The Black Forest or the Secret Diary of Prof. S. Quirrell

June 20, 1990

It will take three days to reach Levin on foot. I suggest "Apparate," but Todorov is not ready for the spell. His reference to their communist era brooms didn't particularly excite me. I can hardly hold my own on the school's decrepit Shooting Stars. I'm not going to press my luck with something Todorov admits kills 3 to 5 riders a year.

"Mostly by dropping them out the sky. From a great distance," he told me with a grin. "But one hasn't killed anyone I know. Personally."

So we'll walk. And it is good - and exhausting - to travel this way. The smell of summer is strong outside the city and I relax again, remembering youthful wanderings when the heat of home drove me out in to the cool forests around our country house. I half-expect to find Rebekah behind me, prattling on about A Levels or O Levels or what have you, but there's only Todorov.

Not only the old ones live in the past.

Todorov hiked quietly, mostly with his head down, hands stuffed in the pockets of his ill-fitting American jeans. He occasionally interrupted his private thoughts to feed me a tidbit of information about Levin.

"Levin lives in the wild and prefers it that way, as do the people of Romania." Or "Levin knows secrets of the land no one else knows. When dragons from the Carparthia Conservatory go missing, Levin is the first one they seek out for help. " Later "Levin can track anything, anywhere."

We bed down for the night in a clearing, not far from a field and some farmer's home. Todorov makes the fire and together we assemble a meal, possibly the first time a fasole batuta opened for Welsh rarebit.

"You cook like a bachelor," Todorov laughed at me and closed his eyes as he lay down in full view of the stars. "You need a wife."

A wolf howls off in the distance and the old man has disappeared from my memory. Tomorrow, Levin. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Q

June 22, 1990

At noon, we stopped to eat. Todorov became more anxious, glancing around himself constantly as if he sensed something in the trees. I have few forest instincts and I feel nothing.

"I would not be surprised," Todorov began in a raised voice, as if someone were listening near by," if our Levin was with us right now. We're here, Levin, we are coming. Me and the Englishman. You had better respect him, Levin, for if you don't, we will call down Albus Dumbledore on your head and you would not want that."

He grinned as he finished his speech. "No proof Levin's near us, of course, but just in case."

My food stuck in my throat. I felt it again then and suddenly, the tingle on the back of my neck. The being watched.

"Who's there?"

Todorov laughed. " Levin is here. When even the English know, Levin is here."

I'd finished eating with that news. We packed up quickly.

"It's not far, my friend. We are close."

An hour and a half later, we were standing in front of a shack. Nothing more than plank boards thrown up in a semblance of shelter, mud plastered into the cracks, a small cloud of smoke rising from a makeshift chimney.

Todorov eyed the place approvingly. "Levin's built a house then. No more huddling in caves in the winter. Although a cave might be warmer than this.

Professor, you wait here. I will present you to Levin presently."

Todorov entered the shack without knocking. A voice immediately answered his approach, speaking in that language I can't place. They talked briefly, then Todorov stepped back outside.

"Professor Simon Quirrell, our dear friend, Elizabeta Levin."

The woman was thin and taunt and muscled like an animal. Her dirty black hair hung in her sharp face, partially obscuring black eyes. The whole impression was that of a wild beast, only barely domesticated and capable of turning at any moment.

Or a relative of Severus Snape.

Levin lifted half of her lips into a snarl and looked straight into my face. "Another wizard on vacation?"

She spoke English to me perfectly, rendering my translation spell useless.

I met her eyes, staring back as one would with a dog or cat questioning the master's authority. "Vacation is not an apt word to describe the reasons I am here."

"You're all alike." She spat at my feet before turning to my guide. "Vladimir, I received your great-great-grandfather's owl. I will show this one everything he wishes from here to Albania. All the secrets I know. But if he doesn't survive, I will not be held accountable."

"If you hurt him -"

"Oh, I won't. But I can make no promises for the other creatures that live in these mountains," she smiled, showing all her teeth. "They're not so reasonable as I."

"Is anyone?" Todorov gave a weak laugh. "Well, my friend, here you are. Levin will be your guide from now on. Good luck and God be with you. Remember that drink at Vampir Surazator."

