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Dear Miss Hermione Jean Granger,

The British Scholarship Committee thanks you for your application and is pleased to inform that a favourable decision has been made regarding your funding request.

Your Master’s studies in Healing (specialisation: Mental Disorders) will take place at the Occitan Academy of Healing under the guidance of Monsieur Guillaume Changeux, following your stated preferences. Classes will commence in two months, on 2 October 2000. You are kindly requested to arrive in advance for campus accommodation and adaptation to academic life, no later than 30 September, but no earlier than the 18th. An international Portkey with an open date, further instructions, and a list of necessary items will be sent to you in early September.

The Committee would also like to note that your attached motivation letter was assessed anonymously under the application review policy and made a lasting impression on one of the programme’s principal sponsors, who has chosen to remain anonymous. He has elected to undertake full sponsorship of your education, including the accommodation cost, the three-year course of lectures required for certification, and a weekly allowance of five Galleons. The sole condition, that you are already aware of, is a monthly informal report on your studies and life abroad. This should be sent by owl post to Cassius Quiritus before the 25th of each month. In addition, in light of your exceptional learning aptitude noted in your résumé, your sponsor has requested the inclusion of a supplementary specialisation in Palliative Care. We hope this secondary programme proves to be just as engaging as your primary field.

Once again, congratulations on your acceptance. We wish you every success in your pursuit of a Master’s degree.

Emily Vole
Chair of British Scholarship Committee
Department of Magical Education
Ministry of Magic, United Kingdom

Hermione looked up at Minerva McGonagall and froze.

“They… they accepted me?”

The professor gave her a weary smile.

“Yes, my dear, and you know perfectly well that no one deserves it more than you.”

“It says I must study Palliative Care at the sponsor’s request…”

“Unfortunately. Such conditions are standard—those who foot the bill set the terms. Thank Merlin, he at least honoured your preferred specialisation, Hermione.”

“You know who he is?”

“We discussed your departure just before you came in. I can’t say I’m fond of his character, but better this than ending up as Argus’s assistant. Please abide by the programme’s terms and don’t expect any correspondence—your sponsor is the sort who sees no point in wasting words. Should any matter arise that requires his involvement, you’ll communicate with his secretary, Monsieur Hervier.”

McGonagall seemed about to say more, but merely shook her head and sighed.

“I believe in you, my girl. Remember, you can always write to me, too.”

Hermione smiled and gently clasped the dry, wrinkled hand that, ten minutes earlier, had given her a ticket to a new life.

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall. You’ve already helped me so much—with the application, the accommodation, everything…”

She barely remembered descending the staircase from the Head’s office, past the gargoyles, the corridor of doors, and out into the sunset-drenched viaduct.

Imagine that—even a stipend…

In the south tower beneath the roof, it was so stifling that even open windows offered no relief. Hermione shrugged off the plain dress she had worn to visit the Headmistress and collapsed onto the bed, utterly spent.

The day would not end. From morning until the start of the reception, Hermione had helped the house-elves and a much-diminished Filch prepare the castle for the sponsor’s gala—Hogwarts still required investment, even two years after the final battle. So did many others, left homeless and penniless under Voldemort’s regime. And no matter how much Hermione tried to ignore it, she was one of them: the Order of Merlin came with no monetary reward, just a handshake and a mumbled “no funding, but good luck,” followed by a job offer in the Ministry archives—at a meagre one and a half Galleons a week. Her parents were still somewhere in Australia, and, understandably, no word had come, making it rather difficult to support their non-existent daughter. Harry’s money was his, and burdening the already struggling Weasleys…

So Hermione had finished her final year at Hogwarts—free tuition, board, access to the library, and all the small joys of school life she had almost forgotten after a year on the run. She passed her examinations and then begged McGonagall for a post as an assistant. But such positions never exist, and the Ministry outright refused to create one. Thus, “the brightest witch of her age,” once the daughter of middle-upper-class London dentists, became something between a live-in house-elf and a guest of the Headmistress.

The Ministry’s gifted youth support programme offered her a glimmer of hope: training in Mind Healing, necessary both for lifting the Obliviation and… well, the story was an old one: “Physician, heal thyself.” All that remained were the formalities: nine N.E.W.T.s, references from Minerva, Poppy, and Filius. And of course, the notorious motivation letter—a scathing pamphlet on modern society, nearly all of it gripped by PTSD, yet stubbornly focused on trivialities to avoid facing reality. Complex traumas, near-fatal bites, lingering curses—St Mungo’s could treat them all, yet no one dared address the mind—fear of prying too deeply, especially when the Ministry now frowned upon Legilimency. No diagnosis, no treatment. No treatment—another Dark Lord rises while everyone buries their heads in the sand. A decade on, the same pattern repeats, scarring a new generation of children thrust into war beside adults. Then comes sleeping draught abuse, reckless habits, adrenaline addiction, fresh crimes, scores of victims. The rot starts at the top—both figuratively and literally.

Which made it all the more astonishing that someone with access to ancient, bottomless vaults found the letter compelling rather than offensive. An extraordinary figure—McGonagall had described him aptly. Hermione had glimpsed the sponsor’s shadow through a crack in the office door: the hem of a robe like folded wings, a predatory profile—part Occamy, part common bat. Curse this mutual anonymity.

Hermione lay staring at the ceiling, wondering who could need palliative care so badly that they would sponsor the training of a Healer. Some French magnate? In Britain, no one remained incurably ill post-war: wizards either died quickly or recovered.

The sun had long since set, and the air thickened into a hazy summer dusk. Hogwarts slumbered; its slow, sleepy breath stirred the curtains—phantoms of French flags against the stone ceiling. The last glimmers of red, gauzy tulle, and Ravenclaw-blue drapes—the lingering traces of former room décor.

There were still forty-four days before the move to Montpellier, and Hermione already couldn’t sleep.

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Occitan Academy of Healing
34750 Villeneuve-lès-Maguelone
France

20 September 2000

Dear Benefactor of Disadvantaged Gifted Wizards,

I hope this letter finds you well. I wish to express my gratitude for the opportunity to study here under the guidance of one of the most renowned mind healers—you cannot imagine how much this means to me. I understand that this letter is likely entirely unnecessary, as the programme's requirements only stipulate academic reporting, but I find myself unable, for better or worse, to remain silent.

The campus is currently sparsely populated and, consequently, eerily quiet compared to where I lived for the past two years. Monsieur Changeux has scheduled a meeting to discuss my thesis topic only next week, and I will likely spend the intervening days in the Occitan Library—I would hate for all efforts to be in vain if he finds my existing ideas and research unsatisfactory. However, I am not sure you are truly interested in my primary specialisation, given your insistence on palliative care as an additional course. Do you believe that healers should focus solely on alleviating the suffering of hopeless patients? It seems so unfair to them—to give up, justifying it by the absence of proven treatments. Especially concerning mental disorders—even Muggles treat severe illnesses if they are not genetically induced. It's a pity that you are, with 90% probability, encountering this word for the first time.

By the way, does mutual anonymity not seem excessive to you? I bet you would prefer to control whom you allocate resources to, to avoid funding the unworthy. Quite possibly, though, I would not be here if that were the case. For my part, I would also like to know who I am writing to and whether these letters will be read at all. I want to believe that you are among the French patrons who just seek talents across the English Channel, but at the same time, I understand that this likelihood is not particularly high, and the name Cassius Quiritus serves as a kind of safeguard for me and my conscience.

So, what I know for certain:

1. You are aware of the Second Wizarding War in Britain and likely participated in it.
2. You are wealthy.
3. There is something predatory in your manner of movement.
4. You dislike complicating your life and responding to letters.

As you can see, even this leaves little to no room for self-deception. I admit, I would rather deceive myself and ignore the obvious than miss the chance to learn something new and gain a specialisation. I hope you are not offended by the thought that your protégé might be Muggle-born. On the other hand, perhaps you believe that only Muggle-borns are suitable for the dirty work, such as caring for the infirm. I wonder which of these conclusions I have guessed correctly.

By the way, why did you choose such a name: 'Empty Citizen'? Was there no desire to hint at your identity? You are not in the slightest shy about yourself, judging by the relaxedness of your movements. Something tells me that rules are not written for people like you. However, I am also not sure that I truly want to know who will receive this letter (and whether they will read it), as then I would have to deal with an unpleasant reality. I hope you are not offended by my reluctance to use a faceless Latin name, which has nothing to do with you. If anonymity is so important to you, let us agree on "Mr Occamy," especially since this comparison is rather complimentary for you. As for me, if you wish to respond to this or other letters, call me Mercuria, just by name. After all, your position allows it (I mean the patronising tone, condescension, and all that).

I will send the next letter in the middle of the month, after classes have begun, so as not to trouble you too much. Once again, I sincerely thank you for this opportunity.

Respectfully,

Mercuria

Occitan Academy of Healing
34750 Villeneuve-lès-Maguelone
France

10 October 2000

Dear Mr Occamy,
(Or shall I call you by title?)

I apologise if my previous letter seemed impudent or insufficiently grateful. I was distressed and found no better way than to pour everything onto paper. I hope you did not read it, as no reply came, and I was not asked to leave the academy. I truly hope you do not read this letter either.

It is magical here. Magical, although for any wizard by blood, this word evokes no awe. The academy is located by the sea, and the entire campus is scattered between former salt reservoirs and a Muggle beach spit. There is a main building—a three-storey structure with an attic and a scarlet tiled roof; it is combined with an outpatient clinic where patients capable of Apparating to the clinic are received. Around it are small one- and two-storey buildings—departmental buildings with students' dorms. My cottage is slightly away from the main ensemble, as no classes are held there, and no patients are accommodated. It has only one floor, three bedrooms, two occupied by my classmates, a small kitchen, and a bathroom with a window facing the sea. An olive tree grows outside my window, and the dawn sun casts carved shadows on the wall in the mornings. I never thought I would be so happy to wake up to the sound of leaves and the rustle of water on the shore. I could not even imagine I would fall in love with the sea like this. (Yes, I now know that the academy is located by the Étangs Palavasiennes, but I had never seen so much water before, not even at Hogwarts. Moreover, these lakes are salty.)

The first week of work with Monsieur Changeux passed calmly: he listened to my incoherent thoughts on types of Obliviate charms, factors that may influence the spell's stability, side effects, interaction with Unforgivable Curses and Muggle technology. The library here is small, so students are given written permission to use the Avignon archives, and I have been spending almost all my free time there for the past three days. The lectures, by the way, are magnificent. The history of medicine combined with the history of magic is something else! How much is missed at Hogwarts when they only talk about British lands and events that influenced the formation of our magical society! Here, the Arabs are highly respected, who, on the one hand, were indeed cruel, but on the other, managed to pass on much to the Spaniards and North Africans. Monsieur Changeux (they refuse professor titles, imagine that) emphasises the importance of studying other, more ancient civilisations, whereas at St Mungo's, they only remember medieval treatises and Renaissance works. There is no talk at all of drawing anything from Muggle literature. Yet, the healer Mungo lived before the Statute—do you think he was as narrow-minded in his practice as the current hospital staff?

Well, forgive me, I wrote about this in my motivation letter and still seem not to have fully vented—anger arises from the fact that they refused help, saying, "we do not 'treat' Muggles, Miss G" Healers! Not treating the sick! I understand, they would refuse to help Death Eaters (no offence, Mr Occamy; they would not have been able to say no to you anyway), that would at least be justified by war trauma, albeit entirely unethical...

Alright, I guess it would be more interesting to read about my successes in palliative care. We are currently taking a course on dark spells and their long-term effects from Monsieur Fernel. Did you know that a curse, even if lifted shortly after being cast, still affects a wizard's magical core? And people suffer from Unforgivables more or less, depending on how early they encountered such spells? It's frightening to think that my friend was saved during an incident shortly before the war because dark magic appeared in his life almost at his infancy. And now I understand why pure-bloods get sick differently than Muggle-borns—we simply have different adaptations to magic, so to speak. I don't know if you've heard of the immunity theory—it's something Muggle healers are taught quite early. According to this theory, a person has certain cells and substances in the blood capable of recognising pathogens, for example, and actively protecting the body from them. We probably have something similar concerning the magical core, with hereditary wizards having an advantage in this regard, as their "immunity" becomes acquainted with various types of magic early on. Muggle-borns suffer more because they encounter many spells for the first time—no one around them used such charms or related ones, that group of spells... I hope you understand me.

Honestly, I sincerely want to believe that the necessity of a specialist does not drive this requirement for palliative care. Firstly, it would be much easier to find a "ready", as they say here, healer if the matter were urgent. And if it's not urgent... Well, it turns out you are aware that you have been in contact with dark magic far more than permissible and have already experienced the first problems. And you... Well, are you seriously willing to trust a recent graduate, albeit well-trained? Unless you do know for sure who is on the other side of the page, and therefore believe that I have ample experience with dark spells. Do you like taking risks? Or is such a request unrelated to a plan to have a debtor in me? No, sorry, I cannot count on that.

Thank you for the opportunity, Monsieur Occamy. I believe the next letter should arrive in early November, as soon as we pass the exams on the dark spells cycle.

And if you are suffering from the consequences of the war, go to the sea. It heals.

Fortunately, now your eternal debtor,

Mercuria

Somewhere near Étang de Thau
France

29 November 2000

Good day, Mr Occamy,

To be frank, I didn't expect that writing this month's letter would take me so long, risking our agreement... I've presumably started it more than a dozen times, but couldn't come up with anything beyond, "Passed the exam. Top marks." Your secretary is an exceptionally courteous person—It was kind of him to remind me about the letter while transferring my allowance and to come with me for a walk. So now, under his attentive gaze, I'm writing these lines.

My subsequent letters are unlikely to be rich in detail: the weather is deteriorating, it's getting colder, and the sky is increasingly grey. At this time of year, I usually bury myself in books and don't emerge until the first thaw, unless someone disrupts the seclusion of my little world. Previously, when I was at Hogwarts, I didn't have the opportunity to retreat completely, but here... I don't know, I'm not particularly adept at all these social interactions, so I engage with my neighbours only as necessary. I fulfil my duties in maintaining order, occasionally explain complex topics, but we don't have heart-to-heart conversations. I guess if not for a couple of events during my first year at Hogwarts, studying there wouldn't have been much different from what it is now. We simply have nothing to talk about with the girls—they're pursuing a profession because it's prestigious. They just want to find a nice young healer here and mari de bon lieu. Not to genuinely heal people. If only you knew how much that irritates me... If these empty-headed girls didn't take someone else's place, the British fund could have sent more than just me here. It wouldn't be so lonely.

