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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 5 years ago

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Moonlight Chapter 25: Osâmbritul

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina Rated for Mature Audiences Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content Chapter 25/26

Moonlight Masterpost+

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Chapter Twenty-six+ >>

Draco Malfoy sat rigidly in the chair across from Severus’s desk, silently glaring at the top of the professor’s head. Severus kept the boy waiting on purpose while he completed his notes from Magick Moste Evile, both to give himself time to control his unwieldy temper, and in the hopes that Draco might be made uncomfortable enough by the pregnant silence to betray something. Draco’s pointed face was paler than usual, punctuated by dark smudges under his eyes. Though he draped himself across the chair in an imitation of his incarcerated father, Severus recognized the all-too-familiar signs of the insomnia that was undoubtedly plaguing his protégée. In spite of his promise to Narcissa that he would do all in his power to protect and aid her son in his impossible mission, he had, since the beginning of term, accomplished nothing on that front. The few forays he had made at gaining Draco’s confidence had been sullenly rebuffed; and even his attempts at investigation had brought nothing to light.

Notes completed, Severus slowly closed the book and slid the brown package that had caused today’s disaster across the top of his desk. With deliberate care he unwrapped it before Draco’s eyes, observing the boy for any minute twitch. He was certain that Draco was responsible for this unforgivably sloppy assassination attempt, but he felt a twinge of pride at the way the boy maintained his impassively angry facade, even when the gleaming opal necklace lay completely exposed before him.

“I believe you know what this is, Draco,” Severus said, searching Draco’s face while the boy scrupulously avoided his eyes.

“An early Christmas present, sir?” Draco retorted.

“Detention. Wednesday night. I will not take cheek from you.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s a cursed necklace from Borgin and Burkes and it almost killed that Gryffindor cow, Katie Bell. Everybody in school knows that by now. What’s it got to do with me?”

“You know very well what it has to do with you. If this is your brilliant plan to assassinate one of the greatest wizards in the world, I have truly failed you as a teacher.”

Draco flushed at the rebuke and glared at his mentor. “Sometimes I think Aunt Bella might be right about you, sir. How can you be on the Dark Lord’s side and still call Dumbledore great?”

“I realize you are far too young to grasp this concept, but only fools underestimate their enemies. Unfortunately, at the rate you are going, I doubt you will will live long enough to gain that wisdom.”

“I had nothing to do with it!” Draco insisted. “I wasn’t even in Hogsmeade today, ask Professor McGonagall. And as for the necklace, why don’t you talk to Cassie Borgin about it? It came from her uncle’s shop. She’s more likely to have planted it than me.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing a member of your own house?”

Draco retreated and tried to cover his misstep with more anger. “No. I’m only saying that it could have been anybody.”

“Go back to the common room and stay there for the rest of the night. If I hear of you leaving, you will spend enough time in detention to make any other tasks impossible.”

“Yes, sir,” Draco spat, pushing himself noisily out of the chair.

“And send Miss Borgin here when you see her.”

Draco slammed the office door in answer and Severus pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. While Draco was firmly on the path to becoming an angry young man, he was still young enough to be a scared boy as well. It was a dangerous combination, and Severus was beginning to doubt that he would uncover Draco’s plans before the boy managed to kill someone—or himself.

The last grain of black sand in the top of the hourglass on his desk trickled down onto the gleaming heap below, and Severus irritably tore his mind away from the innumerable problems plaguing it at the moment. The antidote he was brewing for Miss Bell hissed and foamed on his private workbench. It was the perfect slate blue color when he went to check its progress, and he began adding bits of unicorn horn, stirring laboriously after each addition to ensure complete emulsification. He did not actually expect this potion to revive her; but he believed it would not hurt her either. Avoiding the tedious trouble of transporting her to St. Mungo’s and dealing with her potentially irrational parents was well worth the attempt.

He had just finished adding the unicorn horn when Miss Borgin’s cautious knock announced her.

“Enter,” he said, returning to his desk and flipping the hourglass.

The door opened quietly to admit Cassandra Borgin, a plain slip of a girl with mousey, but neatly plaited, hair and a smattering of freckles across her upturned nose.

“Draco said you wanted to see me sir?” she said meekly, taking the chair that Draco had vacated without any other indication of nerves. The amount of time she’d spent in detention during her fifth year as a result of her daring to be the lone Slytherin to join Dumbledore’s Army had done much to cure her fear of her Head of House. And the gumption she had displayed by her willingness to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts by any means—even those illicitly provided by Harry Potter—had caused Severus to reexamine her overlooked potential.

“Miss Borgin, am I correct in assuming that you, like the rest of the school, are privy to the details of Miss Bell’s injury?”

“Yes sir. Everyone’s saying that she was cursed by a necklace from Uncle Orestes’s shop.” Her eyes flitted over the opals on his desk and she added, “That necklace, in fact.”

“Do you know anything about this?”

“Sir, the last time I was in this office you warned me not to be caught making trouble again. My memory is not so short that I would be taking chances. Besides, what do I have against Katie Bell? I don’t even like Quidditch.”

“But you were in Hogsmeade today, were you not?”

“Yes, sir. I was with Morgana Mulciber and Freya Flint the entire time.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No, sir. We went to Honeydukes and Madam Puddifoot’s today. We missed the whole thing.”

He steepled his fingers and studied her in silence, and she returned his gaze with a calm, open one. Only the constant clasping and unclasping of her hands betrayed her discomfort, but it was enough to prompt him to continue the interrogation.

“I should think that this unfortunate event will put your uncle under some inconvenient scrutiny.”

“He’s dealt with such things before. Luckily the shop can’t be held responsible for damage done by items after they are sold.”

“How fortunate.” Her busy hands were still—that must not have been her worry. Time to try another direction. “But your uncle is a canny man of business.”

“Yes, sir. He is.”

“From all reports, you are keeping pace with your classwork. Do you still make time for your music, or has that become a casualty of the demands of N.E.W.T preparation?”

Her hands started clasping and unclasping again—good. “I…I still play, sir,”

“And when you play, you must be so enraptured by the music that you are oblivious to whatever conversations may be occurring in the Common Room at the same time.”

“I…I don’t know, sir.”

“Because if you were to happen to overhear anything that I might find interesting I would be most disappointed if you failed to share it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

“See that you do. I should hate to see our House pulled down by its own members.”

She was bursting to ask him something—he could see it in her eyes—but he did not attempt to dip into her mind to discover what it was. He would be shocked if she were not at least nominally versed in the arts of Legilimency and Occlumency. Better to have her think she could trust him, and come to him with the information he desired of her own volition.

“I understand, sir.”

“I expect that you do. You may go.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He gave his attention to his book, and he kept his smirk to himself when she paused at the door and turned back to him.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Miss Borgin?”

