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Highly Improbable by Vocalion [Reviews - 16]

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HIGHLY IMPROBABLE


Chapter 35: Help Me, Rhonda!



*~~~*~~~*



Snape stood leaning against the ramparts in the Astronomy Tower. In the distance, he watched steam billowing upward into the blue summer sky, as the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station. She’s gone. Hearing the sound of footsteps ascending the spiral staircase behind him, he turned to find Professor Dumbledore approaching.

Dumbledore glanced down at a small round mirror he held between his hands. After a moment, he looked up at Snape, and the two strong willed wizards locked eyes and began communicating with Legilimency, as well as with words.

“What will you remember of her, Severus?” You’re planning to indulge in self-pity and isolate yourself in the dungeons to brood, aren’t you?

“I beg your pardon, Headmaster?” What now, you prying old nuisance?

“What will remind you of Clancy? What pleasant memories will you recall?” You’re as emotionally stunted now, as you were as a boy of sixteen.

“I believe I’d rather keep that personal, if you don’t mind.” How many more years of your probing, twinkling torture must I endure?

“I do mind, Severus. I know you feel lost without her, and it’s high time you admitted it –if not to me, at least to yourself.” You’re a blind young fool.

“Since there seems to be no limit to your officiousness, I will confess that I’ll miss…well…I’ll miss…her.” Will that satisfy you?

Dumbledore smiled optimistically. “You’re coming along. Slowly, mind you, but I note modest improvement.” Offering Snape the mirror, he said, “I bewitched this for you to help ease the pain of your separation -- but it may serve to increase it. Whatever the case, I caution you to use it sparingly.”

“An enchanted one-way mirror?” he surmised, examining it closely.

“Precisely. I thought it would be a fitting punishment for you to observe the effects of your selfishness.”

“Selfishness, Headmaster?” Snape asked innocently.

“I noted the potion’s bluish tint when you delivered it to me. There was no time for you to brew more, so I had no choice but to let you get away with it. I am disappointed in you, Severus. Clancy deserves to be happy. Your selfishness will make it impossible for her to readjust to her former life. You’ll have the Pensieve, but what will she have? She’ll feel the same emptiness you will feel, yet she won’t be able to define it or give it a name. You could have allowed her to resume a normal existence, in spite of her memory loss. Instead, you chose to act in your own self-interest. Now, she’ll never find contentment.”

“But –”

“There can be no justification for what you’ve done. You may pride yourself on never wearing your heart upon your sleeve, but you wear it upon your ego, which is a much more precarious location.”

“But you must realize, I –”

Dumbledore held up his hand to impress upon Snape the futility of raising any argument. “First the Veritaserum, then stealing Remus’ letters, and now, tampering with the Forgetfulness Potion.” Dumbledore clucked his teeth at Snape reproachfully.

Snape, duly chastised, glared down sheepishly at the stone flooring of the Astronomy Tower.

“Take this,” Dumbledore offered, producing Hillary’s wand from his robe pocket. “Clancy left it behind. One of the house-elves found it while cleaning her room. I think she’d want you to keep it.”

Snape stood frozen, uncertain whether to accept it. With a look of revulsion and hatred, he regarded his own reflection in the one-way mirror.

“Severus…please…”

Snape took the wand from Dumbledore hesitantly, and then swept silently down the stairs.


*~~~*~~~*


As Clancy’s airport shuttle van made its way north, en route to the San Gabriel Valley, she began to grow drowsy. She smiled, recalling what a surprise it had been to find Remus Lupin waiting for her at King’s Cross Station to help her through the solid barrier between the platforms. They’d laughed, and caught up on each other’s lives during their taxi ride to Heathrow. Strange, Clancy remembered, when Lupin had offered her a can of Diet Dr. Pepper in the terminal, he’d looked so sad. And the beverage had a bitter aftertaste. Perhaps she’d better go back to drinking regular Dr. Pepper again, she decided.

By the time the driver pulled up in front of 65002 Pennsylvania Circle, Clancy was fast asleep. No lights were on at the house, so he rang the bell next door at 65000. Her neighbors, Rhonda and Brad Sepell, rushed to her assistance. Rhonda used her own key to open Clancy’s front door, as the driver unloaded her luggage; Brad lifted Clancy out of the van and carried her into her bed.

