THE HOUR LULL BETWEEN FIGHTING

And so, he beheld in his view three corpses.

Three corpses for three women: three witches.

There they were, clear as day.

Well night actually.

But they were still, ever so peaceful, so calm in their immortal state. They were ethereal, haunting and unforgettable.

The oldest was in the middle. She cut a bold figure, blonde- beautiful in a regal state. She had died fighting, not running that much was certain. Her wand remained tightly in her lifeless fist. On her hand right side was the second, a mysterious figure. Her face had the perplexity of being both calm and troubled. She had clearly fallen in the Forest or similar: crushed twigs lay scattered at her feet.

Who were they? These strange, aerial creatures?

The third was still, from the hip down. But from the waist up, she was contorting, in distress.

She was still alive. A kindly girl sat opposite hugging her.

Seamus felt sick as he viewed the victim and comforter, not knowing what to do, what to say.

Gingerly, he approached.

The girl looked up from her patient and she smiled at him. It was a warm smile, that denoted fellow feeling- perhaps relief that at least someone was up and about; but her eyes glistened with tears she could not weep.

Seamus sat down opposite her, trying to avoid the patient's hysterical gaze and taking care not to brush up against the hands of the dead. Do ghosts have personal space? He wondered.

The girl brought out a beautiful lilac fob watch, which glinted in the light from the candles. She frowned at it, her lovely face splitting into lines of caution and worry. Caught in a fit of curiosity, Seamus strained his head to catch the ingrained lettering engraved on the back, obscured by the girl's fingers:

"Hec-

I-82"

Catching his inquiring glimpses, the girl shyly stuffed the watch back into her soot-stained cardigan. Ignoring Seamus, who in her opinion was probably doing absolutely nothing of use, she diligently set to work: opening her well-worn little blue case (whose fabric was stained with dust and, Seamus retched, blood) she began laboriously measuring medication- helping her charge to discreetly swallow it and vigorously charming the lifeless legs, feeling for reflexes and smearing an unpleasant greenish paste onto the joints, without a word of complaint nor a hint of disgust at the pungent, gagging smell of the paste.

At that moment, Poppy Pomfrey passed by the two and nodded encouragingly at the worker bee mentality that the girl had taken on.

"Well done, Heather," she said, "We'll make a Healer of you yet." The girl beamed at the praise. She must take her job seriously, Seamus thought.

Heather. So that was her name. It had not been a c on the watch, but an a. But what about the I? And the 82?

Bottles balance in precarious hands, Heather made use of Seamus' idle hands.

"Hold this." She commanded (shoving the blue case into his fingers), the first actual words she had spoken to him. Her voice was brisk and impatient, but not unpleasant and Seamus liked it. An odd mixture of scents wafted up to his nose. The smell of Potions classes, the smell of battle- and the smell of raspberries. How odd.

So far, the witch on the floor had been quiet, passive. Now, she protested, whimpering in pain. Heather sighed, and gave her a draught out of a flask.

"What's that for?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Calming potion" replied Heather, resting the witch's head with a spare jumper, "it should give her some relief from the pain, and give us some time to our selves: to reflect."

"To reflect? On what?"

"On the world, the future... old friends long gone." Heather sighed and looked down sadly at the calmed invalid.

"Speak of the past, then. Why are you here?"

"In this hall? To heal those in need of my care. In this battle- for revenge."

There was a long pause. Neither spoke nor moved. At last, Heather sought to continue the conversation.

"And what of you?"

Seamus. Having no answer readily prepared, merely shrugged and Heather nodded, understanding. Some words just cannot be said.

Considering the continued silence, Seamus decided to step onto a more risky tack.

"Why do you want revenge?"

Heather's face darkened and said only (in a steely voice)

"For my education."

In another person, at another time, that would be enough. But for Seamus, it was not.

"What?" he pressed further.

"Muggle born," hissed Heather. Despite the sudden harshness of her voice and countenance, her face kept a relatively neutral stance and her gaze was matter-of-fact. If she wanted further words, she could have said:"It bothers me, but it probably shouldn't. Others have faced worse."

Seamus felt an immediate rush of sympathy for Heather. What a waste: Healing talent denied official training. Heather didn't seem to mind so much now though; but he saw her bite her lip occasionally. Finally his attention was drawn back to the drowsy witch on the floor: what a pitiful sight! How wretched she was!

Heather checked her watch again and looked anxious. A sinking feeling entered Seamus' stomach and he dreaded the answer that he was destined to receive to his pressing question that he must ask:

"How long do we have left?"

"We have just less than half an hour."

Half an hour. That was all that was left.

In a desperate bid to change the subject, Seamus blurted out the first thing that sprang to mind.

"What's the 82 on your watch?"

"It says 1982," Heather corrected him. "It was my grandfather's watch and on my birthday his daughter my mother engraved it for me. I brought it with me, because it's the one item I possess that, should I die tonight, I want by my side."

At the mention of death, the witch retched and writhed on the floor, and their hearts were overturned with pity.

"Is there nothing we can do for her?" Seamus pleaded Heather.

"I've tried. But there's nothing- no cure."

"What is her name? What is her fate?"

"Her name is Annabel Rees, and she will die alone."