When I was a little girl, my father used to tell me stories. We would sit curled up before the fire, hidden from the cold by the thick stone walls of our house, nestled deep in the Welsh hills. As snow swirled outside the glassy windows, his words would wrap around me and I felt like I was under the hot sun of the plains while the wind blew the tall grass around me.
But there was one story I liked best, the story of “How Saynday Got the Sun,” and when I begged for it my father would pull me onto his lap and begin to speak in his deep throaty voice.
Saynday was coming along, and all of the world was as black as midnight. There was no sun on this side of the world, and all the people were in darkness. The sun belonged to the people on the other side, and they always kept in near them, close by, so that nobody could take it from them.
As Saynday was coming along, he met some of the animals. There were Fox and Deer and Magpie. They were all sitting together by a prairie dog hole, talking about these things.
“What’s the matter?” said Saynday.
“We don’t like this world,” said Fox.
“And what’s wrong with the world?” said Saynday.
“We don’t like all this dark,” replied Deer.
(“I don’t like the dark either,” I would say and snuggle deeper and smell the sweet grass tobacco that hovered in the fabric of his shirt while he kissed the top of my head.)
“Now, what’s wrong with the darkness?” asked Saynday.
“It won’t let things live and grow and be happy,” said Magpie.
“Well, I guess we’d better do something about it, then,” said Saynday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is a truth universally acknowledged that there are some mornings when one simply should not get out of bed. This might be because the floor was covered in two inches of water from an overflowing bath, or because the outside air was very cold because the window was left open and snow was blowing in, or simply because you had a feeling that it would be a very, very bad day and you would do much better to hide under the covers for the rest of the morning.
Before she even opened her eyes, Helene knew that this was one of those days. Perhaps she could tell from the way every bone and muscle in her body felt like lead. Or it could have been the insistent ache in her feet, her side, her head. But mostly likely it was the realization that she was in an itchy tartan nightgown that was most certainly not her own, coupled with the crisp Scots voice ringing in her ears, “Well, it’s about time you were up. I was ready to believe you would sleep the day away!”
Wincing, Helene squinted open her eyes and blinked in the bright light streaming in through the newly opened curtains. “What time is it?”
“Half past two. You’ve been out nearly eighteen hours now.”
As her eyes adjusted to the light, Helene could see the poker thin, stern figure of Minerva McGonagall conjuring up a tea tray on a side table. Enticed by the sweet smell of the brewing tea, and her stomach grumbling alarmingly, Helene reluctantly pulled herself up from the downy mattress, and shuffled slowly from the bed.
Stopping at the vanity mirror, she peered at herself for a moment. “I look like shit.”
Minerva’s lips pursed together a little tighter before relaxing into a tired and rueful smile. “I suppose I can’t wash your mouth out with soap, anymore, now can I?”
Giving one last rub to the darkened circles under her eyes, Helene tore herself from the mirror. “You never did,” she reminded the older witch pertly. “Only Will was silly enough to swear where you could hear him.” Greedily, she grabbed a crumpet from the tray and devoured it in three bites. “I was the little angel.”
Minerva snorted in a most unladylike way.
Helene attempted to look wounded as she brushed crumbs from her lips. “I’ve only been up five minutes and you already don’t believe me,” she said sorrowfully. “I do believe that is a new record.”
“What am I going to do with you?” Minerva asked drily as she passed a hand over her eyes.
Bending over, Helene planted a kiss on the older woman’s cheek. “Why, you’ll feed me crumpets and let me sleep in your spare room, just like always, Auntie.”
A chuckle drifted out of Minerva’s throat, and she affectionately patted Helene’s hand. “Bless you child. I haven’t laughed since… well, for some time now.”
Both women sat in silence as Helene polished off the last of the crumpets. Plucking at the slightly fraying sleeve of her borrowed nightgown Helene asked, “I was wondering, if you can spare the time that is, if you could pop over to my cottage to get my things? It’s not that I don’t appreciate your hospitality, of course, I just don’t fancy spending all day in my nightwear.”
