The novelty of being seventeen wore off pretty quickly.
It wasn’t until a few days after Delilah’s birthday that it really dawned on her that she could use magic whenever she wanted, all alone. That she was really an adult. She’d been halfway down the steps into the kitchen when she realised she’d left her book in her bedroom, and in the act of cursing under her breath and wheeling around to go back for it, it struck her with a queer rush that she could just summon it from her room. It reminded her of the exhilarating freedom she’d felt the first time, aged nine, that she’d been allowed to visit the local shop by herself in Hexworthy to buy herself an ice cream.
Inevitably, though, using her wand soon became just as commonplace as wandering down the road for an ice cream. After the first few days of enjoying waving it at the slightest provocation, and even diving enthusiastically into learning new spells from her school books just because she could, there was no escaping how unrelentingly monotonous her life had become. She read; she bathed; she ate and slept; she listened to The Witching Hour on the radio every morning; she even completed an ancient 125-piece jigsaw puzzle which she found on a bookshelf in the sitting room, depicting the scowling portrait of someone called Josephina Flint and her mean-looking bull terrier. After a fortnight, she would have welcomed the sight of a battalion of Death Eaters storming down the hallway to murder her, just for something to do.
It was all so boring.
‘Fucking ditching me here with nobody to talk to,’ she muttered to herself one morning, wrenching her bedclothes into place. ‘Not that I’m ever going to be allowed to talk to anyone again, might as well get used to it, expecting me to live like a fucking ghost, give up everyone I care about…’ she aimed a hard kick at the bedpost to vent some of the surprisingly violent rage which thrummed through her, and then roared in pain and fury when her big toe throbbed in protest.
‘FUCKING hell,’ she bellowed out loud, storming out of the bedroom and slamming the door as hard as she could; and then, for good measure, opening it and slamming it again, and again, and again, shouting ‘FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCK’ in time with the slams. She stamped down the stairs and into the bathroom on the landing, gathering her skirt around her waist, and threw herself down on the toilet, thinking that she could really murder an ice cream.
Oh, fuck.
The sight of a scarlet smudge in the gusset of her knickers sobered her immediately. She slipped them off and tossed them into the basin beside her, then sank her head into her hands.
In her grief, her rage, her fear, her boredom, her confusion, she hadn’t even thought about this. What was she going to do?
The magical community had never much impressed her with their solutions to les problèmes des femmes, as her mother delicately put it; Muggle methods were the vogue among the girls at Beauxbatons, who seemed to think they carried some mysterious sophistication, but she knew that once they were older most of them bought, or brewed, some kind of potion. She’d never had a mother who could instruct her, and had never thought to ask Connie, so she realised she didn’t even know what that potion might be, nor how to find the brewing instructions even she had any way of sourcing the ingredients. She hadn’t come across any Floo Powder in the house, and in any case might be in danger if she wandered down Diagon Alley when she was supposed to be in hiding…
She sat up slowly.
But she was an adult. Couldn’t she just nip to the shop?
She gazed out of the bathroom window through which a glorious summer’s day taunted her, as had every day for most of her incarceration. Dust particles hung peacefully in a shaft of warm yellow light which streamed across the bathroom floor, dappled by the branches of a lush oak in the square outside. She imagined a fresh breeze lifting her hair from her forehead, the sun warming her skin, the expanse of the streets, the smells and sounds of the city. What danger could there really be in her popping out into Muggle London for a few minutes, where nobody would know her? Nobody except Dumbledore and Snape knew where she was, and her enemies didn’t even know she existed, so they could hardly be waiting for her or watching the house. She didn’t know where a shop might be, but there was bound to be one somewhere within a few streets. She could buy a magazine whilst she was out there, a box of her favourite biscuits. She could stop for a coffee and drink it on the grass of the little square opposite that she’d seen through the window. Maybe an ice cream. If it went well she could figure out where she was and slip out again to a nearby cinema, or a restaurant, just for a change of scenery…
Within moments she was back in her bedroom, had slid her sandals onto her feet and retrieved the handbag with her Muggle money and sunglasses in it from the suitcase Snape had collected from her mother’s house and snuck down the staircase, tiptoeing as though she might be overheard. She crept along the hallway with mounting anticipation and approached the wooden door with its pattern of wrought-iron fleur-de-lis…
As soon as she lifted the latch and pulled the door open a crack, a deafening scream filled the hallway, so loud that Delilah rocketed back against the wall in shock and clapped her hands to her ears, snatching her wand from her pocket. She wheeled around in panic looking for the source of the noise, before three figures materialised in the hall at once, there was an explosion of flashing lights and shouted curses, and then everything went black.