“I’m not sure if this would at all interest you, but Draco Malfoy has been acting, well, strange since term started.”

“How so?”

“It’s hard to explain…he hasn’t been studying like he used to. I mean, he always used to act like he didn’t have to try to get good marks and like he owned Hogwarts, but he also was always the last one to pack up his books and leave the Common Room at night. I’ve barely seen him open a book this term. At least, not one for class.”

“Miss Borgin, this is exactly the sort of interesting information I wished to hear.”

She nodded once and said firmly, “If I hear anymore, I’ll be sure to pass it on, sir. And I won’t get caught.”

“I would expect no less from you, Miss Borgin. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Cassandra shut the door softly behind her and Severus sat back in his chair, rubbing his aching temples. The worm of conscience turned in the back of his mind, calling into question whether it was justifiable to set a student to spy on her own housemates, but he pushed it away. There were simply too many lives at stake to neglect any possible advantage. He glanced at the hourglass; another twenty minutes before the antidote would be ready. With a sigh of resignation, he pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket, finding the message from Miranda that he had been dreading all day.

WISH ME LUCK the mosaic spelled out. Luck indeed. He wished she’d been free to come back with him after the disaster in the caves, or better, that she had never gone to Romania in the first place.

YOU DO NOT REQUIRE LUCK YOU REQUIRE SKILL WHICH YOU HAVE he sent.

The tiny pieces of cut stone rearranged themselves immediately with a reply; she must have been waiting for him.

I WISH YOU WERE HERE THE FEASTING AND DANCING EARLIER WERE TO DIE FOR AND THERE IS GOING TO BE A PROCESSION TO SEE CATALINA AND ME OFF TO THE LAND OF THE IELE

His stomach twisted uncomfortably and he wondered if he would ever become accustomed to Miranda’s penchant for plunging headlong into danger.

IF I HAD MY WISH YOU WOULD BE HERE RATHER THAN ON A RECKLESSLY DANGEROUS MISSION IN ROMANIA

He could almost hear her roll her eyes in her reply.

BECAUSE THE UK IS SO SAFE AT THE MOMENT DONT FRET I WILL BE BACK THERE WITHIN THE WEEK

SEE THAT YOU ARE OR I WILL COME LOOKING FOR YOU

GOOD

He slid the case back into his pocket and watched the final minutes of sand pouring down through the hourglass. The memory of their parting embrace crashed over him so strongly that he swore he could feel her warm arms wrapped around his neck. And what if that were the last embrace allotted to them?

With an Herculean effort, he pushed this useless sentiment to the back of his mind, to keep his tattered conscience company. He bottled Miss Bell’s potion with a steady hand, and headed to the hospital wing with a heavy heart.

Merlin, he was ready for this whole bloody business to be over.

*****

The midnight procession twisted along the dirt road, stretching through the forest all the way back to the church in the Merry Cemetery from which they had set forth some time ago. Miranda and Catalina were near the front, just behind the icon bearers and the priest, and just before Ileana Lupul, Nicolae Dragnea, and Charlie Weasley. It seemed as though the entire population of magical folk had descended on Săpânța to see the resolution of the long trial. Miranda and Charlie in their dress cloaks were plain in comparison to the sea of colorful embroidery and dyed wool around them. The choir chanted hymns and prayers as they made their way through the chilly autumn night, and Miranda marveled once again at the casual way that the Statute of Secrecy was ignored. The non-magical people of Săpânța had turned out in support of their magical brethren, and Miranda was sure that their good will would do as much as anything else to bring the captive children home safely.

The moon had almost reached her zenith when the clerics and laymen ahead of the champions fanned out around a dusty fork in the road. The trees surrounding them were already naked, and their leafless branches reached out like gnarled fingers towards the little humans below. Doamnă Lupul led Miranda and Catalina forward, and the rest of the procession began to crowd in untidy clusters, whispering and attempting vainly to see the main event.

Miranda and Catalina knelt before the priest, who blessed them both in a voice that rumbled from the depths of the earth. Whether it was from the cold, or the magic, or the excitement; or all of this combined, Miranda shivered deliciously. She had been waiting for this moment since the beginning of the year, and all of her work was about to come to fruition. But no—she was about to step into another world altogether. She had been waiting for this moment for her entire life.

“{The time has come.}” Doamnă Lupul said as the women rose to their feet. “{Remember, you must gather the children and return to us by noon, or you will all be trapped in the Iele’s realm.}”

A ray of moonlight pierced through the trees, so bright and thick Miranda was sure that, if she touched it, she could break a piece of it off to hold in her hands. It shot down into the road, throwing bits of dirt into the air as it plunged into the dry earth. Doamnă Lupul stepped forward, shaking back her wolfskin cloak and rolling up the sleeves of her finely woven blouse. With a manic gleam in her eye, she thrust her hands into the moonbeam, and sucked in her breath through gritted teeth. Her booted feet dug into the ground as she forced her hands apart, tearing open a human-sized gash in the air itself. Task completed, she stepped back with her hands extended, and a thick, black liquid oozed off them, dripping onto the ground with an unappealing plop. Nicolae hurried forward, bearing a bowl of water that the Cezara might cleanse her hands of the primordial glop. The moon continued its celestial arc, and a jagged, pulsating rip remained behind for the adventuresses to pass through.

“{God be with you,}” panted Doamnă Lupul, winded from her effort.

Miranda and Catalina exchanged a glance, gathered their offerings for the Iele, and entered the ragged door together.

*****

The world on the other side of the crossroads was flooded by an unnerving, monotonous steel-blue light that emanated from nowhere that Miranda could ascertain. The usual division of land and sky was likewise absent. The ground upon which they stood blurred into the distance, but no comforting curve denoted the horizon. A tangled mass of brambles covered the covered the ground before them, save for a narrow path that twisted through the uninviting mess to a white castle gleaming in the distance. The air was hot and sticky, and within minutes both Miranda and Catalina had stripped off their cloaks and rolled up their sleeves.

“{That must be the place, yes?}” Miranda said, eyeing the elusive structure that wavered in the heat.

“{It must be,}” Catalina agreed, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand and studying the empty sky above them. “{There are no stars. How will we know the time?}”

“{We’ll just have to go as fast as we can.}”

This was easier said than done. The heat hampered their progress, and they were soon gasping for air even at a walking pace. Miranda’s clothing stuck to her sweaty body, chafing her skin and fraying her temper. As they approached, the castle seemed to recede into the distance rather than become any closer. Miranda wondered if the whole thing were a mirage and they had missed some important point. What if there were some trick or riddle that they needed to understand in order to gain entrance to the Iele’s home? What if it were like in a fairy story where the unappealing bramble actually held the treasure they sought? Would they wonder forever here in this purgatory and never reach either the castle or their home?