“I’m afraid that I have some bad news for you,” Minerva said gently, “but your place was all but destroyed in one of their raids. They must have broken in just after you came to me.”
The blood drained from Helene’s face as she wailed, “those bastards! Those utter, utter bastards! That’s ten years gone, then! Ten bloody years of work…”
“They didn’t find your lab,” Minerva inserted quickly.
“Those ba… they what?” For a second Helene looked puzzled then pleased as dawning comprehension began to break over her face. “So my books and my notes?”
“Are all fine. I had Argus box them up and bring them over,” Minerva assured her.
Helene let out an explosive breath. “Thank god.”
“Your clothes, however…”
Helene waved a dismissive hand. “I can always get more of those.”
Minerva smiled. “I expected no less. I have never met a more single minded Ravenclaw, unless it was your mother, God rest her soul. But you can hardly go out in my nightgown.” Rising from the table she crossed the room to rummage through a small chest of drawers. “I think I kept a couple of your old robes here from when you used to visit.”
“Won’t they be a little small?”
“We can charm them to fit… ah. Here they are.”
Helene winced as she surveyed the robes Minerva held up for her approval. The first was a pale pink with even lighter blue rabbits hopping around the hem and cuffs. Her mother had thought she looked darling in it, quite mistakenly, so it had been “accidentally” left at Aunt Minerva’s. The second was a dowdy blue robe that looked as if it might have been in style in the fifties. The eighteen fifties, that is. Matching shabby blue ruffles ran around the high neckline and wrists. The robe seemed to droop tiredly under Helene’s scrutiny, as if it too should have stayed in bed that day.
“Is there nothing else?” Helene asked rather desperately.
“You could always borrow one of mine, I suppose.”
Helene shuddered internally. Suddenly the blue robe seemed much more attractive than one of Minerva’s everlasting matronly tartans. “I’ll wear the blue, thanks.” Glancing once more toward the vanity mirror she added, “I think I’ll clean up then try to go out and start replacing my things.”
“Don’t you dare tire yourself out,” Minerva warned her, her eyes flashing dangerously. “Or I’ll have you carted straight back to St. Mungo’s before you can say Albus Dumbledore.”
“I’ll be good,” Helene promised as she took the dowdy robe from Minerva’s outstretched hand.
~
The streets of Diagon Alley were crowded with people who were all clamoring for the latest news or gossip. Helene found it hard to imagine that nearly a week before they had been practically bare and subdued. It was hard to believe that one day, one battle could have changed so much.
But there were still scars to be seen. A wariness was in people’s eyes as they flinched at strangers in the throng. A thin man in a patched and ragged robe started at sudden movements from within his circle of friends. Beyond his circle of gossipmongers a once haughty woman slunk along under the weight of hostile stares. And everywhere, paper after paper was brought out for the latest news, reassuring people that life has gone back to normal, if only they can remember what normal is.
Quickly, Helene mounted the steps to Gringotts. The doors had been rehung, and were as imposing and threatening as ever. Inside, there was little sign that only a week ago a dragon had burst through from below; only the barest of singe marks and the unmistakable scent of new paint and dried grout remained.
Fishing in her pocket, Helene handed a small golden key to the goblin at the desk. “Vault 173, please. The de Lacharn vault.”
He shot her a swift, suspicious look. “Name?”
“Helene de Lacharn Momaday.”
The goblin sniffed. “Wand.”
Reluctantly, Helene passed the thin stick over to him. He securitized her suspiciously for a long moment before turning his attention back to the wand in his hand.
“Rowan. Eleven and three quarters inches. Swishy. With a phoenix feather core.”
Helene nodded her assent as he listed the wands characteristics, waiting with ill concealed impatience for him to place it back in her hand.
“I will need one other form of identification,” the goblin conceded at last, still holding on to her wand. “Is there anyone who will vouch for you?”
“I beg your pardon?” Helene asked incredulously. “My family has had vaults here for generations. I have been coming here for years. We have never needed to be vouched for.” Narrowing her eyes, Helene glanced at a witch nearby. “She didn’t need someone to vouch for her,” she accused angrily.
