"Are you okay?" Mai asked gently, her small hand resting on Oleandra's lap. "We're sisters, so if something's bothering you, you know I'll always be there to lend an ear, right?"
Silence fell over the Hospital Wing as Oleandra considered Mai's words. She was supposed to be the elder sister, but somehow, she was the one being comforted.
"It used to be so simple," Oleandra sighed. "When I was a little girl, not being magic used to be the biggest of my worries. I was so happy when I turned out to be normal, but some days, I wonder if it wouldn't have been better for everyone if I'd never been stargazing that night, six years ago..."
If Oleandra had never looked up at the night sky on that very day, she would never have stolen the Stars' inheritance, which had given her dormant Magic Circuits a jolt. The Lady of the Lake would have remained a powerless Squib, who would have eventually ended up reincarnated as a clueless Muggle or another Squib, at the end of her natural lifespan.
"But now…"
Oleandra looked outside.
The light from the afternoon sun was streaming through the tall windows, bathing the Hospital Wing in a warm glow. Magic had brought her endless worries and misery, but it had also given her the greatest gift of all: every day, she got to wake up in this incredible castle to learn magic and spend time with her friends and family.
"I have to kill Dumbledore," said Oleandra bitterly. "I have no choice."
Nothing worth fighting for had ever been won without sacrifice, and by vowing to restore Avalon at all costs, Oleandra had asked for too much. She had always known that by stepping onto this path, the true measure of success wouldn't only be success itself— it would be whether the price paid was worth the outcome.
Not for the first time, the rune carver's poem came to mind…
Better not to ask than to sacrifice too much
For a gift is always rewarded
And a boon always demands a return
Better not to offer than have to slay too many…
"Because he might kill Daphne?" asked Mai. "Because she's his greatest enemy's Horcrux?"
Oleandra hadn't even considered that, but that was one more reason to do it. Dumbledore might or might not know about the Horcruxes, but Oleandra supposed that if he ever learned what Daphne had become, he would steel his heart and kill her.
Sister murder— for the greater good.
"Enough of this," said Mai, her voice dropping by an octave. "Mai is wasting her valuable studying time, so let's get this over with. There may be a way for you to restore your soul's Shadow."
"Morgan," said Oleandra in distaste.
As a reminder, a human's soul is composed of seven parts: Body, Spirit, Name, Personality, Vital Essence, Heart, and Power… but Greater Fairies have Shadows instead of Spirits: the sum of their past incarnations' experiences. Oleandra's Shadow was obliterated when Viviane sacrificed herself to save her from Voldemort's Killing Curse, but the resulting fragments hadn't disappeared.
When Oleandra had put herself back together afterwards, she'd managed to reconstruct her sense of self— but that had been the easy part, since she'd been the one to actually live out her life. She'd failed to do the same with her Shadow, as the fragments were too numerous and alien to even attempt— so they'd ended up buried deep in her unconscious mind, whereupon they would sometimes bubble up to the surface as nightmares.
"Yes, yes," said Morgan impatiently, waving Mai's small hands dismissively. "Have you tried communing with that sword my sister loved so much?"
"You mean the Sword of the Lake?" asked Oleandra suspiciously. "How do you mean?"
Astoria was currently in possession of the sword, as Oleandra had accidentally made her the new Knight of the Lake, right before the battle for the Prophecy Record.
"Is that what she calls it?" said Morgan with a snort. "At any rate, Vee forged the sword using a Goblin silversmithing technique in order to truly make it hers. Since you're Vee's present incarnation, you should also be bonded to it, and it to you."
"I still don't understand," said Oleandra. "I can summon the sword to me, and it's a great sword, don't get me wrong— but it's just a sword. It can't talk."
Come to think of it… the Sorting Hat was just a hat, but that didn't stop it from talking, now, did it? The Sorting Hat even sang! Quite a lot, in fact!
"The Goblins first stole their metalworking magic from the Dwarfs of Nidavellir," explained Morgan. "Which we Fairies then stole from the Goblins in order to forge Excalibur."
Oleandra nodded— that would certainly explain why the Dwarf she had met had expressed such hatred for Goblinkind.
"When a Goblin artisan finishes a piece they particularly like, they sleep with it for seven days and seven nights," explained Morgan. "This permanently imbues the piece with their very soul— though not in the same manner as a Horcrux would."
She chewed her lip, as she searched for an analogy.
"It's like creating a magnet out of a piece of iron by rubbing it with another magnet," said Mai, taking back control of her body. "So it's more of a soul imprint than a sealed piece of soul."
"No wonder Goblins have such a weird concept of ownership!" said Oleandra in surprise.
When they sold their silverwork to Wizards, Goblins considered it to be a loan. When Wizards passed on said silverwork to their descendants, Goblins considered it theft— but a more accurate description would probably be kidnapping!
Goblin artisans are the most respected members of their communities, and since artisans and artefacts could be considered one and the same… A Wizard inheriting a Goblin artefact would be just like a Goblin holding hostage a high-ranking member of the Ministry of Magic! No wonder Wizard-Goblin relations were so strained!
Mai's expression grew grave, signalling that she had swapped back to Morgan.
"I posit that if you were to sleep with Vee's sword at your side," she said, "then after seven straight days, the sword's life magnetic field, so to speak, would imprint back onto you— but it would need to be a deep, dreamless sleep, or your consciousness would interfere with the process."
"In that case, I'd need some Draught of Living Death, but Professor Slughorn took away everything we made in class," said Oleandra hesitantly. "I'd have to make some more… and actually succeed, this time."
But brewing the potion was the least of Oleandra's worries— seven days and seven nights was a long time to spend sleeping. She had classes to attend and homework to complete— not to mention many physiological needs to fulfil.
When was she supposed to find the time to do this?