All at once, the castle was upon them. Miranda had the wild thought that she and Catalina had been walking in place and the castle had moved instead. Up close, the building was iridescent rather than white. Its walls were formed from dragonfly wings, woven tightly together, and they, like the doorway between the worlds, pulsed like a giant, disembodied organ. As the women approached, the middle of the thing peeled open with a wet, slurping sound, and Miranda was suddenly very thankful that her Papa had insisted she learn to overcome her squeamishness at an early age. Somehow she doubted that the Iele would look favorably on guests that vomited at the sight of their storied home.

The churning in Miranda’s stomach only lasted long enough for she and Catalina to enter the forbidding place. Inside the castle was a lush forest, as cool and green as any earthy paradise. A rainbow of birds played among the branches, and a low, enchanting music washed over the enclosure. The base of each tree was guarded by a burly, jackal-headed man. They stood at silent attention, watching the intruders with dull, disinterested eyes.

“{What do we do now?}” Miranda whispered.

“{We wait. They will come to us,}” Catalina replied.

These words had barely left Catalina’s lips when out of the forest floated a marvel of a woman; so painfully beautiful that it hurt to look at her. Like the Sânziene, her dark hair and her simple white garment flowed out around her as though she were drifting in water. Her feet hovered above the forest floor, and she smiled graciously at the human women with pointed teeth. Miranda’s neck prickled in warning, and she was sure that this creature was far more dangerous than her brawny guards.

When the Iele did not speak, Miranda and Catalina knelt as one, spreading their offerings before the fairy woman; the gilded cage with the sorrowful birds of paradise, the bouquet of flowers from the Sânziene’s mountaintop, and the bottle of water from the river beneath the One Wood Church. The Iele waved her hand indifferently over the treasure, vanishing them with a lack of ceremony that made Miranda bristle. With barely a gesture inviting them to follow, the Iele turned and floated back into the forest, leaving the women to scramble clumsily after her.

The forest was so thick that they had to go single file through it; hurrying after the Iele until Miranda lost all sense of direction. The further they went, the more Miranda’s neck pricked her, and her hands started sweating despite the cool. At last the forest path opened into a wide clearing beneath an undulating dome of dragonfly wings. A little pond sat in the center of the deserted place, ringed with laceflowers and lilies of the valley. The Iele led them up to the edge of the rippling water, and vanished without ever saying a word.

“{I don’t understand,}” Miranda said, frustration creeping into her voice.

“{Look,}” Catalina said grimly, pointing to the pond where twenty silver fish darted beneath the surface of the water. “{The fish are the children.}”

Miranda blew out her breath. “{I take it this is what the Changeover Potion is for?}”

“{No. We will give them that at the doorway between the worlds.}”

“{But how do we change them back into children? I think their parents might object to having them come home in this condition.}”

“{You brought your net, yes?}” Catalina was already pulling her own unicorn hair net from a pocket.

“{I did.}”

“{We will each catch half of them, and pull them out together. Vasile said that should break part of the spell.}”

“{Should break it?}” Miranda circled to the opposite side of the pond, and retrieved her own net from a hook on her belt.

“{Just fish,}” Catalina ordered tersely. “{We’re wasting time.}”

Miranda crouched down amid the beautiful, deadly flowers decorating the shore of the pond and cast her net.

She did not like this. She did not like it at all.

*****

Severus was in a foul temper when he landed at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries early Sunday morning. Minerva had bestowed him with the unenviable task of escorting the still unconscious Katie Bell thither for further treatment. As they spun into the triage station by way of the portkey from the Hogwarts hospital wing, a tall woman in Healer’s robes and a black headscarf was in place to catch Miss Bell and lay her on a waiting bed. By the time Severus’s head had stopped spinning, the Healer was briskly examining her new patient.

“Peace be upon you, Professor Severus,” she said as she gently probed and prodded.

“That is unlikely to happen anytime soon, Healer A’isha,” he replied in a voice scratchy from lack of sleep.

As usual, she was unfazed by his lack of civility. “Has there been any change in her condition?”

“No. Not since she was brought to the hospital wing yesterday.”

“What have you…”

“Katie!”

A shrill cry interrupted the Healer, and Severus turned to see a bull of a woman barreling into the room with a spindly man on her heels. Severus barely had time to brace himself before Mrs Bell accosted him, baying for blood and explanations.

“Let me see her!” Mrs Bell tried unsuccessfully to push past Severus. “How did this happen? What are you going to do about it? Who is responsible?”

“Mrs Bell,” Severus said, breaking her name into several unappealing syllables in order to gain her attention. “We have no further information than was owled to you this morning. It would be best for you and Mr Bell to wait in the lobby until you are called.”

“Like hell we will,” Mrs Bell growled.

“Breathe, Greta,” Mr Bell said, laying a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let the people do their jobs.”

Mrs Bell shook off her husband’s hand “That’s my baby! And why are you here instead of Professor McGonagall?”

Merlin preserve him from irrational parents. “Professor McGonagall’s duties as deputy headmistress prevent her from leaving school grounds during Headmaster Dumbledore’s absence,” Severus explained tersely.

“Dumbledore’s not even there? With You Know Who gadding about? No wonder students are getting cursed! Do you even care what happens to them? These are our children that we trusted you to protect!”

“I assure you, madam, we are doing everything within our power to protect them.”

“Well it’s not working, is it?”

“Considering your daughter’s devotion to Quidditch, I would think that you are no stranger to her being injured. Fortunately, Miss Bell is possessed of a remarkably thick skull.”

Mrs Bell went white with rage. “You’re head of Slytherin house, aren’t you? I’d bet my broomstick that one of your students knows all about this.”

How dare she? Severus opened his mouth to give the avenging harpy the set down of her life, but Healer A’isha intervened, leaving Katie’s side to slip between the warring pair.

“Good morning, I am Healer A’isha Shafiq. You are Miss Bell’s mother, am I correct?” she said in a stern, but pleasant tone.

“Yes, I am, Healer Shafiq.” Mrs Bell drew herself up to her full height, but her lower lip was quivering dangerously. Severus assumed that fear of sending Mrs Bell into further hysterics was the only thing that kept Healer A’isha from launching into one of her passionate explanations regarding proper forms of address. Or perhaps she had finally mellowed enough to accept British niceties without protest.

“Then you must be eager for answers, as are we all. I requested Professor Snape accompany your daughter himself. He is an expert in curses…”

“I’m sure he is,” Mrs Bell spat.

“Greta!” Mr Bell cajoled.

“…and I wish to speak to him about what he has attempted thus far,” Healer A’isha continued as though the others had not spoken. “Perhaps you would both be so good as to wait in the lobby or the cafeteria while I make my preliminary examination and settle your daughter in a room. Then I will be able to give you more information than I can at the present time.”

