Mrs. Scamander's All Right by ficexchange

Merry Christmas, Miranda (AnotherDreamer)!

Mrs. Scamander's All Right

It's Tuesday again, which means tea with the Crone.

Mum scolds, of course; "Dear Mrs Scamander is no such thing," she cries as I stare at the offering of oats. They stare back, the raisins on its gluten-slick surface alternating between cheeky grins and sorrowful frowns. I'm not sure what to think. Mum, however, is still on about calling the Crone a crone. "You haven't the idea of even a handful of the things that woman has seen or accomplished, and frankly, you would be lucky to even be able to experience a fraction of the fantastic experiences in her life! A fraction, Freddie! Now!" Hot cereal is shoved in my general direction, and the raisins are scowling this time, angry as they wait for their fate. "Eat your breakfast."

The raisin troupe and his oatey friends hardly sit well in my stomach by the time I'm running over to my cousin Arthur's, but before I can even think about digging about in the creek, Auntie Rose has me by the shoulder. By the look on her face, I can tell Mum's had a Floo-over.

"You'll dirty your pretty robes, Freddy," Auntie cajoles, trying to make her sound like she's the friend in this. I'm giving her the stink-eye, though, totally unconvinced. After all, isn't that what a Cleaning Charm's for, just in case?

But never mind that; she sends me back home right as soon as I came, and I know my only reward for doing as told involves the wrong end of a book and some housecleaning.

.

The Crone's house is a tiny cottage on a hill close to my great-grandparents, back when they still found use for a house so big it looked top-heavy. Mum says the stones for the place were once this big tower of a house, but now it's wee and thatched, with honeysuckle all over the front walls. The place is filled with Merlin-knows how many garden gnomes, though, and that's the least of the building's infestations. Mum tries to get permission from her to get rid of the Doxies, but the Crone insists she wishes to observe them in their natural habitat or some such nonsense.

Mum never has to knock; she tried the first few times we came, but before she could ever touch the handle to do it, the Crone's under our noses, that doddery grin spreading ever-so-slightly. She's always wearing the same robes: indigo and bright gold that turned tarnished with stains I never want to know the origin of, with strange pins dangling where pins should never hang. Butterbeer bottle caps dangle off of macramé fringe and every time she grabs me with her knotted hand, she manages to catch one in her palm and dig it into the back of mine so hard I've to bite my lip so I don't shout. The other hand always strokes a piece of my hair, giggling as she does so.

"Miss Frederica," she breathes. Her moon-lamp eyes (that's what Arthur and I call them when we talk about having to come to tea when we're mucking in the creek, since they're big and gray like a werewolf moon and shine sharper than Lumos) make me swallow twice, three times as she drags me to the parlor where the Doxies shriek in the corners. I worry for what's in the teapot, but she's been better lately. Less nettles and more Earl Grey.

There's something different about her this time, but it's something I can't quite place a finger on until I notice the Roaring Lion cap barely purring on the back of the piano. It's then that I realise that she's bare-headed, the sun making all that candy floss fluff up and take a bit of a halo glow. Usually, her caps almost swallow her in both size and volume; dragons will be roaring and spouting small fountains of fire, turkey vultures will cry, and rabbits will run about the brim of any of a number of her creations as she's talking to me about some sort of strange animal that she found in some awful place. You'd think it'd be a bloody brilliant bit of tales, but the Crone makes it sound like she's talking about her kneazles or something the way she goes on. If I close my eyes, her voice sounds like music sometimes, but if you listen closely, the lyrics are horrid.

I wonder why there's no hat, but I'm not about to ask; instead, she stares at me for what feels like hours before pushing me a cuppa. "Miss Frederica, I hear you've received your letter recently?"

"Yeah." It was something I had wanted to discuss with Arthur, actually; being a year ahead, he would be able to tell me what house I would probably get into – or, at least, which one would be better for me to seek out. But there would be none of that today, and all because of my blasted "pretty robes." Stupid.

There's that awkward pause, then, you know the type; the Crone's crazy and I have no idea what to say to someone who's crazy. You twiddle your thumbs. Time stretches on for eternity. The Doxies cry louder than you.

"I remember Rowena's room," she sighs into her cup, steam puffing what little bit of blond-white fringe she has left into a momentary fan. "I remember coming back to Rowena's room after months of not being near it. What," and she drawls out the thought, blowing her steam into little birds that run through her hair now, braiding it back, "homecoming."

"I hear it's brill," I half-say, but the Crone's moon-lamp eyes stare beyond me and the Doxied curtains for what feels like hours as she breathes that hollow breath that the elderly like to adopt. I wonder if I should breathe shallow too, but then she takes a cube of sugar and summons the spoon to stir it, gently twirling it with her finger.

"I don't know how the Slytherins do it, living in a dungeon," she says quietly, sing-songing, childhood rhyming. "I lived in a dungeon for four months and I can't fathom liking it for a moment." She pauses, not really because she knows that I'm not even sure what to say, but because she needs to drink her tea. "There was a nice man there, at least," she says afterwards, staring out the curtains again, "old and wise and who knew the most exquisite stories about wands. You wouldn't believe."

"I guess I wouldn't," I mumble, eyes in my cup. It doesn't look cool enough, but even so, I'm not particularly thirsty. "Stones are cold, I guess. Damp."

"Exactly!" she cries, "exactly! The damp, it sucks things out of you. Minds should be able to breathe and see light," and it's the first time she's ever made sense to me. Ever. I wonder if I've caught the mad.

I'm not ready to see, though, so I don't say anything. The Crone, however, is more than ready to press forth, suddenly giddy with the gab. "The wise man, though, he held my wand and told me about the moment he sold it to me." There the wand is, suddenly, within her spindly wood-knot hands, and she breathes on it as delicately and lovingly as Mum does her tea roses, and it's more to the wand than I when she whispers – so much so that I can never quite hear it.

She looks up and tries to touch that strand of hair again, but I make a move to drink my tea at that point. My tongue pays the price, but at least I'm within my comfort range. The Crone doesn't seem to notice though, ever serene, and only says, "You know, I think you will find fine friends there, Miss Frederica."

"I hope so." I wish she served biscuits, sometimes.

"Yes," she says, leaning back. "Perhaps you can have friends that you can paint walls about, Miss Frederica. Friends who will fight with you up to Rowena's room, if that is where you go." When she leans over, she captures my hand, but I hardly notice the bottle cap grinding into my skin.

"The type of friend that will fight with you, who will help you fight when you fear you cannot, who will speak with you and remind you what it is to fight, Miss Frederica – those are the friends you will find at Hogwarts."

.

Arthur's over for dinner that night, and afterwards, we go out to the back to climb a tree and think about Quidditch. After a while, he asks me how the Crone is.

"Mrs Scamander's all right, I reckon," I murmur in reply. The shepherd's pie had been good. "She's all right."