Severus stood a few paces before her. His eyes were on the ruined cauldron.
"Tell me," his voice shook, and tears formed in his eyes, "why do you wear flowers in your hair?"
He kept looking to his cauldron.
"I don't understand."
"How does such a sim...
His skin reflected paleness more than usual; his black eyes haunted as he observed the Great Hall. Niamh watched Severus, then Dumbledore as he welcomed the first years. No. He didn't. He didn't dare ask that of him.
A gentle warmth brushed her hand.
"Eat," Luna scooped a portion of yogurt, then pushed the spoon towards Niamh's mouth.
Niamh reluctantly took the spoon from her best friend, swallowing a small bit.
"Hunger won't help anything," she commented. "There's still a Hierarchy of Needs."
Not even the chocolate amaretto frogs in her pocket stimulated her dry taste buds. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled beneath his half-moon spectacles as he briefly caught her gaze, then headed out the hall. As Ravenclaw table finished the last of their dessert, Niamh rose.
Luna caught her hand. "Hey. We tread lightly now. But I'll tread by your side."
Niamh's face twitched, her dark eyes sad. She loved Luna. She almost regretted telling her everything that will happen, everything they must face. Bloodshed, isolation, daily death risk.
If they slipped once, of the innocents that may still fall.
But to hide the truth would betray friendship. Because Luna wanted share this burden, a burden that may survive war if two minds mapped such a journey, instead of one.
"Yeah." Niamh wrapped a thumb around Luna's. "Yeah."
She broke their clasp, hurrying into the halls. She hiked up the spiral staircase, murmuring the password.
Dumbledore drew out his face the Pensieve, his spectacles sparkling. "Ah, Felicity. Please make yourself comfortable."
The tense uncertainty surrounding her only grew. "I prefer to stand, sir."
The headmaster personally walked past her, pulled a chair with his own old hands, and pushed it right behind her. "Nonsense." Niamh sat down with a straight spine, inspecting his hands. The tint, the texture of his flesh. "Now. I understand your true identity is Niamh Lexborough?"
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"Yes sir."
Across from her, Dumbledore inspected pages and pages of parchment, peering beneath his spectacles. "Age 18 of Minnesota---a province of Mid-Western North America?"
"States," she corrected. "But yes. I hail from 2020."
"I see. A time in which many desire a shift of reality."
Niamh shifted her legs in her seat, locking her spine. "Professor Dumbledore, if I may inquire, did Vold---"
"And," he said calmly, "your lack of parentage here derives from a simple writing error. According to the quantum jumping phenomenon, your White-Life Syndrome is simply your disregard for parentage in this reality, because you have them back from whence you came, in 2020. That you entered a whitevoid every summer, because you forgot to script where you lived outside of Hogwarts. That you lack a surname because you didn't dream of it. Can you agree, Niamh?"