Mrs Bell wavered, tears glistening in her eyes. Mr Bell took her by the arm and she allowed him to start to lead her away, but then she yanked her arm out of his grasp again and turned on the potions master.

“You brought her here by portkey, didn’t you?” she demanded.

“Yes, Mrs Bell. We have a portkey in the hospital wing at Hogwarts that comes directly to triage,” Severus said impatiently.

“Traveling by portkey is dangerous for an injured person!” she all but shrieked. “You probably hurt her even worse!”

“Mrs Bell,” Healer A’isha said sharply, “while you are correct that traveling by portkey is unadvised in the case of broken bones or certain internal injuries, it is perfectly harmless in your daughter’s case. She has not been physically injured. Indeed, it is much better that the professor brought her in this way, rather than lose precious time taking her all the way outside the wards at Hogwarts to Apparate her here. Surely you agree that time is of the essence.”

“I…” Mrs Bell’s voice trailed off and tears started rolling over her cheeks.

“It’s not a Quidditch injury, Greta,” Mr Bell said soothingly. “Why don’t we go upstairs and get a cup of tea.”

“I don’t want any tea,” Mrs Bell protested.

“I know, but they’re terribly slow in the cafeteria, and by the time we’ve had a cuppa, the Healer will be able to tell us something about Katie.”

Mrs Bell eyed Healer A’isha suspiciously.

“I will take good care of your daughter, Mrs Bell. I promise.” Healer A’isha said calmly.

Mrs Bell’s face crumbled as she gave way to tears, and she allowed her husband to lead her off in search of tea—or perhaps something more bracing. Healer A’isha turned back to her patient and resumed her examination as though nothing had happened.

“Merlin, Healer A’isha, how do you stand it?” Severus muttered when the Bells were out of sight.

“It happens all the time, Professor Severus. What good does it do to let fly my temper when I am strong enough to curb it?” she replied. “Now tell me everything you can about this child and the curse.”

*****

“Come on, little guy, you’re the last one,” Miranda coaxed. Her net was full save for one shy straggler who kept darting away from his captured brethren. Catalina was sitting on her heels, waiting impatiently on the other shore, and all of Miranda’s limbs were so stiff that she doubted she would be able to stand up, even when she managed to catch the stray fish.

“{Are you finished yet?}” Catalina demanded, her voice tired and sharp.

Miranda ignored her. “Come on….Gotcha!” With a flick of her wrist, the net scooped up the final changeling. “{I am now. Ready?}”

Catalina shook herself and nodded. “{And…pull!}”

The exhausted pair heaved their nets out of the water together. At first, Miranda’s net lay on the shore, a shining, dripping mass of flopping silver fish. Her mind started racing in panic, but in the space of a blink she was granted a minor miracle. Before her eyes, the net pulled itself into a long rope, and each fish morphed into a solemn faced child, ranging from grammar school age to near adulthood. One by one, the children took hold of the rope and stared at her with bland, impassive faces.

When they did not bolt, she picked up the end of the rope and said, “{This way, little ones.}”

They followed her passively around the pond to Catalina and her matching brood. As Miranda reached her rival’s side, she could see that the younger witch’s face was wet with tears.

“{Gabi!}” Catalina breathed, her eyes riveted on the lanky boy at the head of Miranda’s group. He did not give any indication that he recognized his sister, he merely stared straight ahead, lost in a dream-like trance.

“{We’d better get going,}” Miranda said quietly. “{It’s a long way back.}”

*****

By the time they reached the path through the brambles, Miranda had reached the giddy stage of exhaustion. She had no idea how long they had been in this inhospitable place, but she had slept little before she and Catalina had departed on this final quest. She was fairly confident that they were within their time limit, and she wondered if Catalina would insist on a farcical duel when they returned to the crossroads. God willing, they could call the thing a draw. Perhaps, if Vasile backed them, they would stand a chance of settling matters like reasonable adults.

The trek from the castle to the door between the worlds seemed even hotter and longer than before. Miranda was openly panting by the time they reached the ugly rip, but the children tromped along as placidly as Madeline and her schoolmates strolling through the streets of Paris.

“{The potion,}” Catalina wheezed when they came to a halt at last.

“{I think you should do the honors,}” Miranda said with a tired smile.

She pulled a dark bottle and a metal cup from her bag, and handed them both to her comrade. Catalina’s eyes were shining as she poured the first measure of amber liquid from the bottle. She offered the cup to her brother, but he did not seem to notice the libation. With a grunt of frustration, she held the cup to his lips, helping him drink as though he were a small child. The first drops of the potion dribbled over his chin, but then he trembled, grasped the cup, and drank deep.

“{Catina?}” he asked, blinking his soft brown eyes at his sister.

She pulled him into a fierce embrace, nearly dropping the bottle. “{We’re going home.}”

Miranda’s throat was tight as she watched Catalina go down the lines, offering the potion to each enchanted child. One by one they blinked awake and, while they did not all recognize their liberator, one reassuring nod from Gabi was all that was needed to keep them in their docile lines. A haze of goodwill rushed through Miranda’s body, turning her bones to jelly. She let herself sink to the ground to rest and savor the moment.

A howl that would have put the Hound of Baskervilles to shame shattered the peace of the little band. The children who had already received the potion huddled around Gabi, wide-eyed with terror. Miranda shot to her feet, whirling to face the source of the harrowing cry. A pack of the jackel-headed guards was advancing on them, axes drawn.

“{Hold this,}” she said, handing her rope to Gabi and drawing her pistol.

“{What is it?}” Catalina asked as she distributed the potion to the final child. “{My God…}” She drew her wand, but Miranda waved her off.

“{No. You get the children out of here. I’ll hold them off.}”

“{But you’ll be trapped here!}”

“{No I won’t. I’ll take care of these mongrels and be right behind you. I have excellent timing.}”

“{No you don’t!}”

“{It has to be done. Goodbye Catalina.}” Miranda fumbled in a pocket, searching for her vials of Strengthening Solution.

“{But if I go back alone, Doamnă Lupul will back Voldemort!}” Catalina’s bluster ended with a broken crack.

“{I don’t give a shit about that right now. Just get those children home,}” Miranda replied firmly.

She tossed down one more vial than was prudent and started towards their pursuers at as quick a pace as the heat would allow. The potions and the adrenaline blended into a heady cocktail of berserker rage, and she leveled her pistol at the fiends. They fanned out into ranks as they cleared the bramble patch, and the instant the creatures were in range, Miranda started putting bullets between their eyes. Until the ammunition ran out, she brought them down in rapid succession. Apparently the things possessed no more brains than clay pigeons, for the ones behind trod over their fallen brothers with no concern for themselves.