“Poor thing,” Rhonda remarked quietly to Brad, as she removed Clancy’s shoes and covered her with a quilt. “She must be exhausting after her flight. I suppose we should leave, and let her sleep. I’ll pop over and check on her first thing in the morning. I can’t wait to hear what she’s been up to for the past two years. On her last visit, she hardly told us anything.”

After Brad locked the front door, they exited through the patio and returned to their own home.

The next morning, someone bouncing on the end of her bed awakened Clancy. Raising her head, she saw a young, brown-haired girl smiling at her.

“Where did you come from, little one?” Clancy mumbled sleepily.

“Next door. Mom sent me over to see if you were awake yet. Are you?”

“Well, I am now.”

The girl continued bouncing excitedly on the mattress. “Did you bring me anything?”

“Did I bring you anything? I’m not even sure who you are. You look a lot like Amy – are you a cousin of hers?”

“Clancy!” she giggled, “I’m Amy!”

“No tricks, now. Amy is four years old. You look like you’re around eight.”

“I’m only seven and a half. I won’t be eight until October.”

“Then be a good girl and come back in October. I’d like to sleep,” Clancy groaned, becoming annoyed with the child’s incessant jiggling.

Just then, a thin, dark-haired woman peeked in the bedroom door. “Amy! Come away from there and stop bothering her!”

“It’s okay, I’m awake – barely.” Clancy sat up, blinked, and regarded her second visitor curiously. “Rhonda? When did you cut your hair?”

“It was this length the last time you visited. Don’t you remember?”

“The last time I visited? What do you mean? Your hair was long last night when we went out to dinner.” Clancy held her head and collapsed on her pillow, realizing, suddenly, she was developing a headache. “Can you get your niece, or whoever this kid is, off my bed?”

“My niece? Don’t you recognize Amy? She hasn’t grown that much since the last time you were here.” Addressing her daughter, Rhonda said, “Run along home and feed Berrigan.”

Amy made a terrible face, but obeyed her mother.

“Who’s Berrigan?” Clancy asked.

“Bunny Berrigan – Amy’s rabbit. You bought it for her and named it right after Cotton Club died. You must not be fully awake yet,” Rhonda determined, as she observed Clancy squinting and looking hazily around the room. “Either that,” she teased, “or turning thirty has affected your memory.”

“Rhonda, this isn’t funny. I think you’ve seen Gaslight too many times. I was twenty-seven when I went to bed, and I haven’t aged three years overnight. I won’t be thirty until 1995!”

From Clancy’s tone, Rhonda inferred that she was quite serious, and she grew concerned. “What year do you think this is?” she inquired, attempting to keep her voice even.

Clancy sat up again. “What do you mean, what year do I think this is? It’s 1992.”

Looking down at herself, she noticed, suddenly, that she was wearing street clothes. “Why am I dressed? I was wearing pajamas – wasn’t I? Funny, I…” Catching sight of her reflection in the dresser mirror, she drew in her breath sharply. “Something isn’t right – Rhonda – I look terrible! And my hair! Yesterday it was level with my chin, and now it’s…it’s almost touching my shoulders!”

“You don’t look terrible. You just look very tired,” Rhonda said soothingly.

“I could pass for thirty,” Clancy realized, still staring into the mirror.

“Stay where you are. I’ll be right back.”

Rhonda headed out the door, and raced through the patio. Clancy could hear the clip clop of her friend’s sandals, as she sprinted across the terra cotta tiles. Climbing out of bed, she wandered down the hall and entered the living room. Moments later, Rhonda returned with a newspaper, and found Clancy standing at the window, gazing out onto her front lawn.

“Oh, there you are. You should stay in bed and get some more rest.”

“Rhonda,” Clancy asked, “where’s the crape myrtle tree that Brad planted for Aunt Hilly’s memorial? And why do all the neighbors have their flags out?”

“The Santa Ana winds blew it down last year. I mentioned it in one of my letters. Don’t you remem –”

“Who does that ugly luggage belong to?” Clancy interrupted, pointing to a set of bright teal suitcases near the door.

