Anitra's Dance

Author: ceceng
E-mail: ceceng@hotmail.com
Rating: definitely NC 17 later on
Pairing: HP and someone female.
Timeframe: Harry’s seventh and last year at Hogwarts.
Category: smut and angst.
Summary: A young naked girl with amnesia is brought to the hospital wing of Hogwarts. She is a muggle, but she has a lingering spell on her, and it is vital for the Phoenix Order to find out if Voldie has been out to play once more, so they keep her. No, not a Mary Sue – more like muggle at Hogwarts with an awful twist.
Author’s note: All review is welcome – even the flaming. go go easy on the lingo – I’m not even English, for Christ’s sake. ;)

Anitra’s Dance


Walk through the Valley of the Shadows of Death

Exeter, 2084, night.

Kate Annah Hench. What a stupid name. Hench. Much trouble it brought her too. Endless bullying at school. “Hey, Henchman! Are you the world’s first HenchWOman?”, “Hench, the wench is sitting on a bench.”
Stupid all of it. Not even funny from an objective point of view. She smiled. All that was centuries away. She would never go to school again, nor experience it through grandchildren or great-grandchildren.
Her throat turned thick.
Oh, no. Not think of that now.

*Anit

Her name was but a whisper in the dark night, a promise of revisits, hunger and comfort. Anitra. tears came unbidden to her eyes. She could still cry, she noted dully. And the pain was still so clear within her. Her baby girl, Anitra. Seduced by a dance, conceived on a hot afternoon, loved to bits by a single mother.
Born with a kidney defect. A childhood in constant dialysis. Of course, she gave her child a piece of herself. After the transplant her darling daughter led an almost normal life.
And then...
Ripped from her arms by an conceivable and cruel accident at the tender age of 10, thus breaking her mother’s heart in two. It had never healed. It never would. No mother should ever have to outlive her young. She suddenly grabbed her chest as a sharp pain shot through it. Ouch. So much agony. Better not to think about it.
How old would Anitra have been today?
te Ate Annah Hench, 96, turned her body on the bed with some difficulty. Boy, she hated this bed. She missed her old one, but no – the services insisted that it be replaced by this modern elevator bed that cut her spine in twaien and squeaked uncomfortably and loudly almost in protest every time she moved. Silly services.
Well... they were doing their best, she presumed. With all those old people around.

She sighed. Well, tonight they would have one old woman less to take care of. About time too. She missed Anitra so horribly and she had, quite frankly, had enough of life.
There was that pain in her heart again. She could clearly distinguish it. It had nothing to do with Anitra. Or perhaps it did. Perhaps everyone died of an aching heart in the end.

The night was still and empty. The darkness crept over her form like an irresistible and inexorable shroud. And there he was. The Angel of Death. She had been waiting for him.
His wingspan from wall to wall, his burning glance merciless, his smell relentless. Wider, wider he stretched out those mighty wings. Had it been like this for Anitra as well? Did she see the Angel of Death underneath water? Had it been this awe-inspiring?

Kate Annah Hench closed her chocolate brown eyes and inhaled with a hissing sound. One standing close might have imagine that the exhale brought a word with it. But one might have been imagining it. Still...
She might have said...

*Anitra!*

*

Hogwarts Grounds, 2004, night

The rain came down with a vengeance, drumming rhythmically on her soft skin and soaked clothes. No, wait – she had no clothes.
The wind was tearing the remains of her short hair to ... no, wait. Her hair was long. Thoroughly confused, she only knew that it was searingly cold and that she had to get out of there to survive. Survival. Odd. She didn’t seem to want to survive. Why not? Was the urge to survive not a basic human need that helped the race to continue being in this world?
Yeah, well... She just wanted to lie down and surrender to the darkness.
If it hadn’t been so bloody, uncomfortably cold, she shivering agreed with herself.

She took a few steps. And fell. NOW what was wrong with her balance. Wasn’t this just typical. She tried again – only because it was cold.

She wasn’t quite sure how long she had been walking like this. She knew she could no longer feel her s she she had no idea in which direction she was heading as the stormy weather made made any kind of vision impossible. She had sense of time... and...
... she wasn’t quite sure *where* she should be headed.

Well... just a warm place.

He was so sure he had seen a figure. Dead sure, in fact. His heart raced faster at the prospect of catching a student out at night. He hoped it would be Potter. Of course, it would be Potter. Who else had the arrogance to leave the dormitory and thus breaking all the school rules back and forth. It was just a thing like that Potter would do. He almost smiled in anticipation as he spotted the form again. It was staggering... and... naked?
Impossible! Not even Potter would be stupid enough to go out in this storm without his clothes on.
He had expected the form to fight and scratch, but when he reached it, it simply collapsed into his arms, muttering, “warm, good.” and passed out.