“At least they’re stupid,” she muttered to herself as she spent her last bullet. She whipped out her wand, planted her feet, and started hexing for her life. “Sectumsempra!”

The curses ripped through the lines, and the jackel-men yelped as their flesh exploded. But, though not one of them made a move to protect himself, the unending stream started to gain on her. She backed away slowly, loathe to give up any ground. As sweat stung her eyes, she risked a glance over her shoulder, hoping that Catalina and the others would be gone, and that she might make a break for freedom.

They were gone. As was the jagged door. All that remained was an endless swath of steel-blue wasteland, an infinite army of drones, and her.

She flew at her enemies like a demon. No sense in making the inevitable easy.

*****

Catalina and Gabi emerged from the pathway between the worlds to a crisp, October day under a cloudless sky. Most of the procession was either still intact, or had reformed, waiting in worried, lethargic groups. As the first child came through, they roused themselves from their torpor into a flurry of chaotic motion, engulfing the bewildered foundlings and pulling them away to be petted and marveled at. Catalina was in an agony of anxiety as she watched the door between the worlds pulse, but the mass of humanity had caught her as well. Before she could start screaming, her father’s hand plucked her out of the crush, pulling her into the shelter of a poplar tree where Doamnă Lupul sat, calmly surveying the reunions, and Charlie paced in nervous agitation.

“{My, Catina! You’ve done it!”} Nicolae exalted. His arm was around Gabi’s shoulders, and his son smiled faintly from father to sister, as though he were still half asleep.

“{Where’s Miranda?}” Charlie demanded.

Catalina grabbed Charlie’s arm. “{She stayed behind. We were attacked and she stayed behind so that we could escape. We have to go back for her!}”

She dragged Charlie through the crowd, barely registering her father’s shout of protest. Her hand was inside the gateway as the sun reached the pinnacle of the sky. A blinding ray of light shot down into the earth, singeing her fingers. With a sharp cry, she jerked her hand away, cradling it to her chest. Tears blurred her vision, but she could tell, even before the sunbeam had dissipated, that it was too late. The door was gone.

“{No!}” Catalina’s strangled cry was lost in the riot of joyful conversation around her.

Vasile appeared, moving through the well-wishers and taking Catalina’s throbbing hand in his. He chanted a healing incantation as he rubbed his fingers lightly over her skin.

“{I take it our American friend is lost?}” he said when he finished his work.

Catalina nodded numbly. “{The Iele sent their guard after us and she fought them. We have to go back for her.}”

“{I’m sorry, Catalina, but that is impossible. It will be another year before we could even hope to reach her.}”

In the midst of the joy around her, Catalina felt like she had a millstone around her neck. Her limbs were like lead and she hardly noticed that Charlie now had her by the arm and was leading her to sit on an unoccupied tree stump. The midday sun beat down on her, a silent, accusing witness to her failure. The events in the other world played through her mind in a sick pantomime. She struggled for another answer, but was at a loss to think what else she might have done. If Miranda had not challenged the căpcăuns, they all would have been recaptured or killed.

Merciful God. What was Professor Snape going to say?

“{Catalina, well done,}” Doamnă Lupul said, dragging the young witch out of her mire of regrets.

“{Thank you,}” Catalina replied automatically. “{But Miranda should be here too.}”

“{Yes. We are sorry to have lost her.}” The Cezara’s voice was low and brittle. “{She will be not forgotten.}”

“{It is truly a blow for your cause, Domnul Weasley.}” Nicolae’s tone was just shy of mocking. As he stood before his daughter, with his son at his side, he looked like a conqueror awaiting his laurel wreath.

“{Am I the victor, then?}” Catalina asked, a spark of inspiration igniting in her darkened thoughts.

“{Who else has brought the children home?}” Doamnă Lupul replied.

Catalina licked her dry lips and lifted her eyes to the Cezara’s. “{Miranda and I have been working together since the day on the mountain. If she had not sacrificed herself today, we would not have escaped. Her cause is now mine. We will back the Order.}”

“Hear, hear,” Charlie said, clapping Catalina on the back.

“{How dare you!}” Nicolae growled, taking a step towards the weary champion.

“{Nicú,}” Doamnă Lupul warned. “{Your son is tired. Take him home.}”

The defeated boyar rounded on the Cezara, but he did not dare to argue.

“{You planned this, didn’t you?}” he spat.

“{Domnul Weasley, be so good as to take this letter to Albus and assure him of our support.}” She placed a roll of parchment into Charlie’s waiting hand, and turned to Nicolae with a wolfish smile. "{Nicú, I am very well pleased with your daughter. And I think that Vera would have been pleased, also.}”

The mention of his late wife’s name knocked the wind out of Nicolae, and he sagged like an empty sail. Gabi, suddenly more alert than Catalina had yet seen him, began looking around eagerly, searching for his mother’s face.

“{Father,}” Gabi ventured, when he could not find the one he sought, “{where is mother?}”

Nicolae avoided his son’s question and ordered brokenly, “{Come, Catalina. We’re going home.}”

“{No, father,}” Catalina objected quietly.

“{Catina?}” Gabi’s frightened voice finally roused Catalina. She dragged herself up from her seat, and went to embrace her brother.

“{Don’t worry Gabi, I’ll be back soon, I promise.}”

“{And where do you think you are going?}” Nicolae demanded.

Catalina looked at her father, her heart weighted down with the sorrowful knowledge of all that he had lost, and all that he might never understand.

“{I am going with Domnul Weasley, if he will allow it. There is someone who should hear the news of Miranda’s death from the lips of one who witnessed it.}”

Nicolae made a gesture of helpless frustration. “{Do as you like.}”

“{And I wish to join the Order.}”

Charlie grasped her hand warmly, and she could see Vasile behind him, hiding a smile.

“{Doamnă Dragnea, we would be honored to have you,} Charlie said earnestly. “{Would tomorrow be too soon to leave for Scotland?}”

Nicolae did not wait for any further humiliations. Gabi looked at his sister with a mixture of sadness and confusion, but hurried after their father, eyes still watching hopefully for the mother he would not find. Soon the pair of them were out of sight, concealed by the crowd and the forest beyond.

“{Are we too late for the afternoon portkey?}” Catalina asked. She did not want to witness her her father breaking the news of their mother’s death to Gabi. Not when she had her own horrible tale to tell.

“{If you hurry, I think you will just make it,}” Doamnă Lupul said gently.

“{Then there is no sense in waiting for tomorrow.}”

“{Agreed,}” Charlie said.

As they set off towards the Merry Cemetery, Catalina’s heart beat with a new vigor, strong and bittersweet. She was different now, and she knew, when she returned home, things would be different there as well. Perhaps, in time, her father would change too, and she could hope it would be for the better. But she was at peace with her choice, regardless of whether or not he decided to approve of it.