“Isn’t it yours? The driver unloaded it from the van last night when he brought you from LAX.” Rhonda placed her arm around Clancy’s shoulder and guided her toward the couch. “Come and sit down for a moment.”

“What would I have been doing at LAX? We drove over to San Marino for Moroccan food last night – didn’t we? ”

As they sat side by side, Rhonda handed Clancy the sports section of the Los Angeles Times. “Take a look at this and try not to overreact.”

Clancy glanced at the headline and read aloud, “Sampras’ Grit Fells New Brit Wimbleton: Former Canadian Rusedski and his happy demeanor are sent packing by determined second-seeded…what’s this have to do with anything? I don’t follow tennis.”

Rhonda pointed to the paper’s date.

“Saturday, July 4, 1995.” Clancy glanced at Rhonda, and then looked back at the paper. “1995?” she read again, in disbelief.

In shock, she grasped her friend’s arm. “This can’t be happening! Rhonda – help me! Please tell me this isn’t true!”

“Come with me,” she said, leading Clancy by the hand into the den.

Rhonda turned on the television, and it didn’t take long before CNN Headline News confirmed for Clancy that the date was, indeed, July 4, 1995. Independence Day. How ironic, she thought. I’ve never felt more dependent in my life – or more frightened.

“Clancy – CLANCY!” Rhonda shouted. She shook her lightly by the shoulders, trying to pull her out of her stunned reverie.

“CNN,” she quipped darkly. “It must stand for Clancy Norgard’s Nuts!”

“You’re not nuts if you can still make jokes,” Rhonda tried to assure her. “Something must have happened to make you lose a portion of your memory. Do you think you might have experienced a traumatic shock or received a blow to the head recently?”

“How would I know, when I can’t remember anything?”

“Good point,” Rhonda conceded. “Look, what’s the last thing you really do remember? Tell me everything you can recall.”

“Well, let’s see. I remember eating Moroccan food last night…or rather, three years ago. We ordered bastilla, couscous…the waiter’s toupee was lopsided – I definitely remember that. It was mid-August…the 16th, or thereabouts. I’d received a letter from Aunt Hilly’s friend a month earlier, inviting me to visit his school, and I’d actually considered going because I’d had silly romantic notions about meeting her nephew Severus."

“And…” Rhonda prompted, encouraging her to continue.

“And…you and Brad had just moved in next door…”

“No, no…I mean what about Severus? What do you remember about him?”

“Nothing more than what Aunt Hilly told me – why?”

“You don’t remember meeting him?”

“No. The last thing I remember is the waiter with the lopsided toupee.”

Rhonda and Clancy transferred back to the couch in the living room, as they tried to sort out what could have caused her to forget completely the last three years of her life.

“Clancy," Rhonda revealed hesitantly, “I’m not sure how to break this to you, but you did meet Severus. In fact, you’ve spent the last three years in the U.K. teaching choir at a school. That’s where you were returning from last night. You fell asleep in the shuttle van. Brad carried you inside and we put you to bed. I’ve never known you to be such a sound sleeper – it was almost as if you’d been drugged.”

Clancy remained silent, leaning back against the cushions. Her mind had never been in such a fog.

“There’s something else,” Rhonda added, noticing Clancy’s hand. “You’re wearing a ring. It looks like an engagement ring, or…it might even be a wedding band. It doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“No, nothing,” Clancy said blandly, looking down at it.

“Here’s a thought: Take it off. Maybe there’s an inscription on the inside that’ll provide a clue.”

“It’s worth a try,” she agreed, as she began to twist and pull at it. After giving it a final, desperate tug, Clancy gave up in frustration.

“Wait a minute,” Rhonda realized, looking over at Clancy’s colorful baggage. “All the answers we need might be inside your luggage! Suppose you go through it while I run home and hunt for your letters. You didn’t write many, but they might shed some light on this.”

Rhonda clip clopped her way back across the patio, while Clancy opened the largest suitcase. It was empty. Next, she searched through the medium-sized one. It contained only clothes, most of which she recognized. Just as she was about to open the small valise, Rhonda returned with the letters.

“Any luck?” she asked hopefully.

