JK couldn’t be bothered to give Euphemia Potter a backstory so I did it for her. 2400-ish words.
The mad Muggle theater production Fleamont had dragged her to the night before had been on her mind all day. Euphemia, halfway through her shift in Injuries, laughed at her own play on words. The question—whether or not to heal—had never been one she’d considered asking herself.
She’d been born to heal, groomed for it since birth.
Her room is so dark she can’t see her hand waving in front of her face, and Euphemia was absolutely positive that a boggart—bent on stealing Dolly, probably—lay in wait under her four poster. She knew this because his whispers had woken her up, and because she could still hear them. She grabbed her coverlet with her two small fists and yanked hard as she could to free the edges from the corner posts. When it finally pulled free, the force caused her to fall back against the headboard. After rubbing the back of her head, she buried herself beneath the linens—here, at least, it was safe and warm. Though she felt neither, because even under the covers aren’t as good as her mum’s arms.
In fact, Euphemia missed Mummy more than she’d ever missed anything, ever, in the terrible long history of the world. Or at least in her living memory, which, at five-years-old, isn’t quite as long as all that.
But her mother had passed on, and while it was all terribly confusing, the gravity of the situation is finally beginning to settle in her heart. Her Mummy would not come, because she could not, just as she had not for the past eleven nights. Euphemia Louise didn’t have a name for it, this feeling, but a grown up might call it loneliness.
In his moment, she realized that the whispering was not whispering at all, but the echo of a normal voice coming from the corridor rather than from under her bed. More pressing, the voice belonged to Grandmum Dearborn.
She missed her mother terribly, but grandmum was the next best thing.
More than likely—logically, which her father had explained to mean thinking hard about things instead of just feeling them—no boggart was hiding under her bed. Just to be sure, and safe, Euphemia stood, stockings slipping down past one knee, and jumped as far as she could into the middle of the room. She landed ungraciously, limbs sprawled in every direction, but the plush carpet softened the blow. She gathered herself, straightened her nightdress—Dolly’s, too—and then darted for the door.
She remembered just in time that she ought to be in bed. Always better to avoid a scolding than catch one, she stopped just shy of the cracked door and peered out into the hall. Empty. She opened the door slowly, to avoid a heavy creak, and padded on tiptoes toward the edge of the stairs.