Soon the village was in sight, and the cross crowning the top of the church spire hovered over it, like a steadfast guardian. Catalina breathed a silent prayer for her fallen friend; begging that Miranda’s end was swift and painless; begging that her sins were forgiven; begging that she was finally at peace.

*****

If anyone dared to hand him one more wretched form to fill out, Severus was going to consign the whole of St. Mungo’s to the flames. Between consulting with Healer A’isha, placating Miss Bell’s hysterical parents, and fulfilling the demands of the hospital’s bureaucracy, the day was more than half spent. The weather was still abysmal, and he appeared outside the wards of Hogwarts in a cold, driving rain that did its damnedest to soak him before he could say Impervius. As he strode towards the castle, he postponed checking his cigarette case for news of his questing lover. She hadn’t bothered to send a message any of the other thousand times he’d looked already that day; why would there be anything now?

As he approached the gates, he saw a stocky wizard and two witches huddling outside them, waiting for admittance. His heart jumped into his throat when he recognized Charlie Weasley’s unattractive red hair and Catalina Dragnea’s dark bob. Breaking into a run, he reached the trio just as Minerva arrived, tapping the chains to allow them entrance. The second witch turned as she heard his footsteps, and he froze in his tracks at Nymphadora Tonks’s frown.

Charlie was saying something to him, but his blood was pounding in his ears so loudly that he could not hear what it was, nor what he said in reply. The Metamorphmagus and the Weasley followed Minerva towards the castle, and Severus became vaguely aware that Catalina had remained behind, watching him with a mixture of sadness and pity that turned his stomach.

“{There is no sense standing in the rain, Doamnă Dragnea,}” he said flatly.

He set off for the dungeons like a man condemned, astonished that he was able to walk so easily considering he could not feel his limbs. Catalina matched his pace and mercifully held her tongue. His fingers pricked uncomfortably as he unlocked the door to his quarters, sensation returning in the form of pain. Catalina sat down stiffly on the edge of the sofa at his curt invitation. Like an automaton, he procured tea from the shelf above his desk, lost in the memory of the first time had led Miranda here. He had barely been able to keep his countenance then, his heart had been beating so erratically, electrified by her presence. Perhaps, if he shut his eyes very tightly, when he opened them and turned around, she would be sitting there on his sofa instead of the Romanian witch.

Merlin, Severus, pull yourself together. You’re not a schoolboy, and this is hardly a surprising ending for the whole misadventure.

Catalina took the tea he offered her, but didn’t drink it. He sat down in the chair opposite her, and stubbornly forced himself to take a bracing sip, even though it was scalding and his throat was twisted into a knot.

“{Miranda is dead,}” he said after the liquid had burned a path down to his bilious stomach.

Catalina shuddered, and for a moment he was terrified that she would start to cry—not so much because he feared her tears—but because he feared, if he saw them, he would no longer be able to contain his own. But the witch rallied and controlled herself, save for the tremor in her voice when she spoke.

“{Yes. I’m so sorry.}”

He nodded, once again astonished at his capacity for absorbing pain without dying. “{How?}”

“{The Iele’s guard attacked us at the door between the worlds. She fought them while the children and I escaped, but the door closed before I could go back to save her.}” Her tale was tired, like story worn out with telling.

Thoughts ground together in his mind and he struggled to make sense of them as they passed. “{You did…you did not actually see her die?}”

“{No,}” she said slowly. “{When I led the children out she was still alive and fighting,}”

“{Then…she may still be alive.}”

“{I’m sorry, professor, but I think that is impossible. I left her hours ago at the mercy of an army of beasts. And even if she were somehow still alive, we cannot reach her. The door is closed.}”

“{This is Miranda we are talking about. She has more lives than a cat. And if you are unwilling to search for answers, I am not.}”

Severus sprang up from the chair, knocking the teacup and saucer to the floor where it shattered on the stones. He trod over the pieces, heedless of the way they crunched under his feet, and attacked his bookshelves with a violent passion. One after another he tore the books from their places, pouring over the pages before casting them aside, unable to comprehend the slightest notion in his whirlpool of grief. The empty shelves mocked him, and he slashed his wand at them, causing an explosion of splintered wood. By the time the shards settled, his humiliation was complete, and he sat on the back of the sofa, weeping tears that were all the more bitter for having been restrained.

The room was filled with a mortifying silence, punctuated at intervals by his ragged breathing. As he gradually regained some measure of control, he wondered how difficult it would be to Obliviate Doamnă Dragnea without her noticing.

“{She was very brave,}” Catalina said when he had stopped his disgraceful sniveling.

“{She was very foolish,}” he countered petulantly.

Catalina did not dignify that with an answer, and he started flicking his wand at the mess of shelving and books. As the chaos slowly succumbed to order, he made a mental list of items requiring his attention in a vain attempt to prevent the overwhelming flood of memories from drowning him again. He had promised Healer A’isha that he would lend her his copy of Luma’at al-nuraniyya that had been glossed by wizard of Tamerlane’s court. He would have to take it to her himself; it was not the sort of thing he wanted to trust to an owl. There was a stack of essays on Boggarts by the dunderheaded third years that required marking. Miranda had smiled when he’d asked her what her Boggart was, and kissed him until he knew she was not going to answer. If he were to venture a guess now, he would say that it was small, enclosed spaces. He would ask her the next time he saw her.

Except that he wouldn’t. Because he would never see her again.

The books marching through the air to the repaired shelving clattered to the floor a second time. He stormed away from them, grabbing his still-wet cloak and flinging it around his shoulders. Catalina rose from the sofa, fetching her cloak as well.

He had to get rid of her. He had to be alone. He had to be anywhere but here.

As though she had read his thoughts, Catalina offered, “{Domnul Weasley asked me to meet him in Professor McGonagall’s office when we were finished. Perhaps there is someone who could show me the way.}”

“{I will take you,}” he said inhospitably, wrenching the door open and flinging himself into the hallway.

A snitch-sized ball of bright blue light darted towards him, and he recoiled from it to prevent a collision.

“What in Hades are you?” he growled, drawing his wand to threaten the devious thing.

“{Stop!}” Catalina ordered, and she had the gall to grab his hand to push his wand away. “{It’s a Spiridus.}”

“{A what?}” he demanded, for some reason resisting the urge to swat the overgrown, flashing mosquito.

“{A Spiridus. They help people who help them.}”

The witch was staring at the thing as though her mind were addled by it.

“{I can’t imagine what it’s doing here then,}” he sneered.

“{Be quiet, professor,}” she snapped.

“So you may commune with the spirit world? I suppose I better had,” he muttered. But he did fall silent, stacking up a score of insults in his brain, ready to launch them at the slightest provocation. The Romanian nodded to the creature, and it darted away, vanishing through a wall at the end of the passage. She watched it to the last, then turned to Severus, her face fixed with such an idiotic expression of hope that his own halfwitted heart lifted in response.

