The Overlooked

Twenty-One

From the diary of Celeste Jenkins

July 11, 1996

This could be the last time I write in this diary.

Oh, that sounds so melodramatic. I want to tease myself over it, but the truth is, I can't -- I don't know what the future holds for me. I can see it for others...although even those visions have become cloudier, as if that strange inner eye has suddenly decided perhaps now would be a good time to shove off and go on holiday for a bit. I only wish I could do the same. I hear Tuscany is lovely.

But I know that won't happen. Severus has pointed out, with grim detail, that running off to the Continent or possibly even America very well might not be enough to protect me. No, whatever happens, we have to face this here, in England.

Awful things have happened, so terrible that I'm not sure I can even bear to put them down here. But I force myself to keep writing, as if scratching out these lines is going to make any difference. It might, though. If nothing else, these words can serve as my testament.

Where to begin?

Chance, or fate. Hard to say. What was it, after all, that drove Severus into Plunkett's all those weeks ago? A simple need to peruse the books there? A reason to get away from the crowds on Oldham Street? He's never said, and in the final analysis, perhaps it doesn't really matter. Things happen all the time in our lives that some people call coincidence, and other people call destiny. Just because I can see the future doesn't mean that I know whether someone -- or something -- is guiding events to a certain conclusion. It could all be random. I hate to believe that, though.

At any rate, after Severus left me to meet up with this unknown Death Eater, this Rhys Davies person (for some reason, that sounds like such a friendly name to me; I have a hard time fitting it to a follower of Voldemort), I stayed in my room as instructed. I'd already come to hate the seventies-vintage color scheme and the faint lingering smell of cigarette smoke that seemed to cling to the upholstery and the ratty carpet, but I knew this wasn't a game. Although Severus seemed to think that no one knew of my presence in London, it certainly wouldn't do to risk fate. Or chance. Or whatever you wanted to call it.

The television palled after a while, though, and the one book I'd picked up at the chemist's -- an old Agatha Christie novel -- didn't hold me over for very long. I knew that Severus had said I needed to stay inside as much as possible, but he had told me that he thought it safe enough for me to stay in the immediate vicinity. When I'd gone to the secondhand clothing store just around the corner, I'd noticed that there was also a used book shop just across the street. Surely it couldn't do any harm to run out and buy myself a stack of nice, thick books, enough to keep me occupied until Severus returned. Whenever that might be.

By the time I'd made the decision to head over to the book shop, it was almost six. I hoped that the place would still be open -- it's plenty busy around here, what with all the theaters and general foot traffic, but you just never know. If they had closed for the day, I'd just return to the chemist's and see if there was anything else on their meager rack of paperback books that might possibly tempt me.

The air outside was dank and cool, much more suited for an early evening in November than the middle of July. I found myself missing the fresh breezes of the Welsh seacoast, the clear blue skies and open expanses of water. At that moment I wished violently that I could have stayed in Aberystwyth forever, that I hadn't been driven from my sanctuary by Voldemort's agents. I closed my eyes briefly to shut out the memory of my poor aunt's body, sprawled so incongruously on her floral needlepoint rug. At that moment I felt a rush of anger at the arrogance of this so-called Dark Lord, this man who thought he was above law and morality and common decency. All this, and for what? So that he might live forever? Who the hell was he to determine that he should be the one to flout the rules of nature in such a way?

It would have been a great irony, I thought, as I marched grimly down the sidewalk toward the used book shop, for Voldemort to capture me and force me to see his future -- only to have me tell him that he was going to die in the very near future. No doubt anyone who delivered such information to him would perish immediately after providing it, but perhaps it would almost be worth it. Not that I really hoped to have the chance, and God knows Severus was doing everything in his power to make sure that I never would.

The shop was small and cramped, not as neatly set up as Plunkett's. Its shelves were stuffed full of books, though, and frankly, as long as I found something worth my while, the general décor could be ignored.

I wandered through the stacks, pulling anything that looked interesting. My father had always been a great reader, and so I'd naturally followed in his footsteps, as well as adopting his varied tastes. My gleanings from this go-'round included everything from an omnibus volume of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories to a battered copy of Herman Wouk's The Winds of War (nice fat one, there...I knew it would keep me occupied for quite some time). I wasn't much of a romance reader, but I found a few Mary Stewart titles that looked fun, and she always intertwined the romance with a good suspense tale, so those should prove to be diverting as well.