In our cottage, the only topic of conversation is the Christmas holidays. It feels like even the lecturers won't stay on campus—everyone seems to be going to their families, to nearby Italy, some have acquaintances in Monaco. I can't decide whether the prospect of staying here alone for several weeks pleases or saddens me. However, it's too early to think about that—the end of the semester is approaching, we cover the main material before Christmas, and afterwards, there'll be another short module: in mental healing, we are to study diagnostic charms and methods for visualising information flows; in the supplementary course, they promised to discuss emergency aid for relapses of wound curses.

This month, it's particularly challenging to balance between studying and life. Or rather, between studying and the absence of life: in the nearby villages, they celebrate the first wine of the year almost every weekend, and at such times, I feel more than ever on the sidelines. Last weekend, the festival came to Montpellier, and I agreed to go with everyone for the first time... I never thought I'd be frightened by fireworks, Mr Occamy. Especially the green ones with smoke. I don't remember anything from that evening at all. Judging by Saturday morning, there was indeed a lot of wine. Monsieur Changeaux joked later during practice that healers without bad habits don't supervise patients. And also said student life is about building important connections, including at such drinking parties. Does it work this way, Mr Occamy? On one hand, I understand the necessity of good contacts, but isn't it all... hypocritical? Making acquaintances for the sake of benefit, I mean.

Well, here's the healing power of your assistant's gaze—I was afraid I wouldn't be able to write a single line, and now the parchment is running out... I simply can't understand why I'm doing this. And why does he ask about the letter if you don't read them anyway… Otherwise, you'd have replied with at least half a line: "Yes, Mercuria, that's exactly how it works," or "No, Mercuria, you're mistaken." Is it so difficult to levitate a quill? Or have you forgotten the simplest first-year charms? "WingArdium LeviOsa"—to lift it into the air, "Ipsum ScriptUra"—to make it write. And if you think I can identify someone by handwriting, there's always "IllegibIlus." Although I assure you, I'm not an Auror and don't possess such skills.

An involuntary owner of Saint Catherine's hat,

Mercuria

Avignon Archives
France

6 December 2000

Hello, Mr Occamy!

Perhaps today you'll be surprised by the unusual address I'm sending this letter from. I must confess, I ran away. Not permanently, but at least for a while. You're also familiar with the feeling when there's so much going on around that your head spins, aren't you? So I'm hiding quite ingenuously in the library.

The Avignon archives are, of course, quite modest compared to the British Library and the Ministry of Magic's archives, but I like them: the reading room here is much quieter and, most importantly, brighter. Most of the tables are situated along the windows, and through the murky glass, one can see the Rhône's embankment. Moreover, they have much more relaxed rules than Madam Pince: you can bring an ordinary Muggle coffee in a cup, cast self-replenishing and stasis charms on it, and study until closing time, which is exactly what I'm doing. Today, I'm accompanied by Messrs Arsenious Jigger and Adalbert Waffling. Not in person, of course—their works. I want to try transforming the awakening potion for mental magic. Miss Mnemona Redford (the inventor of Obliviate, if you've forgotten) wrote that in one variation, the spell doesn't erase memory entirely but merely puts the necessary part of the brain to "sleep". So, there's no break in neural connections (and rightly so, it's too dangerous, and the charm wouldn't have such selective action), meaning it can somehow be awakened. That's what I want to play on... Time will tell, of course; usually, such complex tasks aren't solved on the first try. (But I hope for the best.)

What's your favourite book, Mr Occamy? Perhaps "Advances in Spell Science"? Or do you prefer Divination? Transfiguration? Arithmancy? It's probably silly to guess... Especially considering I've never been strong in predictions. The only subject I consciously dropped at Hogwarts. Well, besides flying, of course. Those brooms... I still shudder when I recall the tricks professional Quidditch players perform. Born to crawl won't fly, that's what I'll tell you.

Sorry, I digressed. If not talking about specialised books now, I do love ancient runes. And in general, probably language studies, so here, in the French archives, where there are plenty of documents in Latin, Old Frankish, and some intricate mixture (did you know the story of the emergence of the "oïl" and "oc" groups? They sound funny, and thanks to them, we now have modern French), I truly enjoy the process. It's a pity that southern dialects have mostly been lost, but on the Côte d'Azur and in Occitania, we can still find remnants of literature from those times. By the way, have you been to these places, Mr Occamy? Do you know French? As for Latin, I have little doubt—it's a very functional language for composing new spells (it's embarrassing, but I should brush up on it). 'Non scholae sed vitae discimus'—the only thing I remember, besides countless anatomical terms. Oh, and you know what? You probably won't like this, but I'll say it anyway. They've integrated a Muggle medical school into the magical one, imagine that! We've recently started a short anatomy cycle, so Thursdays are devoted to detailed studies of the human body's structure. Bones, muscles, internal organs... We mostly focus on the skull, so the openings and protrusions at its base already haunt my dreams. We use projections as material—fortunately, there's no need to harm a person to look into their "inner world," as Madam Brücke puts it. And it's even better this way: we change the object of the magical model construction every lesson, so I've seen the contents of almost all my classmates' skulls. (Not that they differ much.)

Phew, I completely forgot in previous letters that I must report on the expenses covered by the allowance. But here, everything is prosaic: I try not to spend. The winter is promised to be warm, so I limited myself to a trip to Muggle Montpellier and updated my coat and boots. I had some items left from Hogwarts, and overall, I'm not one of those girls who particularly like to dress up—everything should be comfortable, and that's the main thing. What else... Muggle textbooks on anatomy, neurology, psychiatry, and primary care. We're not yet taught how to communicate with patients; instead, they put us straight into the theory of diseases. Probably, that's left for the next semester or course, but it's interesting to know now.

Having finally reached the necessary books,

Mercuria

Occitan Academy of Healing
34750 Villeneuve-lès-Maguelone
France

15 December 2000

Mr. Occamy,

You do read letters! Merlin, I can hardly believe it’s not all in vain. Why, then, don’t you simply reply? Monsieur Hervier is hardly a postal owl…

Thank you for the books you sent! I’m at a loss for words to express how delighted I am to have such volumes for personal use. You must be mad to part with a copy of 'Consciousness and Spellcraft: Shaping Magic Through Thought' by G. Shepley. My goodness… And Cyrilla Vayne’s 'Between the Lines: Magic in Calligraphy and Glyphs'? I searched for it at Hogwarts, here, then in Avignon… I was even considering ordering a Portkey to Paris, and then this parcel arrived! You know, I do not doubt that if the first two books were gifts (you’ve prepared your Christmas surprises well in advance—thank you), then the third—'Spell Optics: Illusions, Deception, and Perception' by Tremaine—is your favourite. Quite an interesting choice, to be honest. I haven’t heard of such material being taught in magical schools. Did you study it yourself? From this book, but surely not only this one? I doubt I’ll need it in practice; I’m just curious.

You know, if books can tell you something about a person, then… Well, perhaps I was hasty in my judgments about you. No hint of combative magic, hardly any remotely dark themes in these books. Which is odd, to be honest: I always thought that people who voluntarily served Voldemort resembled him. Perhaps not as mad, but certainly not averse to the darkest curses and read about them with more pleasure than anything else. Though who am I to talk… I fully understand why the Dark Arts captivate wizards, but I still can’t imagine what must be in one’s mind to consciously agree to pay such a price for the result. To split the soul for immortality—and it’s still debatable which is the true evil. What do you think, Mr. Occamy?

It’s silly to talk to myself like this, especially on paper, you’ll surely say. But something is comforting in it: here I am, sitting in our little house, the fireplace is burning, the girls have made thick, sweet hot chocolate, and the mug is cooling on the table by the sofa. On my lap is one of your books, which I’m using very carefully as a writing surface. We have no snow at all, and I miss Scottish winters a bit, the anticipation of holidays at Hogwarts, trips to Hogsmeade through snowdrifts, snow angels, and inter-house snowball fights. And yet, the sea heals—every day I go out to the stone oak on the shore and listen to the surf, the cries of seagulls, all the life we forget about in our busy lives. It’s peaceful here, and I missed that all through school—every year there was some trouble that only students could handle, not Dumbledore and the quite competent teaching staff (though truly competent people there were few—I only realise that now). In the second year, I spent nearly half a year in the hospital wing, the school was almost closed thanks to my classmate’s father, and all the while, a basilisk roamed Hogwarts freely—a marvel of student protection. It’s good that the Chamber of Secrets has now been cleared and adapted for duelling—after the war, a club was opened, led by guest instructors: Aurors, rarely Unspeakables.

Now, the obligatory part: over the weekend, I treated myself to a pair of woollen stockings and a cosy jumper, along with some changes of underwear. Ugh, I doubt that interests you much. Monsieur Changeux was enthusiastic about my idea for a stimulating potion, so now I’m constantly at the academy—trying to understand the recipe’s components and think of what could be substituted to at least shift the potion’s effect from an antidote to the “Draught of Living Death” to something akin to caffeine. Do you know what gives coffee its invigorating effect? And tea too. Madame Brücke allowed the top students in the course to skip the assessment: if you can effortlessly create a model of any individual’s system, that’s sufficient. Guess if I’m among those resting! (Of course I am—don’t doubt it.) So now, all that’s left before Christmas is to pass Latin and the History of Healing. Just two midterm exams—a trifling matter.

Oh, another interesting piece of news: my classmate was seen at the academy. I don’t know how I feel about it: at Hogwarts, he gave me quite a bit of grief, even once earning a slap, though I’m not one for physical altercations. But he infuriated me. Later, life treated him harshly: he’s pure-blood, from a respected family that sided with Voldemort. He did quite a few nasty things, and yet he helped us in a critical situation—I’m probably still alive partly thanks to him. Remember, I wrote that I missed familiar faces? Forget it. Even though all grievances seem to be forgotten, I hoped we wouldn’t cross paths, but that would be too dull from life’s perspective. It’s not so bad: he’s quite courteous and pleasant, apologised for school days, talked about his family, how he moved with his mother to France, lives near Nice, and is being treated here by a mind healer. Strange, then, that I only noticed him now… In any case, it was an unexpected meeting, not too unpleasant, but not thrilling either. The sense of being cut off from my former circle is much sharper now. My friends and I exchange letters, but writing can never replace personal interaction. They’re inviting me for Christmas—say they’re planning to time my best friend’s engagement to the holiday. Another close friend seems to have started seeing someone, plays Quidditch, and helps his family. On one hand, I miss them terribly. On the other… Mr. Occamy, would you go, if you were separated from your dear ones for so long that they learned to do without you entirely? Would you go, knowing you’d have to watch them all be happy, and you can’t even bring your cat along? Though that’s a rhetorical question. And you won’t answer anyway.

I’ll come up with something for you for Christmas soon—I simply must after such books.

With gratitude,

Mercuria

Some Unplottable House
Wizarding Britain

23 December 2000

Merry Christmas, Mr. Occamy!

I’ve been writing quite a bit this month—hope you don’t hold it against me.

I passed all the exams for this module, though Latin doesn’t seem to stick in my head as easily—not the highest mark, and that’s quite upsetting. I spent far more nights on it than on the History of Healing. Perhaps I can retake it later—I’ll talk to the lecturer.

Monsieur Hervier mentioned that you decided to stay on the Isles for some time, so I spared the owl and decided against sending her across the Channel with a parcel. And, as you can see, I did accept the invitation to go away for the holidays. Mum and Dad are away for an extended period, so my family now consists of chaotic relatives of my best friends. We’re heading to them tomorrow, and today is, so to speak, a youth party, a warm-up before the main celebration. I hope your family is with you now, Mr. Occamy.

The huge house is packed—it seems our entire surviving year (except for the Slytherins) has gathered here—so I’m hiding in the library again. I think you’d like it: all dark wood panelling and ancient volumes. The windows are small, the light is scarce, but that’s good for storing books. There’s little of my subject here, mostly Dark Arts literature and fiction. I’ve reread almost all the latter during my visits here, and, you know, it’s amusing how the plots echo Muggle ones, except that most novels promote the idea of family duty and arranged marriages—it’s strange when heirs don’t try to fight for their love and accept what’s happening as a given. Not that they don’t try to fight… they don’t even seem to seek it. Were you lucky, Mr. Occamy? With an arranged marriage, I mean. Or did you manage to defend your right to love? Or relinquished yourself to the inevitable? Sorry, I shouldn't pry.

I hope you liked the gift. Honestly, I couldn’t think of what to offer someone who already has everything they need… Mrs. One of my friend’s mums once said it’s always nice to receive something made by the giver’s hands, and in the magical community, it’s considered good form to imbue it with a bit of one’s magic. I’m not great at knitting, but combining spells—that’s another matter. The wool has additional climate charms that will adjust to your heat exchange after the first wear, over them—a stasis combination for a longer-lasting effect and light water-repellent charms so the scarf doesn’t absorb melting snow. Winters in the southern counties are, of course, warm, but still not like Montpellier, and in the northern ones, warm clothes are a must.

Perhaps it’s a bit presumptuous to ask you for another gift after those books, but please, send at least a couple of lines in response.

Best wishes,

Mercuria

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Occitan Academy of Healing
34750 Villeneuve-lès-Maguelone
France

1 January 2001

Happy New Year, Mr Occamy!

You've outdone yourself: when I asked for a couple of lines, I didn’t mean two more volumes and permission to keep a cat on campus! Is this your method for ensuring I’m forever indebted to you? I must say—it’s a rather original approach.

But in all seriousness: you're spoiling me. I barely made it through Christmas and was utterly baffled when Monsieur Hervier contacted me on the morning of the 27th, handed me a new parcel and a Portkey, and said, “You are requested to return to campus no later than tomorrow.” I think the only thing more shocking was the academy form enclosed with ‘The Healer’s Ethics’. How, in Merlin’s name, did you manage to secure permission for an animal while being in Britain and during the academy holidays???

I don’t think any stranger has ever done so much for me—aside from Professor McGonagall, perhaps. In a way, it’s my fault: I find it difficult to accept help, especially since I’m usually the one giving it. Still… I’ve no idea how I’ll ever repay you. And where does such warmth, to be honest, for a complete stranger come from? Could I have been wrong all along, and you're part of this programme purely out of goodwill rather than a desire to clear a name tarnished by the war? The more I think, the less I understand, Mr Occamy. And now it seems I won’t want to remove the mask even when the programme’s restrictions can be forgotten. I don’t want to carry the burden of the past. And I fear you might turn out to be too familiar. Someone I know not from tales or portraits, but from real life.

On the one hand, I’m deeply comforted by your care—even if it’s likely driven by some sort of calculation—and on the other, you see, I’m just so tired of being disappointed in people. And in my faith in people, too. I want to be honest with you, because the things I write in these letters I wouldn’t tell anyone else: with friends I have to pretend to be the ‘old’ Her self, and my parents… I’ll write about them some other time. “They’re away” is the only way I can phrase it without wanting to cry. So yes, my social circle ends with my friends. And now I’ve likely lost even them—I ran off with your Portkey right after receiving it, hardly explaining anything at all.

