Paradox

"Madam Abbott," a voice whispered timorously, startling me out of my contemplations.

I turned around to see a young, shy, blonde girl clad in gray robes signifying her Internship. Almost to Healer status, I noted mentally, proud that the Hufflepuff Sanctuary had almost finished training yet another batch. "Is there something wrong, child?" I asked quietly. I'm not old yet, and have no gray hairs thank you very much, but it has become a habit to call those who did not actively participate in the war "child." Of course, most of the politicans who come and make charity donations wince when I call them that (I'm younger than them, but it serves them right for cowering in some hidey-hole while the younger generation that was "so immoral, so corrupt, so different from when we were young" fought against Voldemort) but they always smile magnanimously and "allow me my eccentricities."

"Mrs. Baddock is here to see you," the young girl whispered in an almost inaudible voice.

"Here to terrorise me, you mean," I snorted, evoking a chuckle from her. Sally-Ann Baddock had been bad enough in my schooldays, when her name had still been Perks. Now that she had married the wealthy Malcolm (a man who was three years her junior) she had adopted airs, so to speak. She considered herself better than the rest. And then, she had decided to give birth to the cutest, sweetest, most unspoiled son there was, and register him with the Hufflepuff Sanctuary. Young Lancelot was welcome here, but his loud-voiced, always-complaining, nose-wrinkling mother was not. Why Mrs. Baddock was here, I did not know, but I was sure to find out. "Well, lead me out to her then," I sighed.

I left my small office and walked through the winding hallways, not really paying attention. The girl in front of me finally veered off into the South Lobby, and I followed. Moments later, the tall, gaunt, pale blonde also known as Sally-Ann Baddock descended upon me with all of her fury. When we were still at Hogwarts, I had often wondered silently to myself how lazy, spoiled Sally-Ann Perks had ever been chosen into Hufflepuff. I know most other Houses considered we Hufflepuffs dunderheaded, but every one of us were hard workers ... except for Sally-Ann. I suppose the Hat thought she might learn some morals while in Hufflepuff House. The Hat thought wrong. After seven years of being around the sweetest, kindest, gentlest souls at Hogwarts (known as the chosen of Helga Hufflepuff), Sally-Ann was still a mean-spirited, nasty viper.

"Hello, Sally-Ann," I greeted her patiently. Unfortunately, I did not have the privilege of calling her "child" as she had actively participated in the war. She had used her influence as a pureblood wizarding family who despised Muggles to convince other such families that Lord Voldemort was a megalomaniac, a halfblood, and somebody not worth supporting. She hadn't participated in the battlefield, but she had used her sharp and strategic mind to help plan successful attacks, as well as sponsored many parties whose sole purpose was to convince people to betray the Dark Lord. She had had a hard time of it, as Death Eaters targeted her often (because she convinced many other Death Eaters to change sides) and the Aurors did not trust her (because of her general attitude). Remembering how hard the war had been for her, especially since her first husband (with whom she had eloped and probably loved more) had died three weeks after their marriage, I was firm with myself as I decided to be exceptionally nice to her this time.

"Madam Abbott," Sally-Ann greeted me sharply. She would have addressed me by name, but that would have breached all protocol, and Sally-Ann adored living and breathing protocol. "Why has my Lancelot been exposed to those dreadful war stories?"

I suppressed an inward sigh. This was something Sally-Ann and the Sanctuary commonly fought over. It was standard practice to tell young children tales of heroes of the war while we administered shots, etc, to keep them occupied. Sally-Ann insisted that her son not know a thing about the war until he is old enough to be not be impressionable. Everything about the Hufflepuff Sanctuary is about the war, though. It was founded because of war, and is funded because it will "stand there through war and peace, bring safety and health to all about it, as the ultimate sanctuary." It is also here to "teach our progeny of the Terrible War so such a travesty shalt not take place again." I know Sally-Ann probably has her reasons, but it's kind of hard to remind all volunteers who come and tell stories about the war to not tell a story whenever they see a nondescript boy with blonde hair enter the room. "It must have been a mistake, Sally-Ann," I said patiently. "I'll warn the volunteers to pay attention next time."

"Humph," Sally-Ann snorted. "Pay attention? As if. Those filthy tainted bloods wouldn't know an angel if they saw one, as if they couldn't recognize me little Lancelot oh-so-easily. Do you know what he came home and told me yesterday? He told me that he had learned about a young woman named Sally-Ann Perks who contributed greatly to the war," she bit out the words harshly. "Don't be surprised if I cut down my funding for this shoddy shack, since my darling Malcolm's business ventures are flagging lately-"

I winced inwardly. Sally-Ann often threatened to cut down her donations but she never followed through. She, too, owed her life to this place, and that was one debt she would not forget. As for tainted blood? It was a new slang for Mudblood these days that didn't have the same harshness, but still hinted of inferiority. I could tell she was angry, though. One main reason I think she did not want Lancelot to know of the war was because that her name was always inevitably mentioned, and for some reason, she hated being associated with the war in any way. Yes, Sally-Ann was mad, and she would wage war upon Hufflepuff Sanctuary for several days before wearing down. That was her way. "I'm sorry, Sally-Ann," I said as placatingly as I could. "I'll see that the volunteers are reminded again. And I'll try to make sure that your name isn't circulated as much."