In the end I had accumulated quite a stack and figured I should probably go ahead and buy what I'd found before I needed a hand cart to haul it all back to the hotel. I'd just set everything down on the counter next to the cash register when I heard a familiar voice -- one I thought I'd probably never hear again -- say, "Celeste?"

I turned, and looked into Alex Worrell's astonished hazel eyes. For a few seconds I couldn't say anything. After all, I hadn't seen him for more than two years. And although I knew that he had settled permanently in London, I certainly hadn't expected to run into him. London's a big place...but maybe not so large when fate (or chance, or coincidence) is involved.

But there he was, staring at me as if he'd seen a ghost, or possibly a mythical creature like a unicorn or a griffin. It's odd to run into someone who once was so important to you -- your brain keeps trying to overlay your memories of them with the person you see now, and the effect can be a little jarring. Once I'd recovered myself, though, I noticed that he hadn't changed all that much, although he looked a bit heavier. Not in a bad way, just that he seemed more solid. More adult.

"Well, erm...hi, Alex," I returned, after the silence had gotten a bit too awful.

Immediately he said, "What on earth are you doing in London? Don't you know that Fiona's been driven frantic?"

The vaguely accusatory tone was all too familiar. Excuses began to bubble to my lips, until I stopped to process what he'd just said. "Fiona?" I repeated. Then a wave of guilt washed over me as I realized I'd never stopped to call her to at least let her know I was all right. Everything that had happened to me in Wales had swept me along in its tide, and I'd completely forgotten there was one phone call I really should have made.

"Yes, Fiona," he replied, watching me out of narrowed eyes, as if he weren't quite sure whether I'd finally just lost my mind. "She rang me up a few days ago, asked me if I'd heard from you. I said of course I hadn't, and I asked her what was going on. She told me that you'd simply vanished from Manchester -- cancelled your appointments, boarded the cat -- "

I wondered briefly how Fiona had discovered all that in such a short amount of time, then realized she had really missed her calling -- she should have worked for MI5 instead of an advertising agency. And poor HBC. I'd thought of her from time to time, knew she'd be well cared for where she was, but that solution was only temporary, if for no other reason that I'd only paid up the vet for two weeks of boarding. That time was rapidly running out.

"I suppose it would look that way," I said after a pause. "Really, I just needed to get out for a while. Nothing terribly mysterious."

Alex gave me a very hard, very level look. I'll admit here that I still haven't forgiven him at some level -- even though I have no desire to get back with him -- but my feelings don't change the fact that he's anything but stupid. I hadn't spent much time looking a mirror lately. God knows what he saw in my face, what the past days of terror and doubt had done to me.

"What kind of trouble are you in, Celeste?" he asked, his voice softening.

The gentle tone almost undid me. It's so much easier to hang on when you know you need to be tough. But Alex's obvious worry made a scary tension build in my chest, and I took a deep breath. I couldn't break down in front of him. I just couldn't.

"No trouble," I replied.

He lifted an eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment the sales clerk finally appeared and asked, "Ring those up for you?"

"Yes, please," I said, relieved to have something to distract me.

During the transaction Alex remained silent. I pocketed my change, and then he said, "Let me buy you a drink."

Alarm bells went off in my head. "I don't think that's such a good idea -- "

"Coffee, then? Look, we need to talk."

Obviously I wouldn't be able to just shake him off. I nodded, then said, "How about the Thai place around the corner?"

"Sure."

Without even asking, he lifted my heavy parcel of books and followed me out of the store. From there we walked the remainder of the block, then turned down the side street where the Thai restaurant was located. I hadn't been there in person, of course, but it was about what I had expected -- small and barely serviceable, but I knew the food was good, and their iced coffee heavenly.

We placed our orders, and then after the waitress had gone, Alex folded his hands on the tabletop and looked at me expectantly. "So..."

What on earth could I possibly say? I knew I could never tell him the truth, but on the other hand, he obviously expected me to offer up some sort of explanation for my behavior of the past week.

Taking the coward's way out, I asked, "So you talked to Fiona?"

His eyes narrowed, but at least he seemed disinclined to call me out on that obvious red herring. "She rang me up a few days ago, frantic. You'd disappeared, she said, and nobody knew where you were. She wanted to know if I'd possibly heard from you." At that Alex paused, since the waitress returned with our iced coffees. Once we were alone again, he continued, "I told her that no, of course I hadn't, and why on earth would she think such a thing? Then she said she thought you were in some sort of trouble, and it was driving her frantic since no one knew what had happened to you, and since you'd left Manchester that perhaps you'd come to London. So yesterday she came down to get the key."