*
Delilah stirred into consciousness to find herself lying on the couch in the sitting room, and was immediately met with the sound of raised, angry voices.
She froze.
‘Well, what the blazes made her do that?’ thundered a deep male voice.
‘Why are you asking me?’ This was unmistakeably the icy drawl of Professor Snape. ‘There is no apparent danger, and she’s not conscious to explain herself.’
‘I was trailing Fenella Parkinson, she’ll be long gone by now,’ a woman complained.
‘Clearly there is no danger, so I’ll be off if I may, Severus.’ This was a third, more soft-spoken man, who made a light-footed exit presumably with the non-verbal assent of Professor Snape.
‘Snape, are you there?’ came a bored sounding voice from the hallway. ‘The headmaster requires an urgent update.’
‘It’s nothing, Phineas,’ called the woman irritably. ‘Tell Albus the girl opened the door herself. There’s no danger.’
‘Well, since there’s nothing to be done here, I’ll be going too,’ said the first male voice.
Delilah’s insides were squirming with shame. She cracked open one eye to see the head of a square-jawed witch in the fireplace, and just in time to see the back of a grizzle-haired wizard with a wooden leg as he Disapparated. The silvery shadow of a lynx galloped into the room through the wall.
‘Assisting in arrest of Parkinson, with you in five,’ it reported.
‘Well, that’s something,’ huffed the witch in the fire, and she disappeared with a pop.
‘Message Shacklebolt, false alarm, no danger, no attendance required,’ Snape told the lynx, and it turned tail and vanished. He waved his wand and another large silvery messenger emerged from its tip and streaked out of the room after the lynx.
‘Severus?’ came again the voice from the hallway. ‘The headmaster still requires an update.’ Snape left the room and Delilah, finally alone, opened her eyes fully and rolled on to her back.
‘…Yes, I’m sure,’ came Snape’s voice through the open door from the hallway, ‘I’ve checked thoroughly: there is nobody here, no signs of forced entry, no traces of magic belonging to anyone except members of the Order and the girl herself. She obviously just opened the door.’
‘The headmaster will be delighted,’ said the other voice sarcastically. ‘Are we ever to find out why half the Order was assembled to attend the opening of a door? Not that I’m curious, but Dumbledore is sure to ask.’
‘I don’t know, she was caught in the crossfire and knocked out. I’ll go and wake her now.’
Delilah threw herself back on to her side and snapped her eyes shut.
She felt rather than heard Snape re-enter the room, and saw a flash of light through her eyelids.
‘Enervate.’
Her brain zapped like an electric charge had run through it, and she gasped and clutched her head.
‘I thought so,’ Snape said coolly. ‘For future reference, whatever the circumstances, it is never advisable to feign unconsciousness if you suspect someone is going to try and revive you. The spell is most unpleasant to the conscious brain.’
‘Apparently so,’ she said, rubbing her temples and sitting up. ‘Look, I heard all that and-’
‘And?’ Snape snapped. She risked glancing up at him to see cold fury etched into the lines of his face. ‘And? Do go on. I cannot wait to hear what riveting dilemma justified your mobilising the Order of the Phoenix to rush to your aid.’
Something about that turn of phrase tugged painfully at Delilah’s heart.
…Matilda, growing tired of play
And finding she was left alone,
Went tiptoe to the telephone
And summoned the Immediate Aid
of London’s Noble Fire Brigade…
Tears pricked in the back of her eyes and her throat ached.
Don’t cry, she ordered herself fiercely. He’ll think it’s because of him. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
She swallowed hard.
‘You never told me the door was charmed,’ she said sheepishly.
‘We never told you,’ Snape repeated jeeringly. ‘And the fact that you were expressly ordered not to leave the house?’