“{Miranda has a home here, yes?}” Catalina asked quickly.

“{Yes.}”

“{Then lead the way. That is where we will find her.}”

He knew it was futile, but he plunged into the downpour with Catalina at his heels. With every step towards the edge of the wards, his heart beat the refrain:

Merlin let her be there; let her be alive; let her be safe.

*****

End Notes:

Many, many thanks to Mr. Zingarella for Beta-ing this chapter. Any remaining mistakes are mine :)

Osâmbritul is a Romanian festival held during September and October that centers around the preparation of sheep for the winter.

You can read the tale of how Cassandra Borgin came to join the D.A. in my story, Rota Fortunæ.

Cezara= Caesar. This is the title of the leader of the witches and wizards of Romania.

Căpcăuns are dog-headed monsters that capture women and children.

Luma’at al-nuraniyya (Bright Lights) is a twelfth century text by the Sufi mathematician Ahmad ibn Ali al-Buni.

*****

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Twenty-Four+

Chapter Twenty-Six+ >>

#harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #snape #pro snape #snape fanfic #snape fanfiction #snape x oc #severus snape #severus snape fanfic #severus snape fanfiction #romance #action adventure #second wizarding war #espionage #spying #ilvermorny #american magic #ocappreciation

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dcnativegal · 8 years ago

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Psychotherapy

We’re all familiar with the serenity prayer. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference.” The wisdom necessary is hard to come by, and the courage required is HUGE. Somedays, when I have the gumption, I rather prefer Angela Davis’ quip: “I am no longer accepting the things I cannot change. I am changing the things I cannot accept.” She sounds so energetic.

Change on an individual level is really quite hard to pull off. Right? It is for me. There are things that are easy for me that would be impossible for others, and easy for a friend and ridiculous to contemplate me even attempting. From this awareness, should come compassion. If someone says, oh but that’s so easy, I say, easy for you. What is hard for you? Doing your taxes? Calling your mother? I’m glad jogging and getting to the gym is easy for you. Now call your mother.

Not so easy.

A therapist can be a companion for a person trying to change. Perhaps the therapist’s task is to follow Goethe: “Treat people as if they were what they ought to be, and you help them to become what they are capable of being.”

I did not expect to come to Oregon and work as a psychotherapist, or as my job description calls it, a “Behavioral Therapist III.” I figured I’d either do hospice social work, or find a gig at the senior center. I applied for a couple of cancer related jobs, too, before we decided to stay put in Paisley. I was an oncology social worker for almost 20 years. I know that disease cold. Mostly I know what it does to human beings, whether it kills you or not.

But I got here to the high desert, and the only game in the county for a licensed social worker was at Lake District Hospital. There were two jobs that I applied to. One was as a sort of liaison for various preventative health programs in the county. Having been a health educator for a while, I figured I could do that. Drive around Lake County, see who’s doing what, support them however I could, given the resources. The other was a mental health clinic job in Lakeview. I applied to both with cover letters that explained I only wanted to work part time: 30 hours a week at the most, preferably 24.

I got a call back within a day or two. Interviewed a couple of times with different folks. Made them laugh. Was hired quickly. And the HR person, an impressive lady, told me, we’re putting you in mental health. There is a desperate need, part time is fine, and the pay is much better than the prevention job. Awesome! Never mind that it had been years since I saw people as clients in a mental health situation. I had the right level of licensure, in fact a higher level than even my new clinical supervisor, and I started in mid-October, 3 days a week.

Within 3 weeks of my start, the only other LCSW in the shop was gone. She’d been planning to move back to Eugene for some time, and my entrance gave her permission to resign. Dammit. She was really nice, taught me about the quirky electronic record system (they are ALL quirky), went to dinner with me, and then moved the frick out of town. As far as I can figure out, there is only one other master’s level independent clinical social worker in the entire county.

My colleagues at the Lake District Wellness Center (Lord save us from euphemisms) have various degrees, some from online universities, and from what I’ve seen and heard, are deeply committed and talented clinicians. I’ve been blown away by what I’ve witnessed when I’ve sat in on sessions. I’ve also collaborated with other therapists who are seeing another member of the same family I’m counseling. There’s a lot of that. The kids are seeing one gal, the husband another, and me the wife. Or the ex wife. Or whomever. Feels a little bit like we’re each blind and feeling around the elephant: I’ve got the right leg and it feels pretty sturdy, but the rear end is stinky and occasionally blasts out a disgusting mess. Best to wear a hat and raincoat with galoshes. What I love the most is couples therapy. Get people in the same room and the stories and distortions get corrected. Like magic.

We are all women of a certain age, including the unflappable front office staff, except for one therapist who is younger than 30. Almost all are grandmothers.

I’m in the trenches of community mental health, doing therapy alongside some very tough cookies, and most of the time it is awesome work. I especially enjoy hearing that seeing me is really helping. I can live on that one comment for weeks.

The lows have to do with the trauma stories that emerge in my “assessment” as I sit there stunned. The online form asks about it right up front, in categories: Physical, Emotional, Sexual. Many of these people lived through some serious horror. And I am just hearing about it. How much harder to have lived through it.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places, declared Ernest Hemingway.

****

I finished a book recently about alcoholic families, and learned about roles. The drunk. The martyred codependent. I was familiar with those two. But then I read about the kids: the hero, the scapegoat, the mascot, and the lost child. Immediately I realized that I have two lost children, one hero and one scapegoat on my caseload.

Doing therapy has brought me back to ruminating about one of my favorite existential puzzles. The puzzle of free will. How do we CHOOSE of our own free will to change. If we humans just used our willpower…. He’d get sober; she’d lose weight; he’d stand up to the bully; she’d get a grip on her spending. And if it was that easy, we’d all flip the switch and do that willful self-discipline thing and all would be well.

If only we could simply: Move toward your wildest dream, take the labels off your mind and step boldly into your greatness. (Iyanla Vanzant)

I know for a fact that my own issues are not going away. I have been searching for the switch to flip my entire life. Sometimes I find something that feels like the switch, I switch it on, and I’m ‘good’ …. For about a week. I have insight, I know the back story, I have tried many approaches and strategies. Willpower only goes so far. I am humbled by the gravitational pull of inertia. Or homeostasis.

How do I help other people get unstuck if I’m stuck, too? I’ve got unstuck about SOME issues. In fact I feel like I’m down to only two big juicy neurotic issues. One of which might kill me before I get it figured out. (That would be the healthy eating/ fat/ diabetes /exercise thing.)

Enough about me. Let’s talk about honesty.