"Key?" I asked.

An odd little smile pulled at Alex's lips. "I still have a key, you know. After I moved out, you never took it back from me. Suppose you forgot." The hazel eyes met mine, slightly questioning.

What did he expect me to say -- that I'd never asked for it back because I'd hoped that one day he'd figure out what a mess he'd made of things and return? That wasn't even the truth. Sad to say, I'd probably just forgotten that he still had it. At the time, I'd only wanted to never have to see him or think about him again.

"I expect I had forgotten," I said coolly, and he flinched a little. Perhaps I was learning a thing or two from Severus. "So you gave her the key."

His mouth tightened. "Yes -- didn't see the harm in it. A little disconcerting to deal with Fiona in person, though -- she kept peering over my shoulder as if she expected to see you tied up in the sitting room of my flat."

The mental image made me want to laugh. Poor Fiona, though -- she'd always been fiercely protective of me, as if she thought I couldn't survive in the cruel world without her assistance. Who knows -- perhaps she was right.

"What did she want with the key, anyway?" I asked.

"Not sure. Maybe she thought you were the victim of foul play, and she'd find you inside the house. Or maybe she just thought you might have left some clue behind as to where you'd gone." Alex lifted his glass and drank some of his coffee, then added, "Why didn't you just leave a key with her, if you were going out of town for a while?"

I couldn't tell him that I didn't want anyone going near my house in case Voldemort or his minions might discover where I lived. Instead, I replied, "Oh, well -- I'd shut everything up, and taken care of everything that needed it. I suppose I didn't see any real reason."

For a few seconds Alex said nothing. Then he remarked, "You're really not going to tell me what's going on, are you?"

Even if I had wanted to confide in him, I knew I couldn't. Besides, he didn't need to know everything that had been happening to me. He'd given up that right when he'd walked out of my life two years before. "No, Alex," I said. "I'm not. I can't. We have to leave it at that."

A look of frustration passed over his features, but then he just shrugged. "I suppose I deserve that. Will you believe me if I tell you that I want to help you, if you'd let me?"

"I don't think there's anything you can do," I said sadly. The wistful note in his voice had shaken me a bit. Then something occurred to me, and I added, "Actually, there's one thing -- "

"What?"

"HBC. The vet's only paid up to the end of the week, and I don't know when I'm going to be able to take her back. Could you get her for me next weekend? I'd ask Fiona, but she's allergic."

His voice flat, Alex said, "The cat."

Belatedly I realized that he and HBC hadn't exactly been bosom buddies. Still, it couldn't be helped. At least he was familiar, and could be trusted to watch her until I could retrieve her one day. "Please, Alex?"

"Oh, all right." He managed a wry smile and added, "I suppose it's the least I can do. Can you give me the direction?"

So I pulled an old receipt from my wallet, dug a pen out of the recesses of my purse, and scribbled the address and name of the vet down on the scrap of paper. Alex took it, read the information, then folded up the receipt and stowed it in his wallet.

Somehow that little exchange had an air of finality about it, as if somewhere in my heart I knew I'd never be able to return to Manchester and rescue my cat from the vet. I managed to limp the conversation along a little further by asking about graduate school and his flat and any other commonplaces I could think of. I inquired as to why he was in that part of London at all, and he replied that he'd been searching for a hardbound set of Carl Jung's works and that a friend of a friend thought she'd spotted one here in the West End. We discussed Jung for a few minutes after that. Alex didn't bother to steer the conversation in a different direction; I think he could tell he wasn't going to get any more information from me.

Finally we were done with our coffees. I stood, then gathered up the heavy parcel that contained my books. "Thanks again, Alex. I appreciate you looking after HBC for me."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I'm not going to see you again, am I?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer that question. Forcing a smile, I reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze, then hurried out of the restaurant. I knew I couldn't really stop him from following me if he chose to do so, but when I paused at the street corner, I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. There was no sign of him, and I didn't know whether to be saddened or relieved.

But I needed to get back to the safety of my hotel room. I'd been out far too long; no doubt Severus would give me a good scolding if he found out about my extended excursion. Worrying about his reaction kept me from brooding over Alex's last words. I'm not going to see you again, am I?

I didn't want to think that my disappearance might turn out to be permanent.