My ex-classmate has returned to the academy, this time with his mother—she’s recovering under the supervision of one of our diagnosticians, and he’s studying the flora and fauna of the winter coastline. We’ve… become friends, if one can say so. It’s a fragile friendship, of course, and most of our conversations inevitably drift into exchanging ‘pleasantries’, but that’s progress. I hadn’t realised his mother had suffered so much at Voldemort’s hands during the war’s final hours… Healers attempt to treat the curse with mixed results, but she still weakens. I told him I’m taking a palliative care course at my sponsor’s request (I didn’t say ‘Mr Occamy’, of course), and his reaction was odd: as if he knows you. He remarked that he’d be sure to get in touch when he decided to end it all—imagine that, what a clever little sod! It’s quite clear he’s still in desperate need of help.

By the way, what were you trying to say by sending me ‘The Healer’s Ethics’? That I’m tactless? That I ought to pay more attention to patient confidentiality? That I shouldn’t be making reckless decisions in practice? A bit premature, wouldn’t you say? Although I did, of course, read the entire tome. (Merlin, all of it stating the obvious.)

Academic news: I plan to deal with Latin strictly in Caesar’s manner. Veni, vidi, vici. Now that I have the cottage to myself (barring the cat), I can finally get on with truly important things. I take long walks in the surrounding forests and along the beaches in the morning, prepare experimental batches of the invigorating potion around midday, and study Latin in the evenings. It’s such a pity the language is considered ‘dead’—even among wizards, hardly anyone speaks it properly. It would be so much easier to learn it in practice. Perhaps I should try applying it directly in spell creation? Though nothing comes to mind, and I really don’t feel like reinventing the wheel.

Entirely confused,

Mercuria

6 January 2001

I’ve invented a spell, Mr Occamy!

Roll your eyes all you like. I know pure-blood children start experimenting soon after arriving at Hogwarts, but:

1. I’m not pure-blood (what a revelation, I know);
2. I never wanted to create what far more competent people had already devised.

Only a Muggle-born, I assure you, could come up with something like this!

Alright, I won’t drag it out. You know, the translation charm taught in Ancient Runes at Hogwarts largely depends on how familiar a person is with the target language. It’s mainly used by translators when something needs to be shown to someone quickly. But it’s so inconvenient—having to find a fellow countryman who speaks the relevant language, asking them to cast the charm, or learning the language yourself (long and torturous, often)… Well, Muggles (actually, just one particular Muggle) solved this problem! They created a language that draws on the core features of all Romance and Germanic languages, with a dash of Slavic roots and other bits from here and there. And even though its inventor didn’t much like English, the result was a surprisingly universal language—one that’s instinctively understood across Europe, almost regardless of background. I have a friend from Durmstrang who confirmed he’s heard of Esperanto, and apparently, a few students at his school even speak it. It’s easy to learn, and given that even in Britain many people speak a second Romance language, Esperanto is ideal for intuitive translation charms. It has simple (and—most importantly—fixed!) rules and a limited lexicon, largely based on Latin and Greek—perfect for wizards. So now I’m working on creating a verbal incantation for translation (so that the words sound the same in both Latin and Esperanto), and came up with the idea of submitting this spell as my year-end project. And don’t even try to tell me it’s irrelevant to healing—I’d like to see you in Eastern Europe without a wand and in urgent need of treatment.

Also—félicitations pour la Fête des Rois! Usually, Saturdays are reserved for exams, but today we all gathered in the main building: the senior students baked a giant cake and conjured countless teapots in the common hall. Imagine it—teachers and students mingled at the tables, the hall smelled of mint and thyme, and delicate china was placed on the tables, like at the Blacks. Then the Head’s little boy calls out your name from under the table, and a slice of cake levitates onto your saucer. Inside it—a small Occamy of delicate porcelain, transfigured by one of the bakers. For a whole day, you’re no longer a shadow, a role, or an omniscient figure—you’re the star. I thought I’d never again enjoy that kind of attention, but I was pleasantly wrong. I belong here now.

Day of the Diagnostic Charms Exam
(I honestly can’t remember what date it is)

Passed. I’ve forgotten what sleep, food, or fresh air feels like, but I passed. So much information in such a short time—my head is exploding, I need time to process it all.

26 January 2001

Damn it, I forgot about the letter. Mr Occamy, am I going to be expelled now? For a second infraction? You didn’t tell the programme overseers I slipped up, did you? I feel so awkward, and Monsieur Hervier hasn’t stopped by.

Let me justify myself: I retook Latin and finished the semester as the top student. It would be awkward to expel such a bright witch, wouldn’t it? The spell still isn’t working, but I’m on the right path thanks to progress in the language. Oh, and I’ve enclosed a few vials of my modified stimulant potion—I took all my exams on it. It’s certainly non-addictive, and the only side effect is heightened nervous system sensitivity (in other words: nightmares). So it’s perfect if you ever want to bury yourself in Latin for a couple of days, trust me.

As you can see, I started this letter ages ago, but I kept wanting to add something truly interesting, and then the exam wave hit and everything went straight to the Doxies…

My friends came to visit for a short break—thankfully, there’s a hotel nearby—so I spent the weekend and the following week resting for the whole month (and completely lost track of the days). I’m genuinely happy for them—each one has found something they love: some travel, some serve Magical Britain, one teaches at Hogwarts, another plays Quidditch. Finally, we can live without looking over our shoulders at the war, and not be afraid of the future. They saw how things are here and admitted I’m in the right place, too. I hope they meant the healing academy, not your patronage.

I’m grateful, truly. It’s just… it wasn’t your responsibility to give me a future. That should’ve been the state's job: I poured so much of myself into Hogwarts after Voldemort’s fall, and into the fall itself, and what came of it? Nothing. I think I won’t want to return once I finish my training. I’ll go to Australia for good. Unless you need my help by then, of course—I won’t abandon my obligations, you need not worry about that.

With a sense of duty fulfilled and mild unease,

Mercuria

P.S. Here’s something to lift your spirits: since I brought my cat from Britain, it’s no longer the gulls that scream in the mornings—it’s my flatmates. He’s quite the hunter and enjoys presenting his prey on the bed. I’m used to it, but for those poor pampered girls, it’s been a dreadful shock. Do you prefer birds or rats, Mr Occamy?

Somewhere near Place Masséna
Nice, France

9 February 2001

Gaudeamus igitur, juvenes dum sumus!

Mr Occamy, I’ve been kidnapped—if one can call it that. Remember how I wrote about my ex-classmate, the one I just couldn’t get along with? Forget that too. He convinced all my professors that I’d lose nothing by missing a week of classes—said I’d read all the books ahead of time and would easily catch up—and then shoved a Portkey into my hand and activated it! Not that he was wrong, but it was certainly unexpected. Looks like Crooks (that’s the name of my half-Kneazle cat) is fending for himself again. Luckily, he’s quite loved on campus.

So I’ve been in Nice for two days now. There’s a real carnival here once a year that lasts a full fortnight—and wizards celebrate right alongside Muggles! I went to parades in London as a child, but I’ve never seen anything like this in the magical community—everyone always seems too stiff for that sort of fun. But here, the explosion of colour is something only magic could afford. My companion said it must be his duty to manage my social education and help me make connections, since I became a hospital bookworm after the war. So this Saturday he’s dragging me along to a soirée marking the start of the carnival, and he’s threatened to take me to Mardi Gras in the middle of the week too. Says he’s tired of the same old boring faces and that my behaviour will give the local aristocracy a whole new set of impressions. Well, I didn’t resist much.

Nice is beautiful, and the sea is a little different from Montpellier—a bit warmer, more relaxed—there’s a definite holiday feel here. We’ve been walking a lot, he’s introducing me to local traditions, but these walks are no dates, of course, since I’m still not of noble birth. Not that I’m looking for anything like that at this stage anyway. It’s quite a long story, and I doubt you’d be particularly interested.

Trying on the role of the Babbitty Rabbitty,

Mercuria

Some coastal villa
Nice

Saturday to Sunday night

It’s a living nightmare, Mr Occamy! How do you stand (or did you stand) all this pure-blood society? It’s a festival of hypocrisy! I could barely step away before the same people who were smiling at me minutes earlier and asking about my career choices were whispering behind my back about how the heir of such a respectable family had brought a ‘Mudblood’ as his plus one—and this is in ‘tolerant’ Europe. I’ve no idea where he unearthed all those purist snobs or why he brought me there, and frankly, I don’t want to know. I received your letter from Monsieur Hervier this morning, strongly suggesting I return to campus. I didn’t listen—and now I’m reaping the consequences. I suppose I’ll have to get used to you often being right about what I truly need.

Mercuria

Occitan Academy of Healing

Monday, lunchtime

Ah, so that’s why you sent me ‘The Healer’s Ethics’. We’ve started the relevant module, and thank Merlin, I read it in advance—now I don’t lose my temper at all the discussion of the obvious. As for the less obvious… I’d genuinely love to debate: whom should we save if a woman has a hereditary curse that will certainly kill her upon childbirth, and she chooses to go through with it? The problem is, the curse is triggered even if the child is stillborn, so if you save the mother, as current Healer protocols prefer, both die. Usually, of course, you’re lucky, and the baby is born healthy, but I found a case in the records where a pregnancy had stopped developing, and the fetus had to be extracted by healers. Guess what happened to the would-be mother. My classmates called me cynical and told me to find successful cases where both survived. And you know what? I didn’t find a single one in the local archives. Perhaps it’s happened at St Mungo’s, but I’ve not heard of it. Will you condemn me too? Imagine how it must feel for the father.

I guess I’m starting to understand why people speak of healing in hushed tones. If Aurors must make quick decisions in shifting circumstances, their failures are usually justified by the need to prevent greater evil—all means justified and so on. Healers get no such leeway—the responsibility always falls on them. There’s always someone unhappy, someone who will declare, with great wisdom, that it could have been done this way or that. All in hindsight, of course. But when someone is dying in your arms…

I must confess, Mr Occamy, the war honed my ability to react quickly. Although I’m not proud of many actions of mine: I had to use Polyjuice, I broke the law, and my moral compass took some hard knocks. When desperate, I stole. And now, as I consider a career in healing… I’m not sure I’m strong enough. Even outside the trauma ward. It’s a strange feeling, having broken a rule so fundamental that you’re no longer sure how to stop. You have to rein yourself in constantly, just to avoid making more mistakes. But Healer’s mistakes are costlier than personal ones.

Mercuria

A small cottage on the edge of campus

14 February 2001

Good evening, Mr Occamy!

Well, the second semester has begun, and once again I’m buried in books. Here’s the work plan for the next six months:

1. Magical Neuroanatomy and the Structure of Consciousness
2. Methods of Stabilising Mental Surges
3. Fundamentals of Legilimency and its Diagnostic Applications
4. Psychomagical Trauma
5. Analgesic Magic
6. Practical Herbology
7. Principles of Care
8. Introduction to Necromagic

I’m surprised they didn’t remove the last one—our Ministry would never allow anything like it. Same with Legilimency. By the way, I was right—we begin working with patients this term, and our practicals start in the autumn.

At the moment, we’re studying the anatomy of the frontal lobes, the centres located there, including the mechanism by which a magical impulse is formed. I was surprised to learn that Durmstrang covers this, albeit superficially, in their school curriculum. One of my flatmates studied there. Intent, it turns out, is formed through feedback mechanisms, heavily involving the hippocampus and emotional regions, before the signal moves to a neighbouring area that controls the magical core. Imagine: they’re trained to channel exact doses of emotion into a spell, making their magic more precise and focused—unlike ours, where spells are often flung without much thought. And under that system, unfamiliar spells won’t work, because a wizard simply won’t have the certainty to initiate the impulse. I really like this approach! Though now I can’t cast a Patronus at all—it’s like I keep asking myself what positive memory I have left that still holds power, and nothing feels strong enough anymore, not like during darker times.

Before we’re allowed to see patients, we’ll also undergo something akin to therapy—Mind Healers aren’t permitted even to assist unless they know their own triggers. Honestly, I’m afraid they’ll deem me unfit for practice. No one’s ever been interested in the contents of my mind before, and here, diagnosis includes creating a mental map using Legilimency. And me… well, the late Professor Snape once called me an ‘open book’. I don’t want to revisit the war, I don’t want to show it to anyone, and I especially don’t want their pity. Least of all do I want to reveal the reason I applied for financial support in the first place. That’s still a painful topic for me—and if I can’t even bring myself to write about it to a stranger (which is usually easier than saying it aloud), how am I supposed to speak about it in therapy? They might say it’s too late to do anything, or that I lack the necessary experience, or something else. In which case, all of this was for nothing.

In Necromagic, we’re discussing liminal worlds, boundary spaces, and the differences between life and death, including from the perspective of residual magic. It turns out that it’s not just unfinished business or dark magic that can keep someone lingering in the world of the living—human memory and certain spells (like protective enchantments) can too. So those stories about the founders still protecting Hogwarts? They’re not just metaphorical! I always thought ‘A History of Magic’ mentioned it symbolically, not literally... Next time, we’ve been promised a demonstration of extracted memories from the final moments of an incurable patient’s life, including clinical death, to help us distinguish the threshold between life and the moment when magic can no longer bring someone back. This class is more about ethics than actual spells—understandably so. The desire to raise the dead has never led to anything good.

In Herbology, we’re working with calming mixtures: selecting plants for nervous exhaustion, manic episodes, and cognitive strengthening. I’ve hung bundles of mint and rosemary above my bed for anxiety. What do you think, Mr Occamy—how long does it take for people to stop being constantly on edge after a war? Surely you remember the First Wizarding War. I’m so tired of sleeping with my wand under my pillow—but I can’t sleep without it either.

Reading helps, too (yes, I love to read). Mostly fiction now. And honestly, mostly Muggle. I start seeing symbols in magical literature everywhere—especially after decoding the runes in ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’. Though perhaps symbols can be found even in the familiar books. The only form of divination I’ve ever found bearable—and not overly sceptical about—is bibliomancy. I keep a little volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets for that: since I don’t know them all by number, I can still pick a page and line at random or choose a single number to find the ‘sonnet of the day’. And today, I gave in to the habit. And what do you think it said? That the surest path to immortality is through children! First of all, a modern woman should not be defined by family. Secondly, I wonder who that sonnet was originally addressed to, since Shakespeare wrote them both to a man and a woman. And why not immortalise oneself through deeds instead? Surely more reliable than making children. It’s dreadfully ironic to read something like that on a night when I’m alone in the cottage, and Laura and Julie have dashed off to their newly-discovered suitors. Don’t think I envy them—I’m perfectly happy spending a quiet Wednesday evening cuddled up with my cat. Not everyone enjoys living in a scene from Madam Puddifoot’s. (And here, for some reason, the very air feels infused with pink hearts.)