“Miss Verne,” the goblin acknowledged placidly. “A fine old family. Been with us for years.”
“The de Lacharn’s are a fine old family!” Helene snapped, and the goblin nodded infinitesimally, watching her through his hooded eyes. “Then what’s the problem?” She cried, although inside she already knew. I don’t look like a de Lacharn, she thought. He’s not going to let me in because I don’t look like a bloody de Lacharn!
“Ah, Miss Momaday. What seems to be the problem here?”
Helene looked up in relief as an elderly goblin hobbled over to shake her warmly by the hand. Deftly, he plucked her wand from the other goblin’s fingers and delivered it to her with an easy flourish that belied his age. “This is yours, I believe.”
“Thank you, Rookbill,” she said gratefully, feeling fully five years old again as she had been the first time her mother brought her to Gringotts. Then the goblins had scared her, and once more it was only Rookbill’s kindness that kept her from bawling on the floor.
“I’ll take care of this one,” Rookbill dictated authoritatively. “Get back to whatever it was you were doing.” Waving a dismissive hand, he guided Helene down to her vault. “Don’t you pay them any mind, Miss. Any fool who knew your mother could see her shining out of your face with no great trouble at all. Don’t you ever pay them any mind.”
~
With money in her purse and a bit of spring in her step, Helene strode out of Gringotts and down the familiar streets to Madam Malkin’s. A cheerful bell rung merrily as she pushed open the door and the slightly frazzled proprietress came over to meet her.
“Hello, my dear, and what can I do for you today?”
“I’m going to need several new sets of robes I’m afraid,” Helene admitted rather sheepishly, not at all accustomed to having to buy an entire wardrobe at once.
Madam Malkin’s lips pursed as she surveyed the dowdy blue robe, which despite all Minerva’s coaxing still hung short on Helene’s thin frame. “I see.”
“Nothing like this one,” Helene added quickly, and was relieved to see the other witch’s face clear with relief.
“Good.” She gestured to the measuring tape which began contorting around Helene’s body in a variety of unusual ways. “We can get you some basics from the readymade robes, but if you want something that will be most flattering to your stature, I’d best make it up custom.”
“That sounds lovely,” Helene agreed, feeling a little over her head.
Abruptly, Madam Malkin turned around. “Mind, it will take a few days for me to get them ready. We’ve had such an influx of orders what with all the celebrations lately, my assistants and I are quite swamped.” Her tone was apologetic as she gave another disparaging glance to the unflattering blue robe.
“I can wait.”
Twenty minutes later Helene found herself leaving Madam Malkin’s with an assortment of parcels tied up in brown paper. They had found her two plain white nightgowns that Madam Malkin had assured her would not itch, a slightly dowdy black robe for everyday wear, and a much nicer black robe for formal events which had velvet trim and which Helene was sure she would ruin in an hour.
It was the nice black robe that Madam Malkin had talked her into wearing as she left the shop, and as Helene rejoined the growing throng on the streets she felt far less shabby and far more respectable. When an elderly wizard tipped his emerald top hat at her, Helene mentally began conducting an elegant thank you to the kindly witch on the spot.
She was so lost in thought that she barely saw the small help wanted sign out of the corner of her eye. It was a fussy little advertisement, and if not for the words “potion maker,” Helene should have walked past it without a glance. As it was, she paused and looked up at the elegant shop. The golden letters over the door proclaimed it to be Grovenor Cosmetics and Apothecary, and Helene remembered that her mother had bought perfume there once, but then decided the smell was too sickly sweet and had not worn it again.
Almost without thinking, Helene found herself walking up the steps and pushing open the heavy wood and glass door. The inside of the shop was elegant, and discrete. Small vials were placed around the room with in careful arrangements and there were no price tags to be seen which meant if you had to ask, you probably couldn’t afford it.
“May I help you?”