***

The night wore on. Around eight I bribed one of the American students who was also staying in the hotel to run out and get me some fish and chips or possibly a pasty from the pub down the street. I knew better than to go out again, but by then I was heartily sick of the food from the places in the vicinity that delivered. The girl looked a little surprised that I would pay just as much as the actual food cost to have her bring it back to the hotel, but then she just shrugged and told me in nasal accents which sounded as if she must be from somewhere in the Northeast that what the heck -- every little bit counted.

As it turned out, she brought back a pair of absolutely heavenly Cornish pasties, along with a bottle of Guinness. "Not supposed to get it to go, but I sweet-talked the bartender," she told me in confiding accents.

I thanked her, and she waved a hand. "No prob -- sorry about your house arrest." And with that she was off, streaked dirty blonde hair bouncing against her back as she bounded down the hallway to rejoin her friends.

After that I closed the door and sat down to eat. Although I was hungry, I decided to leave one of the pasties for Severus -- no doubt Voldemort didn't provide for supper breaks, and it was very likely that he'd be in even more need of food than I whenever he did appear.

But the slow hours ticked by, and still nothing. The pasty sat in its brown paper wrapping as I finally gave up and went into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. At the very least I could go through the pretenses of preparing for bed, even though I knew the chances of my being able to fall asleep were roughly the same as Voldemort spontaneously combusting.

Instead, I waited in bed, wearing the faded David Bowie T-shirt I'd bought at the secondhand store, Nine Coaches Waiting lying open in my lap. I'd long since given up on the television, although the shabby little radio on the bedside table helped relieve my solitude by emitting some tinny classical music. Outside I could hear the occasional horn or siren, along with the ever-present low-level murmur of traffic and crowds. Normally I would have found the sounds to be somewhat soothing -- if nothing else, they told me I wasn't completely alone, that I was surrounded by crowds of people. Unfortunately, none of them would be able to do a damn thing to help me if I were found by Voldemort or his Death Eaters.

I found it impossible to concentrate. After discovering that I had read the same sentence at least three times without comprehending it, I tossed the book aside and went to the window. Pushing the hideous striped curtain out of the way, I looked down at the street for a long moment. Why, I wasn't so sure -- after all, it wasn't as if I really expected that Severus would come striding along the sidewalk, black robes billowing behind him. Perhaps I only wanted to reassure myself that the sounds I heard were real, and not the phantom murmurs of my own brain.

But then I heard the sudden crack! of a person Apparating. I turned to see Severus materialize in the center of the room and ran to him, heedless of the fact that I was wearing only that dodgy T-shirt and a pair of knickers. I was just about to throw my arms around him when something in his face stopped me, a look that seemed to turn the blood to ice in my veins. The only word I can think of to describe it is bleak. Yes, he looked bleak, like a mountain crag that's been worn by storm and the relentless wear of a thousand years.

"What's wrong?" I asked. Even as the words left my mouth, I wished I hadn't said them. Surely it had to be something terrible.

The black eyes met mine. I saw no warmth there, only a tremendous weariness, and a trace of the self-loathing I remembered from that meadow near Llanilar, when he'd told me of what he'd done in Voldemort's name, all those years ago.

"Your friend Fiona is dead," he said flatly.

For several seconds I just stared at him blankly. It was a simple declarative sentence -- why then did I have such a difficult time comprehending the meaning of those few words?

But then it finally sank in, and I could feel my heart begin to pound, a dull roar beginning in my ears even as my mind began to manufacture protests. No, he had to be mistaken -- he didn't even know Fiona -- it had to be someone else --

I managed to ask, "How do you know?"

Another man might have looked away. But Severus stared down into my face and replied, "Because I was there."

Again my brain seemed to working sluggishly, like an engine that was only firing on half its cylinders. "You were there?" I gasped. "Why didn't you stop it?"

"Because I couldn't," he said, his tone level -- to someone who didn't know him very well. I could hear the underlying tension in his voice, even as I saw the tightening of his jaw as he made his reply.

I said, "You couldn't."

"Perhaps you should sit down," he suggested.

"Why?" I flared. "Is that going to change the fact that apparently you were an accessory to murder?"

Something in his face went still and dead then, and I immediately wished I could have taken back the words. "No," he said harshly. "But I would suggest that you are in no state to hear this standing up."

Since I didn't know what else to do, I sat down on the edge of the bed, staring up at him as he faced me, still wearing the nondescript dark street clothes in which I'd first met him. Whatever he'd done, and wherever he'd gone, he'd needed to blend in with ordinary Muggle society to do it.