What else can I tell you?.. I’m slowly learning to cook (since either the girls do it or I eat in the student canteen). I’m getting by, but it will still take a long time to match a house-elf’s finesse. Sometimes, following a recipe precisely gives you an entirely unexpected result (unlike potion-making). For now, I’m practising on salads. Fortunately, the local greenhouses grow herbs, and there’s an Apparition point near a supermarket (like a Diagon Alley shop, only much bigger and entirely non-magical). In Nîmes, near Montpellier, they make an incredible pâté en croûte—if you warm it up, it’s like a pie, but here they pair it with leafy greens and treat it more like an appetiser. Somehow, it reminds me of home and those days when my mother tried to teach me to bake (we never made peace with dough). You might be surprised how satisfying simple things can be. Try going without house-elf help sometime and get creative. There’s a not-so-obvious bonus: unlike potions, if you mess up, you won’t have to spend hours scrubbing out a foul-smelling cauldron.

Merlin, what a ramble… If you’re not bored to tears by now, then good news: I probably won’t have time to write again this month. I have to prepare ahead for classes if I hope to attend Mardi Gras in Montpellier next week (I’d like to catch the end of the Nice Carnival, of course, but it will be great to join the local festivities, too). Did you do things in advance at Hogwarts, by the way, or always at the last minute? Something tells me you had a strict upbringing, and now delight in defying decorum. Or is it just because I’m a Mudblood?

Eagerly awaiting spring,

Mercuria

Same place, same person

9 March 2001

Mr Occamy, are you left-handed???

Or is your assistant left-handed? Or do you just write with a reverse slant? I got cold, so now steaming from Pepper-Up and re-reading your last note (sorry, it barely counts as a letter, even if I stretch my imagination). So I’ve decided to fill a gap in my education and analyse your handwriting.

Now then. They say that such a slant is typical of left-handed writers. Or of people who prioritise intellect over emotion. Or of ambitious types. Makes sense—you’ve probably spent your whole life viewing yourself through others’ eyes and have never truly relaxed. Also, in your first message (the Christmas one, remember?), your letters were different. Softer, perhaps. But this one—all sharp angles and clipped loops. Those kinds of loops are said to signal competitiveness. Large letters suggest distaste for subordinate roles. No, I doubt this is Monsieur Hervier’s writing… I suppose I should be glad that, in a way, you’ve revealed yourself to me. I’m grateful, truly. It’s amazing that you care—even if it’s for your own reasons. Even if I’m just a valuable investment, it’s more than I expected when I began writing into the void.

But back to your script. It’s not stingy or cramped, quite the opposite. I’d even say generous. Forgive me—hard not to joke, considering I’m literally the cause of your generosity. Large letters with elegant flourishes… Aiming for the upper echelons of power, aren’t we? Oh, don’t tell me you’re eyeing the Minister’s post. That position hasn’t had the best survival rate lately. I once dreamed of sitting in that chair myself—unlikely now, with my background. The last Muggle-born minister ended poorly thanks to a possible conspiracy, and I’d rather like to live a long life. Call it self-preservation (or a realistic view of my prospects).

Judging by your broad lower loops, you enjoy attention and lean towards hedonism. Trouble focusing on one thing too long? Bureaucracy must be a challenge for you… Luckily you have Monsieur Hervier.

Quite the fascinating profile you’ve got, Mr Occamy—though much as expected. A pity you didn’t include your signature—one can learn so much more from that, and I’m dreadfully curious, perhaps too much so. Still, I’m glad that despite your dislike for us ordinary folk, I became someone you chose to care for. Thank you.

Mercuria
(Possibly a better Auror than Healer)

Lake Thau
(Yes, the actual lake, not the shore)

30 March 2001

Good morning, Mr Occamy!

Today is a momentous day: we’re opening the swimming season. The water has warmed up enough that warming charms don’t immediately dissipate and no longer require a great deal of effort to maintain, and now we’re kayaking across the Palavasian lakes. It’s rather like flying on broomsticks at Hogwarts—except here, everyone is expected to be water-competent, unlike back home (where we weren’t even allowed to approach the Black Lake). And I find this far more comforting, even if a paddle feels worlds apart from a wand or broomstick shaft. You know, there is something I genuinely fear—heights. Or rather, the way flight is handled in the magical world: there’s no proof of its safety, quite the opposite, in fact. Muggles document, test, and verify everything. Ages ago, my parents and I flew to France in a Muggle aircraft—it runs on jet propulsion and the principles of aerodynamics—and I wasn’t scared at all. Still, I generally prefer solid ground (or water).

They say there’ll be a tournament with Beauxbatons—athletes from their humanities departments will be visiting. Probably in May, once the water has warmed up further. Do you think I should give it a go? I seem to be doing rather well. And a boat is an oddly excellent place for thinking, especially after a bit of physical exertion. I’m currently in the middle of the lake (brought along a Muggle pen and notebook—forgive today’s format), sitting in the sun and looking at the bright red lighthouse on the shore. It feels highly symbolic that we’re trained here, as if that lighthouse marks the destination we’re all meant to reach eventually. It stands amidst crumbling, half-abandoned buildings, and it so mirrors how I feel now: finally having found a path worth following through the post-war wreckage, my fears, and the constraints of society. As though, for once, one might actually believe that everything will be all right, rather than pointlessly fume whenever someone says so. What do you think, Mr Occamy—will it?

In truth, there hasn’t been anything noteworthy in my academic routine of late... Or perhaps quite the opposite: so much has happened that it’s all blurred together and I can no longer pick out what might be worth writing to you about. I’ve not repeated the mistakes I made with Latin, so I’m not behind on anything, and not even my recent illness forced me to compromise on that. If my head works, I can study. Expenses-wise: I had to acquire a swimsuit that wouldn’t leave me freezing in the wind. I’m not fond of warming charms—they make my skin crack and sting, and then I have to use liniments, which I like even less. Unless, of course, there are non-grotesque formulations I’ve yet to discover...

My friends write that remnants of the Death Eaters have stirred again in Britain, gathering with snatchers occasionally appearing in Knockturn Alley. Apparently, they are no longer after global power (understandably, without a strong leader, they’ve no chance), but they’re still causing plenty of trouble for the Aurors. They’ve stopped sending me newspapers—afraid I’ll worry (and I will)—so perhaps you might be so kind as to shed some light on what’s happening back home? Or have you left already? To be honest, I hope for the latter. Not least because it would mean you’re definitely not involved in any of it.

With concern,

Your Mercuria

Chapter Text

8 April 2001

Good afternoon, Mr Occamy,

Time and again I catch myself automatically wanting to follow that with the standard (though sincere) “How are you?”, and then I remember that you won’t reply unless something serious happens, and I stop myself. Including from doing anything too radical: firstly, because I’d more likely earn your ire than your favour that way — and that’s absolutely not what I want — and secondly… well, I think I’ve told you before that once you cross a certain line, it’s very hard to stop. Best not to tempt fate. I shall work on cultivating patience.

The beginning of the month has been a bit mad: we’re already talking about final exams at the end of May, the professors are scaring us with theory, and there’s not nearly enough practice (for me, at least — the rest of the year group seems to be hanging by a thread from the workload). Monsieur Changeux is currently tied up at the clinic, so the potion experiments are on hold, and all my energy is going into refining the spellwork. I’m quite determined to finish everything early — there’s a Quidditch tournament being planned back home this summer, something like a British League. I’m still not overly invested in the sport itself, but my friend plays for the Chudley Cannons, and it would be rude not to attend such an important match, especially if term is over by then. I’ll be staying where I spent Christmas, so don’t worry about me needing your support over the holidays. Besides, I’ve saved a little from what you’ve sent.

And while we’re on the subject of sport! I’ve continued my rowing training, and it’s helping with everyday life — spellwork comes easier, movements are more precise, coordination is improving. The mental and physical balance calms the mind — it’s easier to focus. I feel like I get a proper rest every time I’m out on the water… I’ve even started to tan slightly — in April, can you believe it? Funny, isn’t it, how only Quidditch is popular among wizards. Muggles have dozens of outdoor games, many of them wonderfully beneficial for both mind and body. Team sports, solo, strategic, speed-based… I’ve recently thought I might enjoy tennis (it’s a game with rackets and a small ball played on a rectangular court, usually one-on-one or two-on-two). My parents used to go to country courts with friends at the weekends — gatherings for the health-conscious, more into sport than socialising. They didn’t take children, though, so I only ever saw the preparations. There’s a nice little patch of land nearby — I might ask the headmaster whether we could set up a multipurpose pitch. Yes, I think I shall.

Mr Occamy, have you ever wondered why the programme obliges beneficiaries to write to their sponsors at all? And under double anonymity, no less. Do you think many protégés write anything beyond “This week we completed diagnostic spells and are starting on healing ones”? Do many sponsors — and I imagine there aren’t terribly many of them in the grand scheme — actually read these reports? Are you still reading mine? It seems that in this, the Ministry has been remarkably clever and killed two birds with one stone. On the one hand, people like me have been given a way forward in life without an unbearable burden on our conscience; on the other… well, I doubt you’ll like this conclusion, but it seems entirely possible that one of their goals was also to promote tolerance towards the Muggle-born and the underprivileged. It wouldn’t have cost you anything just to donate the funds (they’d have written about it in the papers either way), but that wouldn’t have solved the problem completely. This way, you and I are in correspondence — even if it is mostly one-sided. And if the sponsor didn’t have your reservations about replying to letters? It’d be a swift and subtle way to smooth over divides and begin mending the rift in society. Minister Shacklebolt was rightly chosen last year.

Not saying goodbye,

Yours,

Mercuria

Esplanade Bellecour
31660 Bessières
France

15 April 2001

Joyeuses Pâques, Monsieur Occamy!

Today, the academy is volunteering here in Bessières: we're entertaining children from nearby villages, assisting with meal preparations for charitable organisations, and our professors are offering consultations to those unable to afford specialist care. The town is small—I'd even say tiny—and nestled among the hills near Toulouse. The people here are straightforward and kind-hearted, calm and unhurried. It's a sunny day, albeit crisp, and as I write this letter during my lunch break on the boulevard, children are dashing about in search of Easter eggs. Both magical and non-magical—I’ve already witnessed a couple of minor magical surges. The relentless pace of the healing academy often makes me forget to pause, and outings like this slow me down and help me feel that life isn’t slipping through my fingers. Watching these little “hunters” brings a smile to my face—it’s a warm feeling of happiness, tinged with a hint of melancholy. I can scarcely recall my childhood—just isolated fragments, flashes of joy, followed by darkness and haze. Do you think that’s what an Obliviate feels like?

Bessières holds tightly to its past: in the early 1800s, Napoleon Bonaparte stopped in the town during Easter and stayed for breakfast. He enjoyed the omelette served by the innkeeper so much that he requested the cooks prepare the same dish the next morning—but for his entire army! Imagine it's been a couple of centuries since then, and they still remember. Each year, a thousand volunteers, dressed head to toe in yellow and white, spend nearly an hour cracking 15,000 eggs on long tables. Chefs in tall hats heat a giant frying pan over a fire to melt 70 litres of duck fat. The aroma is incredible! The eggs are poured into enormous aluminium pots and whisked with hand-held paddle mixers (the kind Muggles use in construction). Then they add chopped chives, local mild chilli pepper piment d’Espelette, and salt and pepper. Once the pan is sufficiently hot, the egg mixture is poured in and stirred with huge wooden paddles—almost larger than my kayak oar!

I chatted with some participants: a couple from the Belgian brotherhood in Malmedy, attending with their child, have been coming for years; a lady from Quebec visits friends here. Some are enthusiasts of such events, not just Easter volunteers. A family healer from Fréjus, who recently completed his practice, told me that there are seven giant omelettes prepared worldwide, each with its unique flavour—in Provence, for instance, they use olive oil and chopped herbs.

The omelette is served on 6,000 plates at a speed rivalling that of duelling spells, and within half an hour, the pan is nearly empty. I must admit, I didn't have high expectations for the taste of an omelette that visually resembled scrambled eggs (which I'm not particularly fond of), but it was exquisite: incredibly tasty, warming, and sating—just what one needs on a windy day. Such a heartfelt breakfast in the square for onlookers, passersby, and volunteers. I sought out one of the chefs to express my gratitude, but first asked how they manage to cook such large quantities so deliciously, considering how challenging it is to gauge the necessary amounts, let alone the timing. He reluctantly confessed that, in his opinion, this year's omelette was slightly under-salted. So, they just cooked 15,000 eggs without a hint of magic—a miracle itself—yet they're dissatisfied! Here in France, flavour is paramount—it seems I'll never cease to be amazed by their priorities.

You know, after this episode, I pondered the habit of clinging to the past. And perhaps it's time to share something with you. I applied to this programme in Monsieur Changeux’s division not by chance, nor for the profession's prestige. Not even out of a desire to diversify the healing staff at St Mungo's. In a sense, I wish to atone for what I did during the war years. Back then, we operated under the Auror doctrine: any means are justified if they yield results. By the end of '97, I had honed the Obliviate spell to the point of automation: my hand didn't tremble when casting it on opponents far stronger than myself, I altered memories and constructed narratives as needed. Hardly a Hogwarts graduate, yet already experienced in mental interventions. Did I have time then to study the consequences? No. And while I don't regret most of the subjects (they got what they deserved), the very first Obliviate haunts my nightmares, and I no longer know which would have been worse: had it failed back then or remained as it is now. I'm Muggle-born, Monsieur Occamy, and under Voldemort's regime, you know what fate awaited me. And not just me. I hope you can draw the necessary conclusions without further prompting. I yearn not to constantly look back, not to recall the three years of the Second Wizarding War, but alas, that's impossible. I'm not even sure if I did everything right back then, but better to act and regret than not act and regret, isn't that so, Monsieur Occamy? Would you have taken the risk, knowing you could become a victim of a new regime at any moment, or would you have left things as they were? Perhaps it's for the best that you won't answer. I don't know what I want to hear, or if I want to hear anything at all.

It would also be intriguing to study the mechanism of spontaneous memory blocking: few people remember their childhood in detail, but when memories of recent events, which should be vivid, become hazy, it creates a strange sense of loss. I believe I'm not alone in this feeling of emptiness regarding the past five years. Have you experienced this, Monsieur Occamy? Purely a professional interest, don't get me wrong. Muggle psychologists say the brain tends to suppress traumatic events, hiding them behind a veil so a person can "live normally" afterwards, but it's merely a delay tactic used when help isn't available. What's most interesting is that I don't want to recall that period even now, when I understand it's necessary, that something vital is hidden in the past. A fog envelops both the bad and the good. I think if I can figure out how this concealment works, I can complete the memory-awakening potion.

I hope you enjoy my modest Easter gift—finally, in a sense, I've made peace with dough and managed to learn a couple of local recipes. You may not be a die-hard Brit, but in any case, resisting lemon madeleines with coffee is impossible. Laura and I baked over two hundred yesterday—some we took to the commune's shelter today, some we distributed, and I saved the best for you. Bon appétit.