Helene turned from her perusal to see a young man standing deferentially behind the counter. An older witch was sitting at a small table behind him, carefully arranging roses in a crystal vase. Drawing herself together, Helene introduced herself in her most assured and professional tone. “Good afternoon, I’m Helene de Lacharn Momaday. I saw your advertisement in the window and was hoping to inquire after the position, if it has not already been filled.”
“It has.”
Both Helene and the young man turned to the older witch in surprise at the suddenness of her outburst. “What do you mean, Mother? We haven’t seen…”
“The position,” she snapped back irritably, “has been filled.” Rising from the table she stalked majestically into the back room.
“I don’t know what she’s gone on about,” the young man said apologetically. “Please, just give me a moment; I’m sure we’ll be quite interested in having you.” Assured that Helene would not simply walk out, he darted into the back room, pulling the door so hard that it did not latch behind him, but rather bounced open an inch again so that Helene could hear every word of their conversation with ease.
“Mother, how can the position be filled? We haven’t had anyone come by yet! Not even that Miller fellow who had owled stopped in for an interview.”
“No,” the woman agreed in a haughty voice, “but I will not have that woman working in a high-class establishment like this.”
“But she’s a de Lacharn,” the young man said, aghast. “Think of that family and all the money behind them. She could bring us her family and friends. There’s a huge untapped market. Just think of the business! Besides,” he added slyly, “I read about her in ‘Potioneer’s Weekly.’ She’s a Potions Mistress, Mother, she could whip our potions up faster and better than you and I. Just think about it from a business sense!”
“I am thinking. I will not have that half-breed, half-blood working in my shop so long as I draw breath. And I am sure that our customers like Mrs. Malfoy and Mrs. Donaghue would agree.”
“But Mother, she’s a de Lacharn!” the young man practically wailed.
“Then I’m quite sure she doesn’t need money from us.” The old woman’s tone was final.
A moment later the young man came back to the front, looking slightly alarmed when he found the door open. However, Helene’s face was serene and he quickly concluded she must not have heard anything that transpired. “I’m terribly sorry, but it seems my Mother hired the son of an old friend without telling me, and simply forgot to take the sign down. I do hope we haven’t inconvenienced you much.”
His tone was obsequious and apologetic, and Helene found herself rather wanting to hit him for his flattery. “Not at all,” she said drily, and stalked to the door. She allowed herself the perverse pleasure of picking up the delicate gold help wanted card in the window, and crumpling it in her fist. “It seems you won’t need this anymore,” she said sweetly as she tossed it to him.
He caught it with a grimace just before it hit his face. “Why, yes, thank you,” he muttered through somewhat clenched teeth. “I was just about to do that myself.”
Helene smiled brightly at his lie, and vanished through the door.
~
“Asinine bigots!” Helene shrieked. “That horrible, evil, hag!” Furious, she tore the pillows from her bed and kicked them across the room. Another angry swipe knocked a small glass from the bedside table. With another muffled scream of rage she methodically began throwing the leftover tea things across the room.
Righting the stool in front of the vanity, Helene sat down heavily. Moodily, she stared at her reflection in the looking glass. So much of her face belonged to her father. She had his weathered, bronzed skin, stretched across her sharp, wide cheekbones. Her mother’s delicate nose looked small on her moon-shaped face, and her full lips usually curled in her father’s stubborn grin. Her mother’s sandy hair tumbled down around her shoulders in that funny hue that was not quite brown yet somehow not blonde either. Only here eyes were her own, a tawny brown that was darker than her mother’s hazel flecks, yet lighter than the deep chocolate of her father’s.
As she stared at the mirror, her exotic looks seemed to taunt her. Half-breed, she thought, and her cheeks flushed once more from anger. Stress and weariness had added a slight gauntness to her face, and deep circles under her eyes betrayed her recent exhaustion. Half-breed, half-blood, the words rang in her ears again and with a throttled yell grabbed the nearest object, a hair brush, and threw it across the room.
“Usually I would take off house points for such displays of temper,” Minerva said drily from the doorway as she surveyed the destruction of the room. “It looks like a whirlwind has been through here.”