*

Even Peeves stopped working on his dungbombs. That the other ghosts of Hogwarts had ceased all activity to turn their more or less attached heads to see the odd scene that proceeded through the great hall was one thing. But it took a lot to stun Peeves.
McGonagall was the first to notice the odd couple. She looked down from the staff’s dining hall and saw Professor Snape walk towards the staircase with ... someone in his arms. The regal elderly lady shot both her eyebrows past the upper rim of her glasses right in the air at the realisation that the figure Snape was holding was, in a modern term, – butt naked. It was also obvious that it was a very young girl with long wavy hair of an indeterminable colour, that she was caucasian despite the layer of dirt that somewhat clouded the clear vision of the viewer. McGonagall hurried down the stairs to meet the odd apparition.
“Professor Snape,” she hissed in a subdued voice, to avoid waking the students or attract any unnecessary attention, “what have you got there?”. Snape rose his right eyebrow.
“I am not sure, Professor. It appears to be an unconscious girl, but I do not recognise her. I believe she’s not a student of this place.”
“She most certainly is not,” agreed McGonagall., “I remember all the students who came to Hogwarts yesterday. Where are you taking her?”.
“Madam Pomfrey.”
McGonagall nodded. There really wasn’t any other option. This was most likely a muggle, but they couldn’t just leave her to freeze to death outside.
“I will alert the Headmaster. We may have to perform the obliviate spell on her when she comes to.”
Snape grunted for answer. He was trying to open the door to the ward with his arms tied to the task of carrying the girl. McGonagall didn’t seem to notice his problem, but turned immediately to fetch the Headmaster.
“Alohomora,” he murmured. The door sprang up silently and obligingly.

*

When Dumbledore and McGonagall joined Snape and the healer, their patient was still unconscious, but now clad in the hospital wing’s standard shirt. Her chest heaved peacefully after Madam Pomfrey’s careful and clever ministrations, and there was no trace of the unhealthy flush that had so dominated her skin, compliments to the harsh and bitter cold rain. Madam Pomfrey had also made sure she was properly washed, an initiative that revealed the true colour of her hair: tawny.
“Who is she?” asked Pomfrey, her eyes intent on their Headmaster.
Dumbledore blinked.
“That, Madam Promfrey, is a very good question.”
“Definitely a muggle,” Snape insisted.
“Obviously,” Dumbledore agreed, but then stiffened as he slowly and gracefully waved his old wrinkled hand over the chest of the girl.
“Yet...”
Madam Pomfrey nodded. “I felt it too, Headmaster.”
Snape looked from one to the other and his hand joined that of Dumbledore.
And there it was. How could he have missed it. A slight aftermath tingle from a very powerful spell. A spell that couldn’t possibly come from such a young person. Snape turned to look at his headmaster’s face. Dumbledore looked grim.
“A muggle who has been tampered with,” he deduced, his voice harsh and cold. Minerva McGonagall stepped closer with abated breath. This girl looked so young. Her skin, now that it had been treated, was slightly shiny and incredibly smooth. No calluses anywhere, no marks beyond those fresh ones that the rough weather had just dealt her.
She looked.... newly born. If it hadn’t been for her obvious age.
“She... must be around 15,” she murmured softly, assessing the physical attributes: young rounded breasts, soft curves og long gangly legs that promised more height. Madam Pomfrey nodded in agreement. “I would say so too. Perhaps 16.” “Can you wake her?” Dumbledore asked. “It is essential that we, as soon as possible, learn what has happened to her.”
Pomfrey nodded. She would have preferred more rest for her patient, but she understood the predicament.
A simple hand movement over the young girl’s eyes did the trick. Her lovely long-lashed eyes fluttered and opened.
A deep colour of tawny, a colour that exactly matched her hair, met them.
“Hello, dear,” said Pomfrey softly, “can you hear me?”
The girl parted two lovely young and full lips, but mere a croak came out. Madam Pomfrey hastened to dribble some water into her patient’s throat. The girl swallowed with difficulty.
“Yes,” was the hoarse reply.
“I am Albus Dumbledore,” the headmaster said kindly, “can you tell us your name?”
They saw her form her lips, inhale and... a deep furrow appeared in that smooth brow.
“Erm...” she was clearly confused. Then a small sign of desperation clouded those interestingly coloured eyes.
“N... no.”
Before they could commenton that, she suddenly plunged into quick speech, and little breathless.
“What’s the matter with me? Where am I? Are anyone here that I know? What has happened – and ... oh, god, why can’t I seem to remember my own name?”
“Calm yourself, dear,” McGonagall whispered, “now, what’s the last thing you do remember?”
“Before waking up here?” she asked unnecessarily, her voice still raw. She gulped a little more water and closed her eyes. She was still for a while, her tender eyelids fluttering.
“I...” her breath came in small huffs now, “... a dark figure. A sudden flash.” Tears brimmed her eyes. “But that’s all,” she nearly sobbed. She opened her eyes, now full of clear water that made her eyes look like shiny porcelain with golden dots.
“*What has happened to me?*” she whispered. Then she started sobbing silently.

*

TBC
How did you like it so far? Be patient. Smut will occur. I have never, however, been able to tell a brief story. If your fancy is a drabble, this is probably not for you. If you like a story to develop by and by, though, you’re about to get your heart’s desire. :-)