“None. One is empty; the other contains only clothes. Maybe there’ll be something in the small case.”

Opening it, Clancy found her makeup and grooming supplies, and a golden bell. She picked it up and shook it, but it made no sound.


*~~~*~~~*


Thousands of miles away, in the depths of Hogwarts’ dungeons, the Potions master heard a shrill ringing in his ears. Clancy! Why would she be ringing the Summoning Bell? She shouldn’t be able to remember what it’s for! Curiosity overwhelmed him, so he retrieved the one-way mirror from his pocket, gazed into it, and spoke her name. The mirror clouded with smoke for an instant, and when it cleared, Snape could see Clancy in her living room in Pasadena and hear her voice.

“What a useless piece of junk! Why would I have a bell among my belongings? It doesn’t even work.”

Then she spied a small pin protruding from underneath a package of tissues.

“What’s this?” Picking it up, she frowned. “A pineapple pin? Some cheap little trinket…whoever bought this sure had lousy taste.” Turning it over, Clancy discovered an inscription on the back. “From S to L,” she read. “S to L?” She glanced at Rhonda. “What do you think the initials stand for?”

“It’s Severus!” Rhonda said with conviction. “It must be!”

“Possibly, but who’s L? Obviously, this doesn’t belong to me.” Clancy tossed the pin carelessly back into the case. “Let me see the letters.”

Rhonda handed them to her, and Clancy opened the first one and began to read it aloud.

“September 4, 1992,

Dear Rhonda,

Apologies for all the ink blotches, but believe it or not, I’m trying to learn to write with a quill! Now, hold on to your hat: The headmaster (Aunt Hilly’s friend) offered me a position as Choir Director! DIRECTOR! Can you believe it? This place beats that crappy middle school all to hell, so I’ve accepted. I’m living in a grand castle near a beautiful lake. And the FOOD! It’s better than any all-you-can-eat buffet we’ve ever been to!

It’s rather hard to explain what it is they teach here, but the students seem to be exceptionally gifted and have all sorts of amazing talents. It’s a very magical place, and I’d best leave it at that.

I hope you’re all settled in by now, and won’t mind looking after my house for me. I’ll write to my bank and arrange with them to set up my estate account to accept direct deposits from you. Just send your rent checks there, and deduct whatever you think is fair for keeping up my place. I’ll give this job a year, and see how it goes.

My fingers are covered with ink. I’m making a huge mess, and the sourpuss librarian who works here keeps shooting me dirty looks, so I’d better close. I’ll write again as soon as I’m able. Tell Brad and Amy hello!

Love,

Clancy

P.S. I met Severus. So much for romantic fantasy. He’s not exactly God’s gift to women. How could Aunt Hilly have been so wrong? We’ve only spoken briefly, but my initial impression is that he’s a colossal ass.”



“Hmm. I didn’t have much to say, did I?” Clancy opened the next letter.


“June 1, 1993

Dear Rhonda,

Please excuse the long silence. All is well, but it’s such a bother to get my letters into the post. We’re quite isolated here, and the postal system is rather antiquated. In fact, it’s for the birds. But please keep writing to me as often as you can, via the Leaky Cauldron address I provided. I love to hear news from home.

I’ve learned so much this year -- it’s been eye-opening. My choirs presented a Yule Concert, which was great fun. Unfortunately, the Spring Concert was cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances, but that’s the way it goes. I have one student with a voice that would blow you away. She’ll be going places someday – that’s my prediction.

I’m planning a short trip home when the term ends. I should be arriving on June 20. Can’t wait to see you!

Love,

Clancy

P.S. Severus and I are not hitting it off well at all. He hates me. Would you believe after nine months, we’re still addressing each other as “Professor Snape” and “Miss Norgard”? The man’s a tight-assed Victorian if I’ve ever seen one. He even wears frockcoats with long rows of tiny black buttons. Please don’t breathe a word of this to a living soul, but I have a mad desire to nibble at them to see if they taste like raisins.”



Clancy shook her head and exhaled a sigh of disgust. “How could I have written such a thing? If the best part about Severus was his buttons, he must not have had much else going for him. No wonder I can’t remember him.”