Struggling to pull herself back under control Helene smiled weakly. “I’m sorry, Auntie.”
Smoothing back part of the counterpane, Minerva seated herself on the foot of the bed. “What happened?”
“Oh, I was being foolish as usual, I suppose,” Helene said bitterly. “I’d finished up in Diagon Alley and was walking back when I saw a help wanted sign in a shop. They needed a potion maker and since I haven’t really had a chance to brew during the last two years I figured it would be a nice way to ease back in and knock the rust off. Only they didn’t want me, you see. I may be a Potions Mistress, but I’m afraid we can’t have half-breeds like me socializing with the cream of wizarding society.”
Minerva’s lips had thinned during Helene’s speech into an angry line. “I would hardly set store by such opinions,” she remarked tightly, “as such people will never be considered the cream of society anywhere.”
Helene tried to smile. “Oh, I know there are small minded people in the world,” she replied more lightly than she felt. “I was just hoping I’d grown more used to it by now.” She glanced around her rather ravaged room. “I suppose I have not.”
“Well,” Minerva said a little too brightly, trying to put a good face on matters, “at least it’s not like you needed the job anyway. You’ve certainly sufficient funds to do as you please, and after your work for the Order the last two years no one can doubt you deserve a break.”
“And yet a break is the last thing I need.” Helene groaned. “If I have to stop and slow down all I will do is remember, and I’m not ready for that yet. I’ve seen so much these past two years and if I let it all sink in I’m going to fall down with it. I’m not ready, Auntie. It’s too much and too recent. I need to work if only to keep myself from remembering. Can’t you understand?”
Minerva was silent for so long that Helene was afraid she’d unnerved the older woman with her plea. However, when she spoke at last the words were not what Helene expected to hear. “I do understand. And perhaps, if you are so desperate for distraction, you can help me with a project. Hestia Jones and I are starting this; it had actually been Dumbledore’s idea as he foresaw the need, to create a home for the war orphans. We have so many children who are too young to come to Hogwarts, and have no family to go to…” She trailed off, seeing the faces of her dead as Helene knew all the survivors of the war did.
“What would you need me to do?”
Shaking her head, Minerva pulled herself back to the present. “We will have teachers to come in and train the students as they would have at their homes, and Hestia and I have already found nurses to care for the babies. We would need you to act as a nurse for the sick, brew common potions, and generally be accessible to the children if they come to you with their problems.”
“And you’re not asking this out of pity?” Helene asked suspiciously.
Minerva chuckled. “You, my dear, are more qualified than any applicant Hestia or I could think of. The work you did in Wales proves you are more than capable of dealing with frightened children, and have you not spent the last ten years training in potions and healing? No, it is not pity, although I must admit that nepotism makes me wish, very much, that you would agree. You would also have time to yourself during the day to continue your research, in case you were wondering.”
“Very well, then. I accept.”
“Wonderful.” Minerva stood and stretched her back. “I will go and speak to Hestia. In the meantime, you need to go back to bed.”
“But I’ve barely been out of it,” Helene protested.
“And according to the Healers, I shouldn’t have even let you do that. You drained yourself, you know that as well as I. Now, are you going to go to bed voluntarily, or am I going to have to ensure you stay there?” Minerva’s tone brooked no argument and Helene felt that she had exerted herself too much too soon.
“All right,” Helene admitted grudgingly. “I’m going. But if you even think of trying to slip another sleeping draught into my tea…”
Minerva smiled. “As you wish. In the future I shall make sure to inform you before I ‘poison’ your beverages.”
Head held high, Helene slipped between the rumpled covers of the bed. “See that you do.”
She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
How Saynday Got the Sun by coppercurls
Story Notes:
This story does deal with themes like prejudice based on racism. Please be warned.
Chapter Endnotes: The story at the beginning of the chapter is an old Kiowa legend called How Saynday Got the Sun. The text was taken from Lady Pixel's "Native American Legends, Folktales and Stories" website. http://www.ocbtracker.com/ladypixel/saynsun.html