Happy Easter, Monsieur Occamy. May your holiday be truly peaceful.

Yours,

Mercuria

P.S. I didn't even ask if you believe in any higher power. Probably not—I’ve heard that most wizards distanced themselves from the church after the Statute, especially pure-bloods who have since avoided close contact with Muggles. On the other hand, most local influential figures are devout Catholics, and Monsieur Hervier once (please don't penalise him) mentioned that you're quite closely connected to France. As for me, I suppose I can call myself Anglican. In childhood, my parents and I attended Sunday services at the neighbouring church, and on Easter, we invariably went to St Paul's Cathedral—one of the few moments that haven't been erased from memory.

Lighthouse Point
34110 Frontignan
France

13 May 2001

Good morning, Mister Occamy!

Are you familiar with that feeling of deep, complete satisfaction? The weight lifts from your shoulders, you can simply sit still, face the wind, and breathe. That’s what freedom smells like: salt, a touch of seaweed, sun-warmed stones. Today is Sunday—an entirely free day—so I took the designated kayak and set off here, to Étang de Thau. Though we’ve paddled across every lake within a thirty-mile radius, nowhere feels as comfortable as this. Perhaps it’s the lighthouse (I’ve enclosed a postcard; I’m not much of an artist, but anatomical illustration usually turns out well, so I decided to try and capture a moment of peace for you). There’s a sunken yacht nearby, and the surroundings still lie in disrepair, which means it’s very quiet. The professors also cast Muggle-repelling charms over the area—though oddly, they didn’t seem to work on me… (Forgive the occasional poorly timed joke.)

It’s cloudy today, the sun is hiding, and the sky feels vast, full of fluffy tufts of cotton wool. Perhaps, for the first time, I can understand those who enjoy flying—because sometimes you really do need to blow every last thought out of your head and just live in the moment. That doesn’t come easily to me—there’s always something buzzing in my mind, even if I can’t quite catch or articulate it. Maybe it’s some kind of post-war anxiety; maybe it’s just how I’m wired. My professors often praise my “agile mind”, but believe me, sometimes it can be more trouble than it’s worth. Though of course, in general it does more good than harm—don’t think I’m complaining. It’s just that sometimes I wish I could detach myself from the constant noise and simply stop thinking, but it requires inhuman effort. Or good company. Or physical activity. Of the three, I only have the last at my disposal for now, so I suppose it’s time to return to my paddle.

Do you fly to clear your head, Mister Occamy? I’d wager acrophobia never troubled you.

Campus
Early Exam – Healing Ethics

16 May 2001

I have two pieces of news for you, Mister Occamy.

First: I passed the exam, of course. Not with top marks, but I’m not going to change a thing this time. For once, my reasoning wasn’t drawn from books, and the board found it too forthright. The question dealt with assisting prisoners of war, as most healers face such a situation at least once in their careers. Wars are eternal, whether we like it or not. They disliked my honest admission that proper fulfilment of duties (care, anaesthesia, and the like) doesn’t necessarily imply concern for the mental well-being of such individuals… or that I wouldn’t hesitate to harm them should they pose a direct threat. According to the board, such matters should be handled by one’s superiors. But the truth is, superiors rarely have time for such things, and I will not be courteous to someone who obstructs what must be done or threatens my life in the moment. Self-defence comes before ethics, because a dead healer is a useless one. I doubt the professors themselves have ever been in such a situation to have the right to proclaim impartiality. Still, it’s not as though I’d seriously harm someone in need of care. For some individuals, a minor jinx would do no further damage. Or a Petrificus, should they refuse a life-saving procedure.

Second news: I’ve agreed to undergo an evaluation. I was terribly afraid of Legilimency (and to be honest, still am) due to a certain wartime incident. They forcefully tried to extract the location and confirmation of a certain artefact from me. I said nothing, and my mind was so clouded from the torture (Cruciatus, physical assault, an enchanted dagger—the full set) that even thought-reading yielded no results. Apologies for the shaky handwriting—it’s hard to write this, I’m trembling a bit.

Anyway, it wasn’t as horrific as I had expected. They even said I was rather gifted, having cast my first Obliviate before I’d reached formal adulthood, and quite effectively at that. It can be reversed—they said I was right to ask Monsieur Changeux for guidance. It’s rather amusing that practically any fool can cast a spell, but only qualified healers can undo the consequences.

Afterwards, I was met by one of my ex-classmates—he also had his evaluation today—and we got to talk. Patients undergo mind-mapping as well. Like me, he was reluctant at first. I used to think Voldemort was harsh with his followers, but never gave it much thought—it wasn’t my concern then. But now… it’s like I see it clearly. Imagine what someone must feel, caught in the midst of it all (mostly against their will), under a father’s pressure and the threat of death. The same Cruciatus, the same mental trauma. Only for him, it wasn’t a single episode—they were punished for every failure, and there were many of them… some of my doing.

I’m sorry, I’ll have to finish this story later. For now, I can’t go on without a calming draught, and I haven’t even begun to talk about myself. In any case, I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity to start making amends for some of my misdeeds—and to build a connection with someone in the magical world.

Yours,

Mercuria

Devonshire Coast
Wizarding Britain

27 May 2001

Good afternoon, Mr Occamy!

Here I am, back in my homeland! I kept trying to coax Monsieur Hervier into revealing your current whereabouts, but he remained tight-lipped. Utterly unhelpful! Do confess: did you reprimand him after his previous candour? I did ask you not to… All right, then. Keep your secrets. I shall earnestly attempt to refrain from prying into personal matters, though my curiosity is positively bursting.

With a week remaining before the League commences, the house is presently quiet: everyone is at work save for the mistress, and I assist her with minor tasks where I can. I am refining my domestic charms—at our cottage, I often perform tasks the Muggle way, by hand, even though it can be considerably more time-consuming. And since Hogwarts offered no lessons in home economics (Mr Filch, for obvious reasons, could not teach anything of the sort), I have a certain deficiency in this area of magic. Thus, I am making amends. Cutting charms require greater delicacy in this context, a meticulous application of Leviosa, and everything must appear almost unconscious, automatic. Lots of numerous small, controlled objects—the near antithesis of duelling skills. I am thrilled by how the lady of the house combines such elements in her repertoire. Though I confess: domesticity holds little appeal for me, much like indulging in hedonistic tendencies. As the saying goes, one eats to live, not lives to eat. Perhaps for this reason (and owing to my ambitions), I will hardly be a virtuous wife. But maintaining a tidy home will be useful regardless—not everyone has house-elves. (Moreover, perhaps someday I shall contribute to abolishing slavery in the magical world.)

The exams proceeded without a hitch. I was quite fortunate with the questions on pain-relief magic and introduction to patient care—they overlapped, leaving the panel no choice but to award me the mark I deserved. In necromagic, I had to demonstrate the magical coma spell. If the body is healthy, one can be easily brought out of it. If not… it depends on the healer’s strength and the relatives’ will. Such spells are generally avoided, as I understand, and efforts are made to minimise harm immediately, before inducing prolonged sleep. Most issues arise during the return to consciousness, as if the soul forgets the path back to the body and lingers in liminal realms. I am unsure if this interests you, but I would like to study the subject more deeply, even if it is frowned upon in polite society. After all, how can one identify traces of dark magic without understanding its principles? Or reverse a spell without knowing the exact formula?

An old classmate… Shall we assign him a name? I believe I have mentioned him quite a few times in my letters. Let’s call him Aidan. So, Aidan invited me to spend the summer in Nice. I don’t think it would have been a good idea, considering our past, his relationships with my friends, and the plans already in place. Besides, I doubt his family is particularly fond of me. Though they claim to have relinquished their pure-blood ideals, I find that hard to believe. One cannot be convinced of something for years and then change their mind overnight. It takes time, a great deal of time, to reconcile purists with the right of Muggle-borns to a place in the world, and for the latter to rebuild trust in ancient families.

I hope I am, in some sense, contributing to that. Am I not, Mr Occamy?

Wishing you a splendid summer!

Yours,

Mercuria

P.S. Oh yes, I have completed the translation charms and defended the project before the panel. I used a combination of the Kaunaz and Perth runes, with the verbal formulation: ‘Verbum Proprium’. They are not yet perfect—this is the first working variation. But I hope to refine them in the near future.

Chapter Text

Some Quidditch Stadium in Wales
Magical Britain

9 June 2001

Good day, Mr Occamy!

I'm not even sure where to begin... I don't want to delay writing this month's letter, although I highly doubt you're expecting reports during the summer. I'm obviously at home, not abroad, not studying, so it's unlikely anything I write will be of genuine interest. But let's pretend otherwise, shall we?

I completely forgot to tell you about the friendly rowing competition with Beauxbatons—it coincided with the middle of my early exams, so the impressions were somewhat blurred. Naturally, as a novice, I was both lucky and unlucky: I was allowed to participate in the race, but unfamiliar waters and the pressure of speed are not the same as leisurely paddling. I didn't finish last, but I wasn't in the top three either (and I'm not particularly upset about it). Perhaps my competitive spirit extends only to the number of spells and potion recipes crammed into my head, because in sports, I'm hopeless. I'll continue practising for my own enjoyment, but I won't be getting involved in such escapades again. I hope you're not too disappointed by my decision (this way, there's more time for studying—does that phrasing please you?).

Honestly, I'm not much of a spectator either: right now, the match between the Chudley Cannons and the Montrose Magpies is in full swing, and I'm writing to you instead of watching the balls. But it's better than burying my nose in the 'Healer's Weekly', right? Or not... Do you enjoy Quidditch yourself? Perhaps you own a team? I've heard it's considered prestigious in your circles.

Oh, Mr Occamy, were you also invited by the foundation's curators for a discussion on the first year's results? It seems a bit premature to me—the year isn't over yet. Although perhaps they mean the academic year. I'm quite anxious—will the programme be extended, and will any familiar faces join the academy? Aren’t you tired of your role as a patron? Starting next semester, we'll have practical training in the emergency room and general therapy wards; by winter, we'll take the assistant healer certification, and by spring, we'll be able to assist in general practice. I hope to be of use to you from that point onward. Oh, does the mutual anonymity extend throughout the entire training period?.. Just don't tell me you're planning to visit. (But I strongly encourage you to do so—the sea air helps one breathe deeply and eases therapy.)

Later that evening

Apologies, Mr Occamy, I was interrupted and couldn't return to the letter until the match ended. (You probably know that the Cannons won solely thanks to the skill of their Keeper and Chasers, because their Seeker is quite the laggard.)

During the break, I ran into Aidan's father at the stadium. A golden-bottomed peacock of a wizard. Sorry, I shouldn’t put it like this. I am quite surprised by his attention toward me—that's actually why I couldn't finish the letter earlier. You're likely acquainted (otherwise, it wouldn't align with your background), and I least of all want to violate the terms of the agreement (and declare my participation in the foundation's programme—they say he still has some influence over the Ministry and the education department in particular). Honestly, I don't understand why he remains in Britain at all if Aidan and his mother are in Nice. Trouble in paradise? Or is he still under Ministry restrictions? It all seems very odd, especially considering that Aidan doesn't like to talk about his father. I thought he was protecting my psyche, but it seems that's not the only reason. Then again... you know, I don't care. Aidan is one thing—a victim of circumstances—and his father is entirely another, fully aware of what he was getting into. These aren't my family dramas.

Now, however, I can't get it out of my head and keep wondering what he wanted from me besides idle chatter about the weather. I'm not fond of small talk with those who ruined our generation's childhood. He, damn it, slipped a cursed artefact to a girl from the family hosting me, hoping that several Muggle-borns would perish and the school would be closed. However, I've already told you this story. It's certainly not unique, and he caused plenty of other grief—I have every reason to avoid any contact.

But let's move on to good news! My best friend (let's call him Baldur) is finally getting married in two weeks, so the entire family of the bride (with whom I'm staying) is already busy with preparations. I'm helping with growing flowers, a bit with the invitations—they say I have beautiful, neat handwriting. It seems like half of Magical Britain is being invited! Then again, it's logical—such events don't happen every day. Baldur looks very happy—he's never had a family, and I've seen how lonely he was living like that. I'm glad he's found his haven (or rather, his whirlwind). I hope that someday I'll also meet someone who becomes as close to me as Gwen is to Baldur.

Also, I can't say I've missed Britain and this house in particular... It feels so strange to be awkward in a place where I've spent so much time over the past decade, but it is what it is. I'm eagerly awaiting the start of the new academic year—it's even a pity to leave the campus. The trees near the greenhouses bloom so beautifully there...

Melting from the heat,

Mercuria

P.S. Should I write to Aidan about today's encounter? What do you think? He surely knows more.

House at the Beginning of Ringford Road
SW18, South Putney
London

29 June 2001

Good day, Mr Occamy.

Monsieur Hervier has sent a note that nothing should be sent to his address from this moment. Have I become a nuisance to you? A disappointment? Have you grown weary of your role as patron or found a proper healer? You could have at least mentioned it, and I would have stopped sending you so many envelopes. Or simply not read them — you managed that somehow in the early months.

Why on earth did I defend you at the committee yesterday? The curators interrogated me so thoroughly, as if you had killed someone and I was supposed to have miraculously discovered it through our semblance of correspondence. They inquired about your attitude towards me, the fulfilment of sponsorship obligations, and asked to see the letters. Well, you probably foresaw this, given that over the past months you’ve limited yourself to two miserable scraps of paper. No reaction even to the end of the academic year — and I am the top student in the course! The best, for your sake, because I promised to meet expectations, not out of personal whim — I’m up to my neck trying to excel in subjects related to palliative care. The only one studying two specialisations at once! They said there’s no guarantee I’ll return to campus, that you haven’t yet decided on continuing participation in the programme and are considering another candidate for sponsorship. What have I done to deserve this? Tried to find out about your life from the secretary? Have I asked too many questions in my letters? What?

You know, I’ve grown accustomed to your invisible presence in every sphere of my life. Accustomed to thinking of events as moments worthy of mention in a letter or not. Accustomed to the idea that my letters have a recipient — someone not entirely consumed by their affairs and who reads mail attentively. How delightful to feel like a hopeful fool again, begging for scraps of someone else’s attention!

Well, thanks to my thriftiness and foresight: what I saved was enough to cover the tax on the parental home this year and to pay off part of the debt from the past three. I can’t (and don’t want to) sell or rent it out, but maintaining it is beyond my means. I didn’t anticipate this issue, when ████████████ But of course, you don’t care!

Thank you for the past year. I won’t put you in a difficult position and revoke my consent to participate in the programme myself.

Good luck finding a more deserving protégé, Mr Occamy.