‘Well, I didn’t really think it would be that dangerous’ she mumbled. ‘I was only going out for a few minutes…’
‘Unbelievable,’ Snape said. ‘Albus Dumbledore himself orders an entire faction of his organisation to prioritise your safety, some of the most powerful and important witches and wizards in the country are assigned to keep you from harm, the Headquarters are temporarily sacrificed for your personal holiday home, and you summon us like House Elves for your own amusement. Do you think we have nothing better to do? Do you think we aren’t busy enough fighting the dark forces which threaten to engulf our society, at immense personal risk, without answering the needless summons of a bored little girl?’
‘Look, I didn’t know,’ she said desperately. ‘I didn’t know any of that, I didn’t know about the faction assigned to me, I didn’t know the Headquarters had been sacrificed, I didn’t ask for any of it! I didn’t know I was important, if someone had told me…’
‘You are not important,’ Snape snarled. ‘You are important only insofar as the Dark Lord has designated you as such. You hold no value as an individual; we exert ourselves purely because your capture could have dire consequences for our community. But who cares about the future of the wizarding world when Miss Blackthorn fancies a stroll?’
‘I didn’t just fancy a stroll, I needed something.’
Snape cocked an eyebrow.
‘You… needed something,’ he repeated, each word dripping with sarcasm.
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly, dreading what was coming next.
‘Are you going to tell me what that something was?’
As mortifying as the idea of telling the truth was, she sensed a lie would be even worse, even if she could think of a plausible one.
‘Fe-fem-feminine… stuff,’ she stammered, flushing scarlet and staring at her hands.
‘Feh- feh- feh-’ Snape mimicked cruelly. ‘And it didn’t occur to you to use the Floo to contact Madame Pomfrey?’
‘Madame Pomfrey?’ she echoed, looking up at him.
‘The Hogwarts matron.’
‘I… No, that didn’t occur to me. I’ve never met her. And anyway, there’s no Floo powder in this house.’
Snape regarded her for a long moment. His black eyes were inscrutable, but her insides trembled under their gaze. She then, quite unaccountably, became hyper-aware of the uncomfortable scratching of the bundle of tissue she’d wedged between her thighs, which she realised needed changing already. Snape gave an impatient sigh and made for the door.
‘Come,’ he commanded, and Delilah followed him into the hallway to see him descending the stairs towards the kitchen.
‘I’ll just go to the bathroom,’ Delilah said to his retreating back. He did not acknowledge the remark.
By the time she joined him in the kitchen, a black leather briefcase lay open on the counter with several compartments folded outward on hinged legs. A collapsible brass cauldron had already been erected and lit, and Snape was measuring a pinch of greenish powder on to an exquisite set of miniature balance scales. He didn’t look up as Delilah hovered in the doorway. After a few moments she edged hesitantly into the room and perched awkwardly on a high stool at the corner of the counter. Snape continued to ignore her.
‘What are you doing?’ she ventured.
This earned her a sharp look.
‘A simple Staunching Potion,’ he said at length. ‘A concoction that I would expect a an eleven-year-old to recognise.’
‘Is it for me?’
‘Is anybody else in need of staunching?’
‘This is very kind of you,’ she said humbly. ‘Especially after…’
‘This is me being your Potions master.’
‘And the potion will just stop the…?’ she trailed off.
‘Providing it is taken every twelve hours.’
‘Can I brew it myself back at Hogwarts?’
‘As I said, I would expect a child to be able to manage it.’
‘Potions isn’t really prioritised at Beauxbatons,’ Delilah said defensively. ‘And I’ve never been any good at it,’ she admitted.
‘Well, then I wouldn’t advise imbibing your own creations,’ Snape said lazily. ‘This will be ready in forty minutes precisely. The cauldron will self-extinguish. Once it has cooled, you need to use this beaker to measure out a 25ml dose every 12 hours. Don’t forget to rinse the beaker thoroughly after each use. There should be enough to last you a week.’ He squeezed the cork lids back into the necks of the handful of bottles that littered the counter and slotted them back into their respective spaces in the briefcase. ‘I will collect the cauldron before the start of term.’ He snapped the briefcase closed, swung it off the counter and made towards the door.
‘Professor?’
He paused in the doorway, his back to her.
‘Thanks for…’ Delilah began weakly.
He walked on.