Nose-deep in self-pity, Snape smashed the mirror against the wall. But after pacing a bit to work off his anger, he snarled, “Reparo,” and commanded the mirror to return to his pocket.

Perusing the rest of the letters, Clancy was discouraged to find that they revealed nothing that jogged her memory. There was no further mention of Snape - only of her choirs, and of making some good friends and joining an Anagram Club.

Her last letter, dated June 5, 1995, said that she would be returning home for a three-week visit and that she expected to arrive on July 4.

“Well, the letters weren’t very helpful.” Clancy handed them back to Rhonda.

“Hey Rhonseeee!” Brad yelled from the patio. “The old witch is on the phone for you!”

“The old witch?” Clancy asked, perking up for a moment, as if a faint memory had stirred within her.

“He means my mother.” Rhonda stood and regarded Clancy with concern. “Will you be all right alone for a little while? I’ve got to talk to Mom and find out what dish she’s planning to bring tonight.”

“Tonight? What’s going on tonight?”

“We’re having a barbeque and an oldies karaoke party. It’s the Fourth of July! Why don’t you come over in a little while and you can help me make potato salad,” Rhonda suggested. “How does that sound?”

“Fine, Rhonda. I’ll take a quick bath and be right over.” I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less at the moment than make potato salad! I just lost the last three years of my life, and she expects me to slap a grin on my face and crack hardboiled eggs?

Rhonda hesitated.

“I’ll be okay,” Clancy assured her, noting her worried expression. "I’m not going to fall apart. You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves.”

“Well, if you’re sure. See you soon,” she said cheerily, as she trotted out.

“Yes, yes, I’ll be fine,” Clancy muttered to herself. “I’ll just sit here with a song in my heart and start making out my Christmas list early. Dear Santa,” she chirped with mock brightness, “please restore my sanity, give me back my memory, provide me with a reason to live – and bring me a better-looking set of FREAKING LUGGAGE!” Rising, she marched over to the luggage, gave the large, empty suitcase a good swift kick across the room, and screamed, “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” at the top of her lungs.


*~~~*~~~*


As Clancy sank into the bathtub, the reality of her plight hit her full force. She wailed, screamed, cursed, and sulked. Pounding her fist angrily against the tiles, she shrieked, “I DON’T WANT TO BE THIRTY! I WANT TO BE TWENTY-SEVEN AGAIN AND HAVE MY MEMORY BACK!” Shriveled after her long soak, she suddenly remembered Aunt Hilly’s purple hatbox. She’d admired the vintage look of the silly old thing, and had placed it on top of her armoire for decoration.

Springing from the tub, Clancy grabbed a towel and hurried into the bedroom. The hatbox would answer all her questions. Aunt Hilly’s letters were in there. She’d find the address of the Leaky Cauldron, write to Dumbledore, explain that she had lost her memory, and perhaps he would be able to tell her what had happened to her in the last three years. Reaching for the box, she transferred it to the bed, sneezed three times, and opened the lid.

“Empty,” Clancy moaned. “I must have taken Aunt Hilly’s letters and that weird moving photograph of her and Severus with me when I left – and her conductor’s baton is gone, too.”

Later in the day, Clancy forced herself to join her neighbors for their backyard celebration. She did her fair share of the potato salad preparations, made mindless small talk with complete strangers, and wondered how soon she could sneak away without appearing rude.

It seemed odd to have her friends living next door in the house that had once belonged to her beloved aunt. The rooms looked so different from the last time she’d remembered seeing them. The interiors had been repainted, and all traces of Aunt Hilly’s eccentric touches had been removed. The only thing that remained the same was her aunt’s battered upright piano tucked into an alcove next to the fireplace. Clancy had insisted that they keep it.

As Clancy walked through the breakfast nook, she remembered the wallpaper that had once adorned the space: images of hens sitting atop their nests, with roosters looking on, wearing ribald expressions. She recalled sitting in her highchair as a child and having cocoa and cinnamon toast for breakfast. Sometimes Aunt Hilly would be called to the telephone, but before she’d leave the room, she’d talk to the wallpaper poultry and instruct the creatures to keep an eye on her while she ate. At times, Clancy believed the barnyard birds blinked their eyes and cocked their heads as if, in fact, they were studying her. Once when she spilt her drink and began to cry, she fancied one of the roosters crowed a cock-a-doodle do. Then within moments, her aunt rushed back into the room to bring her a fresh cup of cocoa!