Devonshire Coast
Magical Britain

2 July 2001

Dearly Unregarded Cassius Quiritus,

What the hell do you think you’re doing? They didn’t accept my resignation because, allegedly, you changed your mind! I am not a toy, and you can’t treat me like this — beckon me, throw me out, then pretend nothing happened. If I wanted to become a dependent of a man and bury my own opinion and dignity, I’d have married straight out of Hogwarts. Seems I made a mistake — better to become a house hen among my friends than a slave to someone like you.

8 July 2001

Mr I-Have-No-More-Words-Left-For-You,

Do you think everything is for sale? Expensive trinkets, healing folios, academic forms… Do you believe my attitude towards you has a price, too? You’re mistaken; kindness is the only thing that can’t be bought for any amount of Galleons.

Every time I think you can’t surprise me anymore, you do something that leaves me gasping like a fish out of water. Seriously? It’s easier for you to sign a cheque for over two hundred Galleons and send Monsieur Hervier to the Muggles? You can’t bring yourself to write, “Sorry, I doubted you”? What a… Perhaps I won’t continue, or you’ll change your mind again.

So, now I owe you 603 Galleons and 7 Sickles for board, allowance, and education, and 200 Galleons for settling the utility debt. How much did those books cost? You can write the total sum. I’ll send part by the end of summer.

(no date)

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU FORBID ME TO WORK DURING THE HOLIDAYS???

Shove your prohibition where the sun doesn’t shine, Mr Occamy! If you want your pet healer to have at least some practice before officially working with patients and not make a fool of themselves, then stop putting spokes in the wheel!

The Cannons’ Base
Chudley
Magical Britain

19 July 2001

Oh, Mr Occamy, I am so very sorry! I never imagined that gestures like these could be a way of expressing something… I was so angry with you—for that radical shift in course, for the fact I learnt of it from the committee and had to sit before them wide-eyed and desperate; for the way you never wrote to explain, never offered any clarity—simply left me to interpret it all through the lens of my corruption. And as you see, I am corrupt through and through. Monsieur Hervier explained that solving problems silently, within your means, is a form of communication in which you feel at home. That your ability to control everything—even your own life—was badly shaken during the war, and now you prefer actions to words, cheques to letters. Money directed where it is needed can, supposedly, say more than ornate phrases or empty promises.

To be honest, I’m beginning to feel a little uneasy about the sums you are spending on my behalf. And not always out of necessity—I could very well have paid off the parental house debt in time. I’ve done the maths: I spend around a Galleon a week, two at most, excluding clothing expenses, so from the five you send, more than half usually remains untouched. Besides, I plan to begin assisting after the autumn term—the academy pays roughly seven Galleons a week for that. I’m managing, Mr Occamy, more than this. And you don’t need to convince me that talent sponsorship programmes don’t make their beneficiaries into debtors. They do. You probably already know my real name, which is why you wanted to leave the programme, isn’t it? I just don’t understand why you changed your mind… Are you truly content?

Thank you for the Healer’s robe. I don’t yet deserve to wear it, although Monsieur Hervier tried earnestly to persuade me otherwise. I’m merely helping Healer Dylan make it through the season and boosting the Cannons’ morale a bit. They’re calling me their little mascot—things are finally looking up. The team now seems more united and calm. Their recent win has given them confidence and eased their worries about the future. (Well, and perhaps a few phials of a tonic brewed with peppermint, lemon balm and marjoram helped too. It’s not classified as doping, by the way—I checked.)

Valdorian (my second-best friend—the one who plays for the Cannons) recommended me for this position. I’m delighted that, after all our rows, separations, and misunderstandings, we’ve managed to find our way back to one another. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known the magical world—virtually my entire conscious life—and you’ve no idea what it was like to feel such a rift with someone so close. It seems a fundamental one, probably beyond all repair. And now, at last, I feel at peace and, for once, am not afraid of solitude. I do so hope we can preserve these feelings, this relationship, and carry out our plans. I still have to finish my training, of course, but overall, I think I could manage sports healing as well—what do you think? It can’t be more difficult than palliative care, can it? Setting dislocated limbs, mending fractures, brewing harmless tonics for focus and sharp vision—pure routine. Madam Pomfrey did the same at Hogwarts. Perhaps without favouring one team over another, which meant she had no reason to cheat… But I’m a different case. And I wouldn’t even need to change my specialisation: the healing foundation is the same for everyone. Clever idea, isn’t it? Practising on Quidditch bunnies in summer, then studying mental therapy and long-term care throughout autumn and spring. And after graduation, that kind of specialisation allows for real flexibility.

Still, I do miss campus a little. The olive leaves tapping the windowpane, the cries of the gulls—they seem to sound different there. If only Val got selected for the national team—he’d be in France for the World Cup next spring. Then the separation wouldn’t last from Christmas till summer, only a bit shorter. Though nothing stops him from visiting campus more often off-season, right?

Once again, I apologise for the disrespectful tone of my previous letters.

Yours,

Mercuria

Devonshire Coast
Magical Britain

20 August 2001

Dear Mr Occamy,

Do you suppose priests who have taken a vow of celibacy ever regret it upon meeting a kindred spirit? Do matriarchs, the backbone of large families, ever lament spending their lives amidst childcare and domestic routines? I had intended to begin this letter differently, especially since I haven't written to you all month, but these questions have consumed my thoughts, leaving little room for anything else.

August has been a disaster: for the team's healer, it's been feast or famine, and now we're in the former phase. Training sessions, matches, travels... Val and I were granted leave after the League quarter-finals—the Cannons have concluded their championship run. We're now enjoying a brief holiday, just a week, and have returned to his boisterous family. Perhaps it's due to them that Val has managed to integrate so seamlessly into the team: the main squad of the Cannons is equally eccentric, especially after recent reshuffles, and has entirely forgotten the concept of personal space. I am constantly in someone's view, always someone wanting a chat, needing assistance, or something else—writing to you in such an environment is akin to a suicide mission. They'd bombard me with questions—what could I possibly say? That I'm writing to the non-existent Cassius Quiritus and only know that he dislikes responding, yet somehow cares about my well-being? It's best not to attempt it around Valdorian—he seems perpetually irked by the mere fact that I enrolled in the support programme. Val lost a brother in the recent war, but he still has a strong, loving family, partly for whom he exerts himself on the field. I... Well, I have Crookshanks. And your books. And these letters. And Val, if I may say so. Not that it's not enough, but surely you missed your parents too? Or were you fortunate enough that they're still alive?

Apologies for burdening you with my life's tribulations. This isn't an attempt to evoke pity—it's just that I don't particularly wish to share my problems with anyone in the household. Firstly, their wounds are still fresh; secondly... Well, you know, writing is easier. I can at least hope that you won't read this, or the letter will be lost, or I'll forget to send it, or something else.

There's little to report about the internship, except that in the all-male Cannons team with a semi-retired healer, a new female presence is perceived as a breath of fresh air. Thus, most of the time, I'm honing not so much my healing skills as my repartee. The Beaters remind me of an overly self-satisfied classmate with whom I once unwisely attended a Slughorn’s soirée. Where do men acquire such unwavering confidence in their irresistibility when, in reality, their intellectual capacities aren't even sufficient to avoid engaging in dubious things for a dare on the eve of team selection? Honestly, they are just animals.

I would like more free time to continue working on the memory-awakening potion. Recently, I had the idea to add a bit of ginger root combined with peppermint leaves—for a gentler emergence from the mind's 'hibernation', as in a mind-sharpening potion. Typically, Obliviates are either lifted immediately or leave a person to live with them permanently, showing events in the Pensieve, but such methods won't suit me... And, you know, an overload of information can drive one mad. That's also a highly undesirable effect, and I believe mint might help mitigate it. I would consider asphodel, but I'm afraid adding it to an awakening potion would simply nullify the entire effect. Surely, it's excluded from the basic recipe for a reason? I sorely miss Professor Snape. He would, of course, have berated me thoroughly, called me mediocre and a clueless crammer, but he would have helped refine the recipe. Now, I'm fumbling like a blind kitten. And there's catastrophically little time for experiments—it feels as though I'm the one flying on a broomstick, not the players (despite my fear of heights).

What else can I tell you, Mr Occamy? Despite the growing debt to you, I've found a sense of calm, as if a mountain has been lifted from my shoulders. Home is the last bastion of my past life, both Muggle and pre-war. These are the warmest memories: playing Scrabble by the fireplace at Christmas, stacks of medical journals in the kitchen and living room, ‘Sesame Street’ on the telly before school and ‘Ronald the Rat’ afterwards. Swings in the backyard, sunlight tangled in maple leaves... And it so happens that I am the last keeper of these memories.

I had to

I was compelled

It was necessary

I erased myself from my parents' lives. And sent them to the other end of the world with a hastily concocted legend, so that the Death Eaters couldn't find them. I was preparing to die in the war—I can't imagine what they would have felt, knowing that their only daughter is constantly risking her life right now, while they are unarmed and not part of that dangerous world. And if I had died... I saw how Valdorian's mother buried one of her sons. And at that moment, I realised that I had done the right thing. Mr Occamy, will I be able to restore their blocked memories? Will they forgive my actions? Understand—not likely, of course... More than anything in life, I want to master restorative charms, find them, and, well, cease to be an orphan with living parents. And at the same time, I'm terrified that irreparable harm has already been done. Do you have children, Mr Occamy? Would you at least listen to them in such a case?

The next morning

Apologies, I ended up in tears afterwards, drank a calming draught, and passed out right at the table. I pondered for a long time whether to send this stream of consciousness. But, you know, I trust you. Even if you know who's on the other side of the page, even if you don't hold much affection for my background, even if you despise people like me, I believe that your heart found room for a single exception. And that you were able to see a person beyond the 'Muggle-born' label with their strengths and weaknesses. And I'm very grateful—surely, that was quite a revelation.

Thank you for everything.

Mercuria

31 August 2001

Dear Mr Occamy,

I am utterly at a loss.

When I, in a fit of emotion, wrote to you that I would rather marry than continue to comply with your absurd demands (some of which I still find quite outrageous), I never imagined things would unfold quite like this.

My Portkey to the academy is set to activate tomorrow at noon, but... Damn it, I don't even know how to write about this. I desperately need advice, and you are the last person I ought to ask, given your personal investment. However, there is no one else, as everyone else is equally invested in a different outcome.

You know that I began seeing Valdorian again this summer. Yes, again—we have a rather complicated love story, if it can be called that. At first, he was blind to my feelings—the girl who had never known genuine admiration for anything beyond intellect, yet was accustomed to the status of ‘one of the lads’. Then he seemed to realise, but the war ended, and I had other priorities. Moreover, I understood that a relationship at that time, when I had no solid ground beneath my feet, was a path to ruin—we quarrelled as much as we knew each other, and even infatuation couldn't change that. Now, with your support, ongoing education, and a clear plan, it seemed permissible to try again, especially since Val had apparently ended things with his previous girlfriend and realised he missed the closeness that only comes when people have known each other half their lives. These past months have been good (even though I was deeply concerned about your attitude toward me).

I had never had anyone else besides him. I mean, any sort of long-term relationship. Since the seventh year, perhaps, we were convinced that this was how it would end: Baldur would marry Gwen and join her family, gaining what he had never had, and I would marry Valdorian. Then everything changed, of course: when I suggested finishing Hogwarts rather than accepting the Ministry's offer, both of them refused to do so. I stayed at school; Val said he wouldn't wait another year. Auror training precluded freedom of movement, and I didn't want to return to Devon for the holidays. Then he took up Quidditch, and a string of girlfriends followed (I didn't even try to remember their names); I was then left to assist Mr Filch. The rest you know.

I never imagined he would propose after these mere two months. Nor would he do so in front of the entire family. I didn’t think he would... not give me an ultimatum... Although no, that's precisely what he did. Either continue my studies, obtain a specialised profession and restore my parents' memories on my own. Or stay with him, follow Baldur and Gwen's example, work as a healer's assistant for the team, validate my degree through experience, and after the season ends, we would search for my family and a healer capable of lifting a long-term Obliviate.

I don't know what to do, Mr Occamy. You will, in no uncertain terms, instruct me to return to campus—and you would be right. And I... well, I've dreamt of someone loving me despite my unbearable character, manners of a bookworm, and blood status.

You would curse me if I stayed, wouldn't you?

Mercuria

Chapter Text

Occitan Healing Academy
34750 Villeneuve‑les‑Maguelone
France

5 September 2001

Well, here I am at last.

Can you believe, Mr Occamy, that a whole year has passed? I’m afraid to count how many letters I’ve sent—and it seems there will be twice as many more.

Since students vacate their rooms for the summer, come autumn, everyone is rehoused, and the existing social groups are mixed up. That cottage on the campus outskirts is now occupied by third‑year Trauma students, and I’ve been allocated a block in the main building above the outpatient clinic. The second bedroom is currently unoccupied, but my new roommate should be arriving any day now (apparently, she’s also from Britain). According to the campus caretaker, “She’ll settle in more easily if she has a countryman next door.” Laura and Julie are in a similar block, one floor below, so nothing has changed majorly. The clinic can now offer feline therapy—Crookshanks can’t sit still, and he’s already been brought to the nursing station in search of his owner.

Lectures won’t begin until October, so I’m mainly making up for lost time over the summer. The asphodel predictably failed, ginger did ease the awakening of the mind, but achieving a targeted effect on memory is still a task to resolve. Perhaps it would be worth exploring traditional Asian medicine and testing some of its herbs. Schisandra and centella? Ginseng? Maybe I should divide the potion into two, instead of trying to combine both functions—memory restoration and a calm mind afterwards? I saw Aidan back at the Academy after my return—he was so surprised but didn’t say anything, only offered to help with the formulation, so now there’s less space in the lab and more cauldrons of samples.

Aidan’s mother is slightly better. Her healer—what a surprise—is our future lecturer, M. Thibault Pinel, of the post‑mental‑trauma therapy course. Last semester, M. Pinel gave us several lectures on diagnosis using Legilimency, when M. Dubois (our usual lecturer) was urgently summoned to the capital. After reviewing his method, I decided to undergo the diagnosis myself (with him as my healer). What a talent and what… tenderness. Working with those whose minds have been invaded is very difficult: they either panic and resist even the gentlest contact, or withdraw into apathy and switch off consciousness, as if they’ve laid a fog over a gallery of paintings. Some even cast Occlumency shields… In any case, patients permit corporeal or magical‑core manipulation relatively easily, but trust for the mind treatment is hard to gain. It takes more than one or two sessions before a person will make contact, let alone allow spells. I know—I can speak sagely now, yet six months ago I wrote to you that I couldn’t bring myself to undergo mind mapping. Though I’m still not ready for anything more than that.