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew that I had done a very stupid thing. Sally-Ann had never said out loud that she didn't want Lancelot to know of her stories. Which meant that she didn't want me to know that she didn't want him to know. Which meant that now she knew I knew she didn't want him to know, she would be very upset. Very upset indeed.

"I was not concerned about my name," she began in an ice-cold voice, but was interrupted by the shriek of a nurse. With lightning-fast reflexes (thanks to the War), we both had our wands out in a nanosecond, immediately searching for the source of a shriek. The shriek ended abruptly as a burly-looking Intern (one I knew to be a gentle soul named Arianne) dragged a rather shocked-looking Adept (fourth in the five-level training program to become Healer) out. She looked at us apologetically.

"Hysterics," she began, before recognizing my pale white Healer robes. "Madam Abbott," she said with relief. "You should probably come immediately to the emergency room. Something has come up."

I nodded briskly. Pausing, I glanced at Sally-Anne. "You can come along," I said. "We can finish this conversation in a while."

Arianne paused, uncertain as to whether a stranger should be allowed in the emergency room, but decided to trust my decision. She cast a calming charm on the hysterical Adept and briskly led us into the emergency room.

The emergency room is an efficient, neat and plain room with dozens of sanitation and purification charms on it, as well as several ancient wards that kept out ill will (or so they said). The beds are white and have cushioning charms on them. There is always a sense of urgency in the emergency room, even though there are several spells that can slow down time, if needed, so a patient can be treated properly. I suppose it just the memories of the War influencing me. During the War, the Hufflepuff Sanctuary did not have the luxuries it does now. We had to work hard to save the lives of the many witches and wizards who arrived close to death on our doorstep. We had to set up purification wards on the spot. There were no general cleaning spells that kept wounds from becoming infected and sterilized the air. We Healers had to keep our heads cool and remember our training. Mediwizards are fine and all, but when it comes to true Healing, it must flow from a Healer.

The difference between a mediwizard and a healer lies mainly in the training. A mediwizard is a fully-trained doctor who will diagnose his or her patient and prescribe a cure, or cast the curing charm. They mostly deal with witches and wizards who have gone insane, and reside in large hospitals like St. Mungo's. Then, of course, there are the nurses who take care of the day-to-day businesses like broken bones and sprained wrists, etc. They reside in schools (where they are constantly needed) and other public places. And then there are Healers. Healers believe in natural healing, or at least we used to. Thanks to the War, Healers had to learn how to combine modern mediwizarding magic with ancient Healing magic. The result is a rather complicated process that you have to go through careful training before receiving a license to use. There used to be one or two Healers every couple of decades or so; they were so rare. But back then, they were completely potent. They could call upon their strength and heal a dying man in the middle of a battlefield with war raging around them. Back in Grindelwald's time, Healers became poisoned, killed, and soon they all died. Any surviving Healers hid themselves for fear of their lives. During the War, it was discovered that Healers could be trained, not just randomly born. Healers today can't heal a dying man (not without giving up his own life or sanity, at least), and rely heavily upon modern equipment, but we do help make a difference in the world.

My eyes immeidately zoomed on the one bed that was occupied in the room. His back was turned toward me, and I could not see his face, but I could tell that he was around seventeen years of age, with black hair, a diminutive body, and wounds of the like that I had not seen for eight years. They were no mere hex marks. There were scars left from potent curses that were created to kill, signs that the Unforgivables had been used, and a paleness that bespoke of years spent Petrified. This was no ordinary boy.

My mind immediately began jumping around possibilites. He wore the white robes issued to the sick, but in the corner of the room I found the camouflaging Aurors' robes that had been favored during the War and were incredibly out of fashion nowadays. What once might have been dragonhide boots with protection spells on them were ripped apart, only bare remains left. A single wand was placed carelessly on the table by the boy, obviously found on his body. The boy was seriously injured, but still peacefully sleeping, a sign of someone who has been through war. I immediately reached to pull up his eyelids and see if they were milky-white, one of the major signs that someone has been Petrified for a long time.

My hand accidentally brushed aside the lock of dark black hair covering his forehead to reveal ...

A single lightning scar.