she purposely pulled up one of her sleeves. There were muffled murmurs in the audience as she displayed three deep wounds carved across her right arm. Healing, yes, but still gnarly and likely to remain with her forever, even with magical treatment.
“No, I mince my words,” Venusia said, barely acknowledging the evidence and crossing her arms, “yes, you were struck with depulso right into a tree and then diffindo straight after, which certainly maimed you. Not surprising when faced with a band of Dark wizards. But that’s not what I’m focusing on, because you weren’t just cursed with a terrible malady intended to cause everlasting, excruciating pain. Rookwood or Goldhawk also plagued you with a sophisticated curse that wiped your memory. One we’ve only seen documented a handful of times, all intended to cause momentary confusion. A dazed state only meant to last for a week or two, with only recent memories confounded…
“Yet, you claim you can’t remember anything since starting your sixth year. Six whole months of memory,” Venusia extended her fingers and mimed the word ‘poof’, “gone, just like that. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m telling the truth!” Phoebe exclaimed, “truly, the last thing I remember is leaving home after the summer to come back to Hogwarts. After that, it’s…”
The auditorium fell silent as death as Phoebe trailed off. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wrought her mind for any memory of the last six months. As with every time she tried, she had flashes of what she thought might be something. A face, a location, a feeling. But they were fleeting, like a train passing through a station. Each one was grasped and then slipped through her fingers.
It pained her more than the curse she harboured that she could not remember such an important chunk of her life. All that knowledge. All those feelings and experiences. Lost.
She shook her head, frustrated, “it’s all foggy. I’m sorry, that’s all I know.”
Furious scribbling from the floating quill and some members of the audience resumed.
“Like I said, how convenient.” Venusia tutted, “but, that means you still remember the events preceding. Correct?”
Phoebe nodded, “mostly.”
“So, what we’re going to do now is talk. You’re going to answer my questions, Miss Honeyball, and we are going to work out what really happened with Ranrok and Rookwood, and what you’ve been doing these last six months since returning to Hogwarts. Whether we’re here for an hour or a year. We’re going to uncover the truth.”
For the first time that morning, Phoebe’s mind quietened. She couldn’t remember anything, but something filed at the back of her brain was expecting this. The same sensation that told her to be cautious earlier that morning. If she was truthful, she was anticipating Ministry probing since she and Professor Fig found Isidora Morganach’s repository below the school.
And now, finally, the day had arrived. Yet, her mind wandered to something else entirely.
Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt—her closest friends.
Because there wasn’t just the situation with Ranrok to consider, but everything that happened with Sebastian, Anne and their uncle Solomon, who was…
Killed. Killed by Sebastian’s hand. She had not forgotten that.
When she first woke after the attack, they filled her in on some details about the last six months, but it proved insufficient before she was called into questioning and was separated from them.
It was far from enough to understand how things had unfolded since then.
And… she remained baffled as to why she and Sebastian were still inseparable, even after his actions—not only towards Solomon but also Anne, Ominis, and Phoebe herself.
All she knew was that Sebastian had avoided Azkaban, and Anne remained missing after all this time.
Despite all the uncertainties, Phoebe knew she needed to see them again. Without Sebastian and Ominis, she felt truly lost. They knew everything, including secrets she couldn't divulge to the Ministry.
Some they couldn't even tell her yet.
A fleeting image flashed in her mind—a lost memory that felt like a safe haven. It reminded her of the Undercroft, warm and comforting.
She would see them soon. That thought alone would sustain her through further questioning.
“Shall we go through the moment you and Fig met with George Osric in London, first?” Venusia said rather than asked as she reopened Phoebe’s file.
Phoebe straightened her back and nodded doggedly, “I’m ready.”