I’ve been brooding for a long time on whether I should

I haven’t returned to paddling and kayaking yet, though the season has only about a month left. Every morning, my former housemates and I go to the nearest Muggle beach to dabble. The water is cool and splendid, the sand is soft and delightfully envelops the feet, and the days are sunny with only wisps of cloud drifting overhead. We take an inflatable ball and sometimes play volleyball as a threesome. The ball is vivid too, like everything else around: red and white striped. I suppose this little ritual does good for me—those summer days of constant activity now seem as distant as a decade ago. Memory is quite a curious thing, isn’t it?

You didn’t reply to my previous letter. Please, reply to this one: I chose obligations over the honeymoon for a reason, did I not?

Mercuria

19 September 2001

Well, a whole year now, indeed.

I've always wondered, Mr Occamy, why those who have everything are never satisfied. Why they strive for more, fly higher, exert greater influence, wish to know everything, and so on… And I find, with bitterness, that I have become the same. In place of gratitude for your favour—even after my two attempts to abandon it—I feel only a dull irritation: for failing to hold on, for not foreseeing, for not finding a way out. Once again, I gathered myself and rode into the sunset. I burned another bridge. But who will build them now? Am I even capable anymore?

Finally, my new roommate has arrived. A Slytherin, two years my junior. Not on the sponsorship programme (though with these pure‑bloods, nothing is certain). Stella—she has a celestial name and the shine of a minor star in some constellation, a future dutiful pure‑blood wife. Not a fool, but resigned to her fate. She looked at me, nodded sympathetically, and said she had seen the newspapers. So have you, I guess. What’s the point of this entire charade of double anonymity if my face has not left the pages of the ‘Daily Prophet’ for almost a month? And right next to Aidan’s father, who’s had his travel restrictions lifted at last. Another happy family.

Do you like birthdays, Mr Occamy? Oh, I never asked when yours is… though you wouldn’t tell me anyway. I hope you do—you have every reason to. When the annual review feels like a series of triumphs. Mine lists nothing but ‘not’s and ‘yet’s. I am amazed how fleeting joyful moments are, yet how long defeats linger in the mind. How they arise when sitting by the water’s edge or staring at a pale ceiling. What if it’s all been for nothing, Mr Occamy? What if

This morning, I sorted through letters and gifts. I never expected Valdorian to understand my reluctance to follow his life plans, but his words, ‘You have always chosen anyone but me’, still ring in my ears. I thought he’d revive my memories with a Howler, but he didn’t. Baldur and Gwen conspired with our former classmates and prepared a healer’s herbs kit together. And, by some miracle, manuscripts used in the St Mungo’s laboratory (I wouldn’t be surprised if they were stolen—my friends are quite capable). Aidan came for lunch—he brought an enchanted gramophone and records. Had me dancing with him around the whole sitting‑room, weaving between piles of books, jesting and pressing my buttons. I’m amazed he knows about my birthday at all. But then, Stella poked her head out of her room and asked us to pipe down. And that was the beginning of Ferret’s fall.

I realised I haven’t celebrated my birthday with my parents since I was eleven—that is, as many birthdays as I’ve had with them. Of course, at a certain age, friends replace family, then a partner, but never in childhood… It’s sad to acknowledge that the sense of excitement in the morning when everything seems bright and unusual is gone. That sunlight no longer rouses you through childhood curtains, and you don’t rush down the stairs to find a surprise hint left on the kitchen table for a gift hunt. Now you forge your happiness; the responsibility rests on you. That natural rite of growing up isn’t for you either, because your friends passed it more quickly. They have support, they have family, they look ahead with ease, while you have only fog and ghosts of past intimacy. Old bonds fracture, new ones don’t form, not least because of you. As though you never changed since those days, as you are still that Gryffindor bookworm buried in textbooks in a corner of the common room.

I can’t shake this question: could I have been happier with a ring on my finger and by choosing to abandon my family for a foster one…? Although deep inside, I suspect I know the answer. Today in town, I dawdled at the jeweller’s—displayed in the window was an engagement ring resembling Val’s one. And I felt lonelier than ever: distant from home, from my parents, from my country. It will pass, of course, it will pass. But sometimes it is so difficult to see long‑term purpose behind the day‑to‑day. I simply crave to hug my parents. You cannot imagine how I crave that.

I doubt I will send this letter. But if I do, please, burn it.

Mercuria

23 September 2001

I never cease to be amazed by your brevity, Mr Occamy. ‘One cannot become happy in marriage; one may enter it happy.’ I had never thought of it that way. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps you do know what you’re talking about.

I spoke with Monsieur Changeux about certification and the required subjects for passing it. Since this semester’s theoretical modules are few—by which I mean the course on magical manias and psychoses, as well as those on personality and memory‑splintering curses, and on the phenomenon of death in both Muggle and magical cultures—I am permitted to attend practical sessions more frequently than originally planned, provided I meet deadlines in my other subjects.

And there is a great deal of practical work ahead, not only within our specialisation: magical core disorders (with placements in various departments across the academy and nearby hospitals), artefactual life support, therapy for the effects of Unforgivables (both for victims and for those who have cast them), memory preservation, memory distortion recovery, Occlumency and self‑care in acute cases, hypnosis and its reversal. I’m certain I’ve missed something. In any case, it promises to be an extremely intense term.

Yours,

Mercuria

Hôpital Sainte‑Ségolène
Toulouse, France

8 October 2001

Good morning, Mr Occamy!

You may congratulate me on the start of the new academic year—I’ve spent the entire first week here at Sainte‑Ségolène, with another fortnight to go. The hospital specialises in palliative care, so we accompany healers on rounds for long‑term patients, occasionally attend initial consultations, and review treatment plans. The staff are pleasant, friendly and responsive, although doctors are reluctant to allow students near patients beyond their paperwork. Understandably so—our group had issues during ethics, and not everyone passed the introductory care module with flying colours. I try not to overstep, yet Madame Noé seems to think I should. Perhaps it's because, despite my calm demeanour and enthusiasm, my gaze resembles that of the hospital staff. She hasn’t said a word beyond training, let alone about what it’s like to live as a healer. Maybe they don't wish to frighten us—or perhaps they believe it’s too soon.

By day, we’re learning how to handle immobile patients. I’ve never been to a Muggle hospice, but I imagine it’s far more difficult without magic. We possess cleansing charms, levitation spells, Aguamenti or Aqua Eructo, steaming, hydrating or airflow spells. They rely on technicians' apparatus, electricity and, above all, physical effort—remarkably, even from the women. And as tempting as it might be for witches and wizards to rely solely on spells, they take great care not to. Or at least not to let magic do it all. Personal interaction heals—tactile contact, absence of pity or condescension. Sometimes I wonder: perhaps I shouldn’t be here because of your mandate, but rather because someone from the instigators of the Second Magical War should. They could learn much from both sides—the bedridden and those attending them. Then I remember: a hard‑hearted soul seldom softens when faced with others' suffering. Better I remain here, still capable of empathy, than those caricatures of humanity. I imagine you decided much the same.

Campus

Same Evening

Crookshanks sends his regards! (Forgive me, I left this letter on the table before dinner, and my exceedingly smart cat decided a paw‑print would make a splendid signature.)

Do you enjoy music, Mr Occamy? Before Aidan brought that gramophone, I hadn't a clue how much I missed it. In childhood, we didn't own a large record player—my parents preferred films, and we only went to concerts every few months. Usual Muggle pastimes passed me by too—summer doesn’t allow time to forge deep friendships, and without company, it's hard to cultivate a genuine interest. Baldur (who grew up without magic, like me) was never inclined to music, and his foster family certainly wouldn’t make him love anything Muggle. Pocket‑sized players became available just last year, but the charms still damage them quickly. Thus, the gramophone was a salvation—and now your allowance funds the expansion of my musical tastes. Just last week, I spotted a record shop in the backstreets of Montpellier, with its window filled with a golden sea and sand framed by black lines. I was captivated. Such soothing music—it washes everything away, both good and bad. Ludovico Einaudi is the composer (though the name may not ring a bell for you)—inspired by a novel by Virginia Woolf, our(?) compatriot. I’ve meant to read it, but the study wears me down so much that books make me feel nauseous. Instead, I listen, stroke the cat, watch the maple tops glow by my window, and try to settle the urge to do more, to push harder. I remind myself that I am doing good enough and deserve a rest. At sunset, the entire room is bathed in crimson, and I imagine those rays burning away my fears and doubts, leaving only a graphite‑sharp silhouette against the wall—an artist’s preliminary sketch left for a break. Do you draw, Mr Occamy?

They’ve opened Sunday watercolour classes at the Academy—and I’ve returned to palette and brush. It strikes me that mastering translucent layers and enjoying the process is a cornerstone of life. Perhaps because, like on paper, you cannot simply paint over the past—either the pencil draft remains visible (our upbringing and family beliefs), or previous washes (consequences of our choices) shine through. Thus, a watercolourist must design the result, remain patient, and think several steps ahead. Allow one layer to dry before applying the next. Do not fear sweeping strokes; allow the water where needed, and introduce more colour—paper soaks it up, and time will fade the memories. I was afraid to live. I still am—only three years have passed since the war, and despite the mental block, it seems like yesterday.

It may seem I fell into despair after the summer, but you know what… One can spend forever fearing the unknown. Yet to live, one must simply live. Cook for two (since Stella has never held anything heavier than a quill or wand), visit patients, feel the surf, knead scribbled sheets, and look forward openly. There should be sunshine after rain.

Here's to the new year, Mr Occamy.

Yours,

Mercuria

Chapter Text

Hôpital Sainte‑Ségolène
Toulouse, France

20 October 2001

Good afternoon, Mr Occamy!

Here come the first exams—we’ve completed the modules on general ward care and the initial block on magical‑core diseases (blood curses). It’s very fascinating, yet utterly exhausting—my timetable is split into two shifts: palliative care in the mornings and mental magic theory in the evenings. I only feel alive at weekends, and even then, mostly on Sundays. Saturdays are for chores—there are no house‑elves here, and the Hogwarts‑style full‑board system isn’t practised. Perhaps it’s for the best; witches and wizards, having magic, ought to be able to look after themselves. I can't say I enjoy spending one of my two free days cleaning, but in a way, it provides a reprieve from studies and clears the head.

As for Sundays, I try to spend them outdoors. This year has brought many first‑year Muggle‑born students from the Netherlands and Denmark, and they’ve introduced all sorts of activities. I’m thrilled to find companions unafraid of venturing into Muggle neighbourhoods, and who happily join in a game of table tennis or pétanque (there are courts and tables in Montpellier parks). The rules are simple, but the skill lies in the finesse. Last weekend we even had a picnic after the games. And guess what? Aidan and Stella were quite happy to join in—love works miracles, even on the most stubborn donkeys of wizards.

Campus

3 November 2001

I completely forgot I had started writing to you! Did you miss my stories?

There’s a heap of news: the rotation cycles come one after the other—some shorter, some longer, some in the evenings instead of theoretical lectures. In the mornings, we’re currently studying the Unforgivable Curses and their aftereffects; we interact frequently with patients (under a supervisor’s guidance, of course), learn to devise potion regimens, calculate dosages, brew some mixtures ourselves, and some others are supplied by the specialist laboratories (since the academy also trains future apothecaries). In the evenings, we practise Occlumency and continue with our theoretical courses. And there are endless assessments: histories requiring diagnoses from paper alone, three-foot essays on types of psychological pathologies, methods for stabilising ‘slipping’ patients on the edge… As you can see, it’s all rather intense—I even forgot to write, which never used to happen.

The most important thing… Well, I assume you’ve already seen the enclosure if you’ve opened the letter. I completed the translation charm refinement back in September, but didn’t want to mention it prematurely. So, enclosed is my first hundred Galleons exactly. I didn’t want to send you a trifling sum. Half of it came from the summer, from the ‘Cannons’, and the other half is from the licensing of ‘Propra Vorto’ within the academy. I’d previously had experience with Protean Charms at Hogwarts, so the real challenge was to select the right combination and an object for anchoring. Madame Laënnec and I created self-translating boards—first-years are now learning Esperanto with them. If someone writes anything not in Esperanto, it automatically transforms. Then each student can transfer the note into their native language using ‘Propra Vorto’. The charm turned out to be universally applicable: simply say ‘eigenword’ in your native tongue (the wand movement is on the reverse of the sheet), and you’ll receive the translation in Esperanto; use the same phrase in Esperanto, and you get the reverse effect. I’m planning to expand it for badges, adding vocalisation (something akin to simultaneous interpretation, but skipping the Esperanto step), to assist trauma ward healers and those working with international patients.

You’ve likely heard about the September tragedy in the States? Two skyscrapers in the heart of Muggle New York collapsed like a house of cards. Afterwards came conflict in the Arab world—the ripples are reaching us even now. Many prominent magical families have relocated to Europe, not always smoothly. There have been issues with Portkeys, it’s said, and staying in the country is risky; Muggle methods of travel don’t sit well with everyone (and they’re perilous in such a climate). I proposed testing the charms also for Eastern languages, but Esperanto proved a poor intermediary—it seems I’ll have to invent something else entirely. Thankfully, the number of injured is smaller than it could have been, though people are frightened. A translator specialising in Arabic has been sent from Paris—an excellent opportunity to review the charm, but I’ve had barely a moment to spare.

I hope you haven’t planned any far journeys? Take care of yourself, Mr Occamy.

Yours,

Mercuria

Campus

8 November 2001

Good afternoon, Mr Occamy!

I’ve only just realised I haven’t seen Monsieur Hervier for ages. Have you decamped to the continent and are saving his time by sending owls? I’m both glad and not—of course, his working hours are not for courier duties, but I gleaned small fragments about you through this personal contact. I daresay I even miss our ‘yes‑no’ guessing game.

Occitania is preparing for winter: a week ago we celebrated Samhain in nearby Nîmes, and next week marks the opening of the Christmas market in Montpellier itself. On weekends, there will be dances, folk amusements, and reportedly even mummers. Laura is teaching Stella and me songs in the local dialect, and naturally, I’ve been delving into historical records. Both Muggles and wizards of Occitania have a rather singular view of life and death, as evidenced in their songs. You surely know ‘La jument de Michao’? Here they sing it somewhat differently, but the meaning remains: the lyricist contemplates the Last Judgement, addresses totemic figures—wolf, fox, weasel (quite humorous!)—watching the mare and foal devour all the stored winter hay, denying their survival through winter. I’ve found nothing similar in our traditions—English folklore seems fixated on faeries and human relationships, less allegorical, maybe. And the French sounds rather beautiful: “C’est dans dix ans je m’en irai, j’entends le loup et le renard chanter.” The future tense is so… so major, musically speaking: “L’hiver viendra, les gars, l’hiver viendra.” And the tune is catchy as a nightmare—I can’t stop constantly humming it (and winter is indeed on its way).