“Rarely we have seen a person fail if they have the capacity to be honest.” That’s from the Big Book of Alcoholic Anonymous, quoted chapter and verse by stalwart people in recovery, like my sweetie, who was married to not one, but two alcoholics, (one at a time!). They are sober now. She has a black belt in Alanon (which why she is an excellent partner for me. My issues are all mine.)

So what gives a person the capacity to be honest? Awareness that they’ve screwed up, would be a start. But there are so many people who do not see, do not comprehend, do not recognize that they’ve screwed up. There are the character-disordered folks who have an automatic knee-jerk tendency to blame others for everything. There are the neurotics who blame themselves for everything. But even the neurotics cannot see how they perpetuate behaviors, based on a very old script that they developed as a way of surviving being a child, a script that has lost its usefulness and is still being applied willy nilly to situations that call for being, ahem, a GROWN UP, not the hero or the mascot or the lost child.

I have a client I see. I keep asking this person, which one is the grown up? The answer is always, I am. In a meek voice. Versus the traumatized foster kid who this person is trying to parent. Parenting-by-rigidity with a bucketful of sarcasm. The client wonders why it’s a constant fight. I see it. Why can’t the client?

Here is a great description of the dawning of awareness:

I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I fall in. I am lost… I am helpless.

It isn’t my fault.

It takes me forever to find a way out.

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I pretend I don’t see it. I fall in again.

I can’t believe I am in the same place.

But it isn’t my fault.

It still takes me a long time to get out.

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it is there. I still fall in. it’s a habit.

My eyes are open. I know where I am.

It is my fault. I get out immediately.

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

I walk down another street.

(Portia Nelson)

It is psychotherapy with not one but two amazing women that helped me see the patterns I repeat for what they were and are: habits that can be acknowledged and then unlearned. Some habits are ancient: I just automatically assume that I’m an idiot; selfish, not very bright, and screwing something up. It’s my default position. And it’s a lie. A very persistent lie.

Here’s a metaphor. It’s like I was born with one leg ever so slightly shorter than the other (a biological vulnerability of little consequence.) In the course of my childhood, I got hit in that leg and it was broken a few times. And I developed a limp. I favored that leg, and it grew weaker. When I was 16, someone noticed that I had a pronounced limp and suggested I try physical therapy. And so I did. The leg got much stronger. The limp almost disappeared. I could run and dance. But… under stress… when I haven’t been in therapy for a while…. When I’m really low and other hard things are happening… the limp comes back. It never completely goes away. I will always have it. I will always need to do my exercises. I’m truly an okay person despite the slight and sometimes more pronounced limp. And that’s part of who I am.

Does that make sense? Nature and nurture. Eternal vigilance. A slight disability that can lead me to be compassionate for everyone else, because we all have them.

*****

The day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Anais Nin

*****

Behavior change is super de duper hard work. We all know this. And therapy is not the only thing that helps. Sometimes we can be loved out of a pattern. I hated and feared big holidays into my twenties because of the emotional pain I associated with them. I dreaded them. I started dating the tall Californian and he transformed Christmas for me. Not only did he enjoy Christmas. He dolled it up with tiny railroads around the tree, with creative pranks the kids loved, handed down from his dad. He healed Christmas for me. Thank you.

My sister and I pledged to transform Thanksgiving, and did. She does most of the work. Because, cooking. I am an ace dishwasher.

Sometimes a therapist is a mirror. Lou Reed’s early band, The Velvet Underground has an awesome song:

I’ll be your mirror

Reflect what you are, in case you don’t know

I’ll be the wind, the rain and the sunset

The light on your door to show that your home

When you think the night has seen your mind

That inside your twisted and unkind

Let me stand to show that you are blind

Please put down your hands

‘Cause I see you

I find it hard to believe you don’t know

The beauty that you are

But if you don’t let me be your eyes

A hand in your darkness, so you won’t be afraid

I’ll be your mirror.

Isn’t that lovely?

Good solid friends can call you on your bullshit, which hurts, but heck, wouldn’t you rather have a friend or member of your family say, dude, you have an enormous wad of spinach in your teeth? Your fly is down? You really need to dye your hair again because the skunk look only works at Halloween.

Of course, telling someone you care about their behavioral bullshit (or here in ranch country, cowpie) is a hugely loving act. As in saying, have you noticed that every man you date is an asshole? That no matter who your partner is, you still can’t balance a check book or stick to a budget. So you bring that same fight about money with you to EVERY SINGLE RELATIONSHIP???

Ever notice that? Hm?

The RECIPIENT of this truth-telling will probably feel like throwing a tantrum, or kicking the truth teller in the shins, but not really do it. Friendships have ended over honesty. The tone, the WAY truth is delivered, is important, but sometimes the truth is so painful or embarrassing or horrible that all there is is pain and then THE DEFENSES GO UP.

Tell the truth but tell it slant… the truth must dazzle gradually. Emily Dickinson was so right.

I’ve noticed that some tendencies are really pretty minor in the early days of adulthood, and then those tendencies, unchecked, become real issues. Like, say, hoarding. I hoard yarn. Ask anyone who’s been in whatever home I live in. Except the marital home, which I moved out of in 2006. The husband did not permit clutter. Minus the husband, guess what. Clutter clings to me like a moth to flame. Like cat hair to…everything. And the yarn? I could open a store. Tomorrow. I’d have plenty of inventory. I exaggerate not.

Being a therapist means trying to reflect back to a client a pattern that I see but he doesn’t. Trying to give them an affirmation of their goodness while helping them wake up to their bullshit. For many clients, the bullshitter is another member of the family, so the task becomes, how to be in relationship with the bullshitter without losing integrity, or rescuing, or overfunctioning. Now that’s a trick.

Another trick to changing and healing and stretching new muscles: forgiving oneself. Go Ralph Waldo:

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense.

Oh, but my old nonsense is so cozy and familiar….

I’d rather just sit here and contemplate how unfair life is.

Rabbi Kushner in his classic, Why Bad Things Happen to Good People, wrote: In the final analysis, the question of why bad things happen to good people translates itself into some very different questions, no longer asking why something happened, but asking how we will respond, what we intend to do now that it has happened.

Yes. Personally, I do not believe that “everything happens for a reason.” What I do think is that we have responsibility to stop whining, to help others, and to eventually, though the pathway has to go through the valley of the shadow of death, get to gratitude.

Anne Lamott gives me hope. And then all I can do is pray for guidance so that I do good work in my job, hoping to promote healing and yes, maybe, wellness:

Unfortunately, change is not my strong suit. Neither is forgiveness, or letting go. Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it. But the willingness to let go comes from the pain: and pain makes us willing to change, and effort to change changes you, and jiggles the spirit, gets to it somehow, to our deepest, hardest, most beautiful, ruined parts. And then Spirit expands, because that is its nature, and it drags along the body, and finally, the mind.

#psychotherapy counseling change

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