Oblivescence

Fable Reid

Fable Reid, of number 12, Lily Lane, was perfectly normal. And she was certainly not connected to anything nefarious. She had never done anything interesting enough to even have the opportunity to be involved in any such a thing. She was a reporter for the Daily Prophet, and only covered small happenings in the Wizarding World.

Fable was a willowy woman, above average in height, with blond hair she kept back in a braid that fell to the small of her back. She was kind, and well mannered to those who returned the favor. To those that did not, she could be quite severe, using every inch of her extra height to intimidate her adversaries.

When Fable woke up that November morning, when our story begins, it was a day like any other. It was deceptively sunny out, the sky a beautiful cerulean blue. It was chilly when Fable left her house that morning, wrapped up in a coat, a scarf thrown over her shoulders. It was slightly warmer when she apparated into the Daily Prophet headquarters.

It was a tall, rickety looking building on the outskirts of Diagon Alley, marked only by the words Daily Prophet hanging over the door. On the inside, the space was much larger, furnished warmly with plump armchairs and warm carpets. There were framed issues of the Prophet hung up, and wooden doors with small placards lining the walls. A staircase led up, presumably to the editorial offices.

Fable's own office was small, and shared with Hugh Dawson, who covered the obituary section of the paper. His work was dull, and oftentimes depressing, but it was a necessary part of the paper. The two shared a small office with no windows, two desks crammed into the small space. The walls were covered in clippings of favored articles, and research for stories still in progress. Fable herself covered small stories in small towns. Issues pertaining to specific wizarding towns, stories that magically traded out depending on where the newspaper went.

It was small work, but rewarding. It meant Fable traveled quite a bit, visiting and making friends with all sorts. It was how she had met Theodora Smith, an elderly war hero who had wanted nothing more than to sit at home and finish her crossword. Fable had been determined to draw the woman's story from her, but got little more than what had been published in the original article that had launched her into fame. Through her persistence, however, the two had grown closer, and Fable considered her a good friend. But now there was little use. The woman had passed away earlier that week, taking her friendship with her, and her full story to her grave.

Fable spent the day revising a story on a Falmouth citizen's accidental use of magic in front of her entire primary school class. It was an easy enough fix, but with the increase in wizarding children attending muggle schools before Hogwarts, it was an issue that was bound to be repeated. By the time 5 o'clock rolled around, Fable was properly tired, and more than ready to relax and have a cup of tea.

She nearly tripped over a package on her doormat when she arrived home. She scooped it under one arm, unlocking her door with a wave of her wand. She set the box down on her counter, filling a kettle with water and lighting the fire beneath it with a quick prod. Settling herself down on her favorite chair, she looked curiously at the package. She hadn't remembered ordering anything recently; perhaps it was from her sister in Egypt. She had always been rather fond of sending people anything she found remotely interesting. She leaned forward, opening the package up gently. Fable drew out a mahogany box, and a letter. She paused, recognizing the curly handwriting that spelled out her name on the envelope.

Fable turned it over, the red drop of wax pressed with the image of an olive branch confirming her suspicions. Very few still sealed letters with wax, and only one sealed them with the image of an olive branch. Theodora. Breaking the seal and easing open the envelope, Fable drew out the letter.

Dear Fable,

If you are reading this, I am dead. I suppose that's a dreary way of putting it, but I have been preparing for this day for a long time.

We have been friends since you were a budding reporter nearly 30 years ago, and for just as long, you have asked me for my story. Only, mine is not a simple story of good versus evil, of dark versus light. You have waited a long time, and I think it is finally time for me to tell you my story, if you would still be willing to listen.

My story is also not one to fit in a simple letter. I have left you three vials of my memories. The three together tell my story in full. You may see some impossible things, but I beg of you, continue. It will all be explained. And every word is true. One final request, if it is not too much: tell my story. The world deserves to know the truth.

Sincerely,

Theodora Smith

Fable blinked hard, her eyes burning slightly. It was disconcerting to see a letter from a friend long dead. But more odd was the contents of the letter. Theodora's story. Fable laid the letter down gently, creaking open the mahogany box. Inside, nestled in velvet, sat three vials, filled to the brim with the recognizable shimmer of memories. She stood, removing the kettle from the stove. She wouldn't be getting tea tonight. Or much sleep, if she had to guess. Summoning her pensieve, she picked up the first vial and uncorked it. Pouring the memories into the bowl, she watched as the material swirled and shifted gently. You wanted this. She reminded herself. She steadied herself, reaching her fingers out, the tips of them barely breaking the surface before she was launched into the memories of her late friend.