The seeds of my madness were planted at a very early age, she reflected bitterly.

As evening fell, and the lingering summer smog faded into a starless, embrowned night sky, the patriotic partygoers settled into chaise lounges to watch the fireworks display emanating from a nearby park. Clancy sat alone – the only unattached woman in a group of groping couples. She stared sadly into the heavens as they burst into vivid colors, only to darken again as the embers fell back to earth. She felt almost as if she were a part of them – sparking for a moment, only to return to the dimness of longing for something, or for someone, she could not remember.

After the fireworks ended, it was time for the main event: karaoke. Brad had set up a small platform in the yard with a state-of-the-art professional karaoke machine with dual microphones.

Clancy cringed as dear little Amy skipped merrily up to the mike, eager to be the first to perform. She began making offensive noises, which Clancy assumed was meant to be singing.

“Someday my prince will come,
Someday we'll meet again,
And away to his castle we'll go,
To be happy forever, I know…”

“Don’t hold your breath, kid,” Clancy muttered to herself. “The sooner you stop believing in fairy tales, the better off you’ll be.”

The quality of the entertainment declined appreciably as the evening wore on. Mrs. Lawrence, the kind neighbor who had inherited Aunt Hilly’s budgie, opted to perform “I Enjoy Being a Girl”. As she was well into her eighties, the effect was rather comical. Not to be outdone, Rhonda’s mother, who was pushing sixty and had smoked two packs of cigarettes a day for the past thirty-five years, selected “Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart”, and croaked chorus after chorus in a deep, gravelly voice summoned forth from nicotine blackened lungs.

“'Twas like a breath of spring,
I heard a robin sing
About a nest set apart…”

“Please, dear Lord,” Clancy bargained, Let me remember the past three years and just erase my memory of this night.

Brad and his beer-drinking buddies sang boisterously, and dreadfully off-key, much to the embarrassment of their wives and girlfriends, and Rhonda’s mother insisted on performing a second number, after smoking nine more cigarettes and downing two cups of Hawaiian Punch, laced with demon rum. This time she dispensed with background music altogether and decided to croon a capella. Grabbing a small plastic American flag in each fist, she waved them enthusiastically over her head.

“Oh see can you say,
By the lawn’s early blight,
What so proudly we something,
At the twilight’s last something.
Whose striped broads…”

Little Amy plopped down hard on Clancy’s lap, taking her unawares like a grief in the night. “Why’s Grandma acting funny?”

“She’ll be fine, dear. She’s just feeling patriotic.” Clancy shifted her weight uncomfortably and reminded Amy that it was well past time for all good little girls to be in bed.

After torturing Clancy with a series of annoying bounces, Amy finally took the hint and shuffled off to pester Mrs. Lawrence.

But her hosts had saved the worst for last. Rhonda and Brad favored their guests with an impersonation of Louis Prima and Keely Smith – the same tiresome routine they had been perfecting since high school. Twelve years later, perfection still eluded them. Clancy plastered a smile on her face and wished she’d had the presence of mind to add snail repellant to the potato salad.

“You’re the lover I have waited for.”

“You’re the mate that fate had me created for,
And every time your lips meet mine,”

“BABY!”

I’ll count to ten, and then silently steal away, Clancy vowed.

“Down and down I go,
Round and round I go,”

One, two, three, four…

“In a spin,
Lovin’ the spin I’m in.”

Five, six, seven…

“Under that old…black magic called love.”

Eight, nine…

“Under that old…black magic…called…LOOOOOOOOOVE!”

Ten. It’s now or never. I’ll make a run for it.

Clancy had one leg through the gate when Brad pulled her back by the crook of her arm.

“You’re next! Everyone’s taken a turn except you!”

“Leave her alone, Brad,” Rhonda intervened. “Can’t you see she’s tired? She doesn’t feel like singing.”