Without preamble, Severus said, "Rhys Davies had gotten your address, unfortunately. Mrs. Evans should really be more careful with her guest register. I had no choice but to accompany him to Manchester." He scowled, a deep line carving itself into the skin between his brows. "I thought it would be safe enough -- after all, you were long gone, and I hoped to find a way to keep Davies from pursuing any of your friends."

"Apparently not," I said, in a hard little voice that I didn't recognize as my own. My brain was still having a difficult time processing the fact that Fiona, my friend and champion, the girl who fussed over calories but kept chocolate in her desk drawer, who despaired of me ever finding someone but who thought she'd finally met Mr. Right, was dead.

His lips thinned. "We were searching your house, and then she walked in the front door. You might have told me she had a key."

"She didn't," I replied distantly. "Alex gave it to her."

A pause. "Alex?" Severus asked in ominous tones.

"Alex Worrell, my ex. I'd quite forgotten that he'd kept the spare key to my house, but he told me he'd given it to Fiona yesterday."

"He told you -- when exactly did you speak to this Alex Worrell?"

Probably any of Severus' students would have quailed at the black note in his voice, but at that point I was beyond such small concerns as his displeasure. "A few hours ago. I bumped into him in the book shop down the street. Said he was looking for a set of Jung in hardback."

"Was he?"

I crossed my arms and stared up at Severus. "Yes, he was, and don't bother to task me for it, either. Nothing happened, except that he told me Fiona'd been worried sick, and that he'd given her the key, and -- " My words trailed off as I realized that it was all my fault. If I hadn't been so stupid as to leave Alex that bloody key...if I hadn't completely forgotten to ring Fiona up...if I'd never been born with these Godforsaken powers in the first place....

"Stop it," Severus said harshly, and I looked back at him, shocked out of my self-recriminations.

"Stop what?"

"Blaming yourself."

I didn't bother to ask him how he knew. We shared a bond, Severus and I, and I certainly wasn't trying to cover up my thoughts by means of Occlumency. God knows what I'd been broadcasting.

"If you must blame anyone," he went on, "blame Voldemort. He's the one motivating this comedy of errors. So then, Fiona had a key, which Alex gave her. She'd have been better off to keep her nose out of it, but I supposed she felt some sort of duty to check in on you. Bad luck for her, though. Davies wasn't gentle."

I shut my eyes then, saw again my aunt sprawled out on her rug, and imagined Fiona in the same position, only this time lying across the faded Persian carpet in my front room, her eyes open, mouth frozen in a rictus of terror.

"And you did nothing to stop him," I said.

"I couldn't, don't you understand?" For the first time Severus moved closer to me of his own accord, and took my hands in his. To my surprise, he knelt down on the floor in front of me so that our eyes would be roughly level. "I couldn't let one life -- no matter how dear that life might be to you -- lead me to destroy my cover, to allow Davies to expose me for the double agent I've been all along."

Cold logic that, and I didn't want to try to understand it. But beneath the pain, beneath the horror that my friend had died in such excruciating circumstances, came a calm realization that sometimes a person is forced to make choices that on the surface seem inhuman...until you look closer and realize that sometimes one individual must be sacrificed so that many more can live.

I didn't even know whether these thoughts were my own, or some sort of psychic spillover from Severus' mind. His hands gripped mine almost painfully, as if he were willing me to understand, to realize that if he could have saved Fiona, he would have.

"How did it happen?" I asked finally. "I think I deserve to know."

He didn't bother to protest or try to tell me that it was none of my concern. "Davies questioned her. He used the Cruciatus curse -- I haven't told you of it, but the spell causes unbearable pain, to the point where you feel as if you would lay open your soul in order for it to stop. Very effective in questioning." For a few seconds he paused, then continued, "The only problem was that your friend truly didn't know anything -- you hadn't told her where you'd gone, and she had no information beyond that. The lack of information infuriated Davies, and he kept at her until her heart finally gave out. Thankfully he was so overcome by his anger that he didn't stop to question her as to how she'd come by the key, or your friend Alex's life would also have been in danger."

The ache in my chest had become almost unbearable, as if I carried a lump of a dead star somewhere in my midsection, and all my strength and energy were being inexorably drawn into it. Perhaps it would have been better if I could have wept, but somehow I knew if I started I might never stop. Instead, I hardened my voice and asked, "So what do we do now?"

Very gently, Severus released my hands. He stood, staring down at me with an inscrutable expression. "I've thought on this a good deal," he said, "and I've come to only one conclusion." Again he paused, his gaze fixed on my face. "I'm afraid that the only way to solve our problem is for you to die."

The Overlooked --