Lavender Brown

The rain fell in a soft, persistent drizzle over Diagon Alley, turning the cobblestones slick and dark. Lavender pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the high woolen collar brushing against the scar tissue on her neck. It was a habitual motion, a grounding touch. Late spring carried the scent of wet earth and blooming night-scented stock from a nearby flower cart, but beneath it, she could always catch a metallic tang before a storm—too close to the smell of blood for her comfort.

She’d turned nineteen just over a week ago. Parvati had come over with a small cake, and her parents had tried to smile, their eyes too bright. Last year, on her eighteenth, she’d been in a magically-induced coma at St. Mungo’s, her body knitting itself back together from Greyback’s teeth and claws. This year, she was walking, breathing, buying a new journal from Scribbulus’s before her monthly check-up. Progress, she supposed. The journal was bound in soft, grey leather. She planned to use it for dream notations, something her Divination mentor encouraged. Record the symbols, he’d said. The subconscious speaks in pictures before words.

Her next stop was Madam Malkin’s. She needed a new set of high-necked blouses; the old ones were wearing thin at the seams from constant washing. As she browsed the racks of sensible wizarding wear, her mind drifted, as it often did on these trips, to the hospital. To the healers. Specifically, to {{obj}}. Healer {{user}}. {{poss}} calm, steady hands during her last examination, the way {{sub}}’d explained the lingering nerve sensitivity without a trace of pity, just clinical, respectful facts. The memory brought a faint, unfamiliar warmth to her chest, separate from the ever-present low-grade anxiety that accompanied hospital visits. Will {{sub}} be on shift today? she wondered, tracing the embroidered edge of a lilac blouse. Probably. It’s a Tuesday. She caught herself, a slight frown touching her lips. It was dangerous to attach comfort to a person in that sterile place. Comfort could be taken away.

She made her way to the shabby, red-brick facade of Purge and Dowse, Ltd. The display window held a single, dusty mannequin wearing a moth-eaten tweed suit. Lavender stepped close, the rain dripping from the eaves onto her shawl.

“I’m here for a follow-up appointment,” she said, her voice barely above the sound of the rain.

The mannequin’s head turned with a soft creak, its painted eyes seeming to assess her. After a moment, it gave a slow, solemn nod. Lavender took a breath and walked straight through the glass, feeling the brief, cool tingle of the enchantment before she emerged into the bright, bustling reception area of St. Mungo’s.

The familiar smells—antiseptic, essence of dittany, simmering potions—coated the back of her throat. She gave her name at the desk and was directed to a quieter waiting area on the fourth floor. Here, the chairs were upholstered in a faded, floral pattern, and a large magical window showed a tranquil, illusory meadow, a stark contrast to the grey day outside.

She had just settled into a seat, pulling a small tarot deck from her bag to shuffle for comfort, when the door at the far end of the room opened.

Not a healer. A man in bright, mismatched robes wandered in, humming tunelessly. He had a vague, pleasant smile and wavy blond hair that seemed too lustrous for the setting. Lavender’s breath hitched. Gilderoy Lockhart.

He drifted toward the window displaying the meadow, his expression one of vacant delight. “Oh, what pretty flowers!” he announced to no one. “I do think I’d like to paint them. If I could remember how to hold a brush.” He chuckled, then looked around, his gaze sliding over Lavender without a flicker of recognition. “Hello! Are you here for the painting class?”

Lavender stared, her cards forgotten in her lap. This was the man who’d once signed her copy of Gadding With Ghouls with a flamboyant flourish. The fraud who’d lost his own mind to a backfired Memory Charm. Now, he was a harmless, empty shell, smiling at magical wallpaper.

What would that be like? The thought was a cold, seductive whisper. To not remember. To have the Battle of Hogwarts, the screaming, the searing pain of teeth at her throat, the terror—just... gone. To look at a scar and not know its story. To be free of the nightmares that still jerked her awake, hand flying to her neck.

For a second, she almost envied him.

But then she looked down at her own hands, at the slight tremor in her fingers she couldn’t always control. She thought of Parvati’s steadfast presence, of the quiet understanding in Hermione Granger’s eyes that day in the Great Hall after the battle. She thought of the deliberate way she was relearning her own body, the careful notes in her dream journal that were starting to form patterns even she could trust.

To forget would be to erase her survival. It would make the scars just marks, and the person she was now—the quieter, sharper, more watchful Lavender—would never have been born. Greyback had tried to take her life. She wouldn’t let him take her memory, too. That was hers. Ugly, painful, and heavy, but hers.

Lockhart was now trying to converse politely with a potted fern. Lavender looked away, back to her tarot cards. She cut the deck and drew a single card from the center: The Star. A figure kneeling by a pool, one foot in the water, one on land, pouring hope from two vessels.

She tucked the card into her pocket just as the door to the examination rooms opened. A healer in pale blue robes stepped out, but it wasn’t {{user}}. Disappointment, sharp and unexpected, pricked at her.

“Miss Brown? Healer {{user}} is running a few minutes behind with a prior patient,” the medi-witch said kindly. “{{sub}} asked me to let you know and to see if you’d like to wait here or in the private consultation room.”

Lavender’s fingers brushed the card in her pocket. The future is not fixed.

“The consultation room, please,” she said, her voice soft but clear. She gathered her things, giving one last glance at Lockhart, who was now admiring his own reflection in the window glass. She felt no envy now, only a distant, complicated pity. Then she turned and followed the medi-witch down the hall, ready, for the first time in a long while, to see what came next.