“Come on, Clancy!” he insisted, ignoring his wife. “Just one little number.”

“No, honestly – can’t you just drag me out to the curb to die? I really don’t want to –”

It was too late. Brad pulled her up to the stage. Clancy looked pleadingly at Rhonda, who shrugged helplessly, and began sorting through their CDs. Selecting one at random, she handed it to her husband.

“Hey Brad,” one of his drunken friends called from the tiki bar, “what’dja do with the bottle opener?”

“I’m In the Mood for Love,” Brad said to Clancy, thrusting his hand deep into the pocket of his swim trunks.

“Unless that’s the title of the song you want me to sing, I suggest you excuse yourself to the bathroom,” Clancy observed acidly.

Retrieving the bottle opener, Brad handed it off to his friend and shot Clancy a dark look. “What did you do – come straight out of the womb insulting people?” He lurched toward her, reeking of stale beer. “You’re still single for a reason, Clancy. It would take a man with balls of steel to put up with your crap.”

“I’d be willing to settle for one who could spell.”

“Do you still play anagrams, sweetheart? Give me an anagram for ‘frigid bitch’!”

“If you can spell it correctly first, I’ll try,” she promised sweetly.

“Shut up, Brad,” Rhonda snapped.

“Yes, dear,” he blubbered meekly, before staggering toward the kitchen. Stumbling over a lawn sprinkler, he landed hard on his grass and began to cry.

“Go on home, Clancy. You don’t have to sing. Brad’s drunk. I’ll make him apologize to you in the morning.”

“It’s okay, Rhonda. He’s right. I am a frigid bitch -- unless some miracle occurred within the last three years that could have changed me. If it did, though, I wish I could remember it. The frigidity is curable, I suspect -- although, if a man fails to stimulate my mind, his chances of trying his luck on my lower anatomy are quite unpromising.” Clancy cast a scornful eye on the men gathered around the tiki bar – good-looking, suntanned, athletic types, for the most part – though a few had beer bellies. “I’m afraid there’s slim pickings in Pasadena. It would take someone out of this world to inspire me, I’m afraid.”

Rhonda walked Clancy to the gate and gave her a hug. “Get a good night’s rest and things will seem better in the morning. The first thing you should do is see a doctor, and then –”

“You mean a psychiatrist, don’t you?”

“Whatever it takes, Clancy. I wasn’t suggesting you become my patient. You’re my best friend – I couldn’t be objective enough to treat you. But I could refer you to someone who could –”

“No, Rhonda,” Clancy protested, “unless -- do you really think there’s something seriously wrong with me?”

“I haven’t had enough time to evaluate your condition thoroughly, but my instincts tell me you’re no crazier than you’ve ever been. Give yourself a little time. Something might happen to trigger your memory, and then we can discover what that ring on your finger means.”

“When I returned to visit you after a year, didn’t I tell you anything about what I’d been doing?”

Rhonda tried to recall. “No, you didn’t say much more in person than you wrote in your letters. You did mention Severus – frequently, in fact, but only to say that you found him infuriating and didn’t want to have a thing to do with him. That’s about it.”

“Then how could you possibly think that this ring on my finger could be his? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Love never makes any sense. It wasn’t what you said about him – it was how you said it – as though you were trying to convince yourself.”

“Rubbish.”

“Rubbish?” Rhonda repeated.

“That’s British for baloney,” Clancy explained.

“Are you starting to remember something?”

“No. I must have heard Aunt Hilly use the expression.”

“I don’t recall her ever using it. When I used to come over here for piano lessons as a child, all she ever said to me was ‘fiddlesticks’.”

“Then I must have picked it up from watching some old movie. Honestly, Rhonda – I can’t remember a thing.”

“Monday morning, I’m going to call London information and try to locate the phone number of that Leaky Cauldron place. The return address is on the letters you sent me, so I can try contacting them by mail, too.”

“Thanks.” Clancy flashed Rhonda a quivering smile, then hurried back to her own home as her eyes began tearing.

