As she had hoped, Orwell's name had gotten her across the threshold and into the familiar home, though in spite of the fact that she had visited dozens of times before, it seemed colder now, as though sharing the apprehension of its owner.

It was not lost on Persephone that she hadn't been shown through to the parlour.

"My name," she spoke clearly, with more confidence than she felt at the moment, "is Persephone Broadmoor. I am the youngest daughter of Augustus and Millicent Broadmoor, though neither they nor my brothers could attest to that at the moment. I, and a handful of young ladies—" not other young ladies, for aside from their shared circumstances, Persy did not feel any sense of kinship towards those who favoured the typical pattern of Society "—have fallen victim to some sort of memory... memory anomally. Mr. Ezra Applegate of the Department of Mysteries can vouch for this, as I have just left him at the modiste. You and I, Ivy, have been best friends since our first year at Hogwarts."

Persy wondered what effect her... elimination from memory had on the events of the past. Had her part in Ivy's life been subsumed by another person, or was there simply a void, one glossed over and dismissed by the brain, where Persephone had once stood?