Now to important news. I’ve learned to erect basic Occlumency shields. They probably would’ve been of scant use in wartime, but today they’re sufficient to carve out a safe space to retreat to when things become too much. In practical sessions, we increasingly work with people, and unnaturally intense social contact is draining: I’ve never been the life of the party and generally don’t cope well with extended contact in crowds. Not that I dislike it—I simply find it exhausting at this stage. I will adapt. And I guess, a mental healer works with a few patients, a palliative specialist even fewer.

We’ve begun on family-lineage curses—virtually impossible to remove, only their symptoms can be contained. I saw Stella in her practical session—her area is precisely this, I believe. Perhaps she’s training as a family healer or working in obstetrics. Maybe in other courses the magic-core disease studies are front-loaded in the first term, but ours emphasises the theoretical side of medicine. It’s very valuable: had I not grasped the stark contrasts between pure-blood and Muggle-born earlier, I'd be in dire straits now. Pure-bloods are told that lineage-based curses are easy to inherit. They say every family carries its own, almost always for many generations. I tried to touch on the subject with Aidan, but he refused to enlighten me. Stella, however, was more forthcoming: I never imagined their family’s curse involved blood, and how the emphasis on maintaining pure bloodlines can be lethal. A sad reality. Aidan is deeply in love (he’s even shown me the engagement ring), but their marriage is doomed to childlessness. I don’t even want to imagine Stella being one of the women I studied for the healer’s ethics exam.

I suspect this won’t be my only letter this month, so I won’t say farewell, Mr Occamy. Apologies, but the colder it gets, the more I want to nest under a roof, wrap up in a jumper, and write to you. By the way, are you still wearing last year’s scarf? I could knit another.

Yours,

Mercuria

Campus

17 November 2001

Mr Occamy, I have fulfilled my destiny!

Not in terms of helping you, of course, but in fulfilling every Muggle-born's sacred duty to magical Britain.

I have taught Aidan and Stella how to ride bicycles—and they’ve decided it’s genuinely fun! So today we made the trip to the Frontignan lighthouse and back under our own (two-wheeled) power.

In case you're unfamiliar, a bicycle is a contraption made of two (sometimes three) wheels joined by a frame. The front wheel is called the steering; it is attached to a fork that connects to the handlebars. The rear wheel has cogs that rotate via pedals located beneath the seat. Perhaps I’m explaining this poorly (I’ve never aspired to teach), so I’ve included a little drawing below. The main difference between bicycles and brooms is that bicycles are actually comfortable to travel on. And the only real danger is scraping your knees or—if you're reckless enough to end up on a major road—possibly being hit by a car. Strange that broomstick manufacturers haven’t yet thought to include a seat. Not everyone is zooming around fast enough to warrant lying prone along a handle.

Anyway… we rode along the bank of the Canal du Rhône à Sète, a narrow strip of land with lakes stretching in all directions as far as the eye can see. Vast expanses of shimmering, golden-silver water glinting in the sun (we had marvellous weather). The wind whipped our faces and hair (I spent nearly an hour untangling mine afterwards), legs burning, lungs full of air, and not enough eyes to take in all the wide-open space. I wish I could bottle that feeling for you—that pure freedom writers and poets are always going on about. Though perhaps you wouldn’t be so easily impressed, given your life experience.

Swimming’s off the cards now (has been since early October), but we thoroughly enjoyed strolling along the water’s edge. I never imagined pure-bloods could skim stones! But apparently, Aidan was determined to show off—how very him. All in all, it was a lovely day, though in these sorts of outings I often feel like the proverbial third wheel. At least, that’s how it used to be with Gwen and Baldur.

But the best part was the return: at weekends, Aidan’s parents—Clianta and Anar—occasionally visit the academy, and yesterday they decided it was high time to meet their son’s girlfriend. Picture this: a thoroughly pure-blood family, historically opposed to Muggle-borns, watches as three bicycles roll up to the campus. Leading the charge—our sweet couple. Bringing up the rear—the architect of this social disaster, your humble servant. Clianta has met me before during her treatment and knows me reasonably well, so she didn’t seem too surprised. Anar, on the other hand, looked as though he had a heart attack. I didn’t fathom this scene would strike him dumb, though it surely wouldn’t do to scold his grown son in front of his ailing wife. Thank Merlin, he didn’t see me six months ago at the carnival soirée—I fear Azkaban may have left his delicate sensibilities too frail for such a scandal. Though, to be fair, I’m not convinced Aidan hasn’t told him already.

The parents had to be revived with tea, and for some reason, it came to them that I’d also be a suitable companion. Our very unusual five o'clock turned into a textbook visit to a Muggle-philean panopticon by the blue-blood delegation. It was so funny watching it all from the sidelines, hiding my smile behind a biscuit. It reminded me so much of my own family… in that sense, I envy Aidan a little — life’s been generous to him.

Though I still intend to resolve my parents’ memory charms before graduation, I must ask: would you consider attending the ceremony next year? To see the result of your investment in the flesh, if not to offer some human warmth. I would be very glad to see you.

Feeling highly pleased with myself,

Mercuria

Palavas‑les‑Flots Coast
France

29 November 2001

This family will be the death of me… Mr Occamy, do pure‑bloods possess some cultural trait that prevents them from speaking a normal language?

But let’s take it from the top. It’s difficult to think rationally in this state, but I’ll try. I was completely thrown off when Anar turned up in my private hideaway. I didn’t show it to Aidan just so anyone can wander in!

In short, Anar has effectively informed me that I’ll be spending the Christmas holidays in Nice. With them. Why? Because Clianta’s condition has worsened, they need a qualified healer capable of managing brief trances and energy loss. And since the professors praise me (apparently Monsieur Pinel has put in a word) and Aidan trusts me… Why not Stella? She’s already had the course on general care, Aidan adores her, and so does the family. Why on earth would they want me? Because—get this—Stella will be there as the fiancée and almost a member of the family (the engagement announcement is planned for Christmas). And me, your Mercuria… I’ll be playing the typical domestic helper, orphan without home or family, supposedly with nowhere else to go. Bloody shite.

I have nothing against Clianta—she’s a wonderful woman, granted a certain allowance for being pure-blooded and loyal to her husband. In a way, braver than the rest of her family, and certainly more resilient. I admire witches in general. And I will help her. But not because this… person “asked”. I made that clear. And I also made it clear that he must cease acting as though he’s the centre of this place, free to order other people’s lives as he did when he was head of the Hog’s trustee board and the Ministry’s éminence grise. Not for his sake would I lift a finger.

So, summarising: by his favour, I’ve lost my haven, the chance to return to Britain for a couple of weeks to deal with my family home, see friends (though not Valdorian, and I have no regrets there) and simply rest. The benefits: it counts as academy practice, Monsieur Pinel promised to pop in occasionally and said I may write to him with questions; a small wage (seven Galleons—though I declined, wanting to be a guest and not a servant); and the chance to observe pure‑bloods in their natural habitat. And the library. Aidan, damn him, knows exactly how to entice a healer.

Phew, making lists always calms me. And writing to you too (let’s forget about the summer, okay?). Perhaps I really ought to change my plans. The power and water have been shut off at my parents’ house, my friends are all wrapped up in their own lives, and in Nice, they want to see me every day, not just on Christmas Eve itself. Aidan said I could even bring the Kneazle (and I’d bet anything he’s just eager to see his father’s face when Crooks sprawls out across their regal dark green sofa in the sitting room).

What are your plans for Christmas, Mr Occamy? I’ve already conceived a gift for you. And don’t try to wriggle out—I’ll enchant the parcel to make it impossible to return.

There’s so much more I want to write, but I’ll pace myself—otherwise you’ll tire of me. A week’s delay seems reasonable?

Yours,

Mercuria

Hogwarts Castle
Magical Britain

2 December 2001

Greetings from home, Mr Occamy!

Yes, I know I promised not to write for a week, but I simply cannot hold in this news any longer: I have perfected the memory‑awakening potion!

Professor McGonagall sent me a birthday card, I wrote back, and one thing led to another — we struck up a correspondence. She invited me to spend Christmas at Hogwarts, but, as I recall, it’s rather melancholy at that time of year, and the staff atmosphere was rather strained a year and a half ago (imagine that!). In some ways, I have to thank Anar for providing a perfectly acceptable excuse. So I’ve arranged a Port-key for a weekend, with a consultation with Professor Snape’s portrait. Oh, he was exceedingly forthright, describing how I had gone wrong at nearly every stage of the experiment, and lamenting my sponsor’s lack of foresight. Makes one wonder who funded him originally (I’d wager a Death Eater of old), so let him keep his opinions to himself… In that respect, I suspect we share more in common than he realises. In any case, the crucial bit is: he helped me nail the potion. It turned out I needed to balance the asphodel with verbena. I have no clue where he sourced the verbena—the healer’s compendium gives no hint of its stabilising properties.

Yet the potion remains experimentally unproven, and a prolonged enchanted life still requires proper mental assessment and charm application. Ideally, it’s safer to lull subjects into sleep immediately after taking the potion, so that their mind awakens in sync with their body, leaving the time under amnesia feeling like a dream. There’s still so much work to be done…

I’m absolutely thrilled to have achieved this first significant breakthrough. You simply cannot imagine.

Still quite a decent potioneer,

Mercuria

Avignon Archives
France

17 December 2001

Good afternoon, Mr Occamy,

Forgive me, as today’s letter contains no personal news. It’s the end of term, and I’m rushing between hospital wards, the library, and attempting to live a life (though I rarely manage the latter). I’ve already completed all the theoretical modules (this time, there are no post-Christmas exams) and have been closing off each of the practicals as I go. All that remains now is to prepare for holiday work and the following certification assessment. Merlin, if only you knew how anxious I am. Not everyone here intends to take the early Healer exams; many are focusing on personal projects and see no need to rush. Which means, of course, that those of us who do will be scrutinised twice as harshly. But you believe I’ll manage, don’t you?

I’ve started reading recent research to stay abreast of developments in the medical community. The volume of information is growing so rapidly … Even though magical publishing significantly lags behind the Muggle world, there’s still an overwhelming amount to read (far more than I can truly digest). Though it’s all worth it when you discover a meaningful theory. Listen to this: in the early 1990s, the quality of Unforgivable therapy here improved dramatically, thanks in part to a wave of British emigration after the First Wizarding War. Post-Cruciatus symptoms have been particularly well studied, including increased neural excitability, disrupted chemical balance in the brain, and a tendency to negativization of events. It turns out that victims of the curse also suffered magical core disruption, as though the caster’s magic ‘infected’ them and blocked their creative energy. Hence, the inability to cast higher light magic, heightened sensitivity to dark influences, worsening self-perception, and so on. Calming balms and potions for dreamless sleep (ironically, the go-to treatments at St Mungo’s) are now considered contraindicated. Instead, the therapy targets the mind with precision, utilises memory-replacement illusions, and introduces ‘flexible’ Occlumency, which helps people process pain more gently.

Imperius cases are entirely a different matter. Those who have experienced cognitive subjugation often report a loss of volition—even routine decisions become overwhelming, let alone major ones. We once saw a returning patient who had a panic attack over choosing a broomstick. These cases are prescribed almost homoeopathic doses of calming draughts (that’s a very, very high dilution of the active ingredient—considered pseudoscience in the civilised world, but it works with potions, since nearly every brew we use is essentially a concentrate). They’re also taught ‘rigid’ Occlumency. In severe instances, we resort to artefacts that stabilise the magical core, as another intriguing theory holds that mental fluctuations affect magic, and vice versa. For example, destabilised magic during a surge may actually injure the mind, as seen in Obscurials.

Endlessly fascinating, isn’t it? It’s a brilliant profession. I’m utterly pleased to be in a field that not only permits continual learning but demands it. I now feel far less sceptical about the idea of assisting at Ma Aidan’s family estate. Though I should warn you: in future, I won’t be able to share any details about the treatment or my work there—I’ll be signing a confidentiality agreement before Christmas. Only Monsieur Pinel is allowed to supervise my notes. And I doubt you’re particularly interested in these Healer musings anyway… By the way, Mr Occamy, what is it you do for a living, besides philanthropy?

Wishing you a successful final week before Christmas!

Yours,

Mercuria

A villa on the Côte d’Azur
Nice, France

24 December 2001

Merry Christmas, Mr Occamy!

May peace and harmony always reign in your home, may your endeavours flourish, and may illness steer clear of your door. Honestly, I’m at a loss for words, but I truly wish you nothing but the best.

I’m already at Aidan’s, and the atmosphere here is nothing at all like what I imagined of pure‑blood society… It’s as though, with the return of the head of the family, life has also returned to these walls. One may dismiss the idea of ‘ancestral magic’ as merely the power of a strong wizard upholding custom, but it all fades when you touch the underside, when you enter the inner circle. Can you believe it? I’m considered part of it…

For the past two days, Cliante has been taking care of me: walking together along the stony beach, painting in the large sitting room, sometimes in the sleepy garden. I’ve finally had a moment to breathe after the whirlwind of the academy, yet I can’t forget why I’m here. Thankfully, she’s doing well—I’m simply ensuring she follows her treatment and takes her potions, and each evening we practise a candle‑breathing meditation together to stabilise the magical core.

Aidan and Stella are out in town, catching up on the time when she wasn’t permitted to leave campus. Crooks is chasing seagulls; they’re incredibly plump here. And Anar… well, I glimpsed him briefly last night after our meditation, but otherwise he seems determined to avoid me. It hurts, you know: if I can suppress my resentment, why can’t a grown man? Does bearing the Healer’s robe and winning the household’s favour not offset my blood status?

I’ve prepared gifts for you and the hosts. I hope the gloves fit; the resizing charms were rather tricky and kept clashing with the thermoregulation enchantments. I didn’t know your monogram, so I embroidered an occamy instead.

For Aidan—a basic self‑help compendium, useful if I’m ever not around. For Stella, an enchanted headband, she’ll surely need it during wound-care rotations, when one ends up knee‑deep in blood and Merlin knows what else. For Cliante and Anar—some classical vinyl records and a book on contemporary art. I doubt I got it right, of course…

They’re hosting a Christmas soirée at the villa tomorrow, please send me patience. And… well, I won’t say no to your advice: scarlet or indigo? (I start to forget what your handwriting looks like.)

Nearly a Healer in earnest,

Mercuria

25 December 2001

Mr Occamy,

What was that? Are you showing off your ability to remove a non-return charm from a parcel? Or have I managed to upset you again somehow? Or did the gift simply not please you? I do understand it’s hardly the height of luxury, and you're used to far more valuable things, but I… well, never mind. It was very disheartening to find, first thing in the morning, the parcel I’d prepared for you sitting on top of the one from Anar under the tree. And without the letter I enclosed, let alone any note in return. Honestly, it would’ve been better if you’d just burned it. At least, to spare the owl of flying back and forth with that weight, if my tangled emotions mean nothing to you.

For the record: I chose scarlet.

Mercuria