As she undressed for bed, a thousand thoughts invaded Clancy’s mind – ancient memories of the most trivial nature. She was seven, biting into an egg salad sandwich at Zuma Beach, and tasting gritty particles of sand that had somehow worked their way into the mixture. She was twelve, and her mother was tucking her in for the night, after issuing a stern warning that under no circumstances, would the dog be allowed to sleep in her room. Then her mother would withdraw, put out the light, and close the door – even though she’d seen a suspicious length of tail protruding from beneath the blanket, wagging its slow, guilty rhythm. Clancy was fifteen, seated beside Aunt Hilly at her piano, as her aunt taught her Victor Borge’s Phonetic Punctuation routine, and pretended to read sheet music upside-down.

Why, she berated herself, can I remember vividly so many things from my childhood, but not the past three years? It’s so unfair!

After tossing restlessly for more than an hour, Clancy decided to go into the kitchen and drink some warm Ovaltine to calm her nerves. She found the jar, still in the cupboard where she’d left it -- three years older, but none the worse for wear. Unfortunately, it hadn’t occurred to her that there wouldn’t be any milk in the house.

“Son of a bitch!” Clancy slammed the refrigerator door and stormed into the living room. Spying the golden bell she had left on the coffee table, she grabbed it, eager to see if it was heavy enough to break a window. Reconsidering, she settled for giving it a strong shake, and clasped it tightly between her fingers, as if she intended to strangle it.

To distract herself from her troubles, she seated herself at her piano and began rifling through a stack of old sheet music that had once belonged to Aunt Hilly.


*~~~*~~~*


It was early morning at Hogwarts, as Snape was awakened from an uneasy sleep by the tinkling of the Summoning Bell.

Blast the woman! Why is she ringing it again?

With his ears still burning from the last time he’d used the enchanted one-way mirror, he retrieved it from his bed table and beckoned it to produce her image once more.

“Clancy,” he murmured, and the glass cleared, bringing her reflection into focus.

“What’s this funny old tune?” Clancy wondered aloud, pulling a tattered score from the pile. She turned its brittle pages carefully. Glancing through the lyrics, she noted the copy write date. “1929. This song is almost as old as Aunt Hilly!”

Playing it through once to familiarize herself with the melody, she began to sing.

As Snape observed her, he listened to the words of the unfamiliar Muggle song, and noted the pain in Clancy’s eyes as she sang them.

“I believe the more you love a man,
The more you give your trust,
The more you're bound to lose.
Although when shadows fall,
I think if only
Somebody splendid really needed me;
Someone affectionate and dear.
Cares would be ended if I knew that he
Wanted to have me near.”

“Sentimental tripe!” Snape decided. If only I could go to her – make her understand.

“But I believe that since my life began,
The most I've had is just a talent to amuse.
Hey ho, if love were all.
Hey ho, if love were all.”

“I should be lonely…” Clancy finished, speaking a previous line from the lyrics.

Snape sat emotionless on the edge of his bed, as he saw Clancy close the piano lid, and tighten her trembling mouth. As she wiped away her tears, he laid the mirror down on the table.

“Rubbish!” he declared. I’m…sorry, Clancy, I…RUBBISH! Snape concluded, and set about beginning his day.

“Rubbish!” Clancy sniveled. She glared hatefully at the useless bell, but carried it with her back to her bedroom. “I should keep this, I suppose. It may be of some value someday – but I can't see how.” She set it down on her desk. “I can always use it as a paperweight.”

Crawling back into bed, she pulled the blanket up over her head to entomb herself in the darkness. “Aunt Hilly…where are you, now that I need you?” Clancy sobbed, giving in to despair. “I used to have you to lean on. Now…I…don’t have…anyone.”




AUTHOR’S NOTES:

I apologize to you once again on Clancy’s behalf for her language, but if you were in her shoes, you might swear too. As she comes to terms with the situation in the next chapter, her self-control will return.

Someday My Prince Will Come
~ By Larry Morey and Frank Churchill

Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart
~ By James F. Hanley

That Old Black Magic
~ By Harold Arlen

Parties as bad as the one Clancy had to endure really do take place, but please don’t ask me how I know.

If Love Were All
~ Words and Music by Noel Coward
From the operetta Bitter Sweet, 1929

Special thanks to LariLee for beta reading this.

Highly Improbable by Vocalion [Reviews - 16]

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