I watched him walk away - gratefully, I thought - before turning back to Levin. She hadn't moved a muscle from where she was standing, except for her eyes. They followed every movement of my body as I approached her.

"Well, then. What shall we do first?"

" 'Verita mic, you are useless to me in your city clothes and with your city ways. Do what you will here. I don't care." She turned her back on me and stalked off to her hut. "Remember only one thing. This is my home. You are not allowed in here. Build a tent, build a mansion. Just leave me alone."

The plank board door shut behind her and now I find myself scribbling here by firelight. I thought this Levin would bring me closer to battling the forces of darkness. She only brings me closer to freezing to death in some forsaken forest.

Q

June 25, 1990

I have done nothing for days, but hike and climb, exploring the area on foot. Although there is an abundance of woodpeckers, stags, brown bears and even wolves, I have found nothing magical on my own except for the occasional uncomfortable notion of being watched.

Levin leaves early in the morning, sometimes before I rise, and returns after dark, often with some sort of game. She cooks for herself in the little hut and as much as I can tell, uses no magic.

You don't appreciate non-magical cooking meat until you're having yet another conjured sandwich and the smell of fresh venison wafts through your camp.

Sometimes I think she does this solely to torture me. No, I flatter myself. If I disappeared, it wouldn't matter to her. In fact, she would welcome it.

But if I've learned anything in my short teaching career, it would be stubbornness. I'll rot here if I have to, if this is the old man's test.

I received an owl from Hooch, written in her usual businesslike tones and not by the drunken schoolgirl I glimpsed at my going-away party (only 10 days ago!).

"Q - Although you were never the best of friends, please look in on Charlie Weasley while in Romania. Give him this [enclosed] and tell him I think of him whenever England goes up against Romania. See the dragons - that will do you good. - H"

She sent a Quidditch whistle.

Charles Weasley, former Gryffindor seeker and a special pet of Hooch's, much like the current DaDa dolt, Wood. I would have known little of Charles, had I not been held back in flying. Our kinds naturally mixed little, excepting the occasional mean-spirited wedgie in the boys room or feigned friendship in exchange for help or answers on homework.

Still, Charles wasn't so bad for the Quidditch set. He could be quite gentle with non-human creatures. When he wasn't with his animals, he was on the field, practicing with a hummingbird he'd trained to play snitch. We talked once or twice over the years, but I was older and always felt that. When he graduated, I had become a teaching assistant and was no longer Can't-Sit-a-Broom.

Or maybe I still was, but no one dared say it to my face.

You never really know what people say about you when you aren't listening.

Oh, yes. There was a postscript on Hooch's note. "Your replacement will do." Signed “S.S.”

Q

June 26, 1990

Some contact today. Brief, but something

I was sitting yogi-style beside my campfire, a small ball of illumination at my right shoulder, rereadingVampires/Werewolves for the umpteenth time. Levin emerged from the woods to my left, but she no longer surprises me with her stealth as she used to.

A week in the woods makes one awfully aware.

She took immediate interest in the cover of my book reflected back at her by my fire.

"I know that word," she said without thinking of whom she was addressing. "Vampir! And the other one there, the long one at the end?"

"Werewolves."

"Werewolves," she repeated and, slinging her prey over her shoulder, entered her hut.

Q

June 29, 1990

An owl today from Charles Weasley inviting me to visit the reservation and complete with implicit directions and a portkey.

Finally, an easy Apparate and he sends a portkey. Well, I can't complain. It saves some effort.

He expects me tomorrow around 3 PM, which gives a little time to search for suitable topics of conversation. So, did England win against...whomever they were playing? Does that dragon talon clipping charm really work?

Pathetic.

Still, I've never seen dragons in the wild. They must behave completely differently when there's no handler jerking their head around, commanding, "More fire for the kiddies."

Dear gods. A smile. A bemused, mocking one, but a smile. On her return from the hunt, Levin actually showed me her teeth. In a friendly way. Sort of.

It must be the sight (not to mention smell) of me. It only took a week for my personal habits to dissolve completely into backwoods living. I wash in the stream a mile from here and I've traded in my tweeds for a pair of good jeans, a tee-shirt, a flannel and a camouflage hunter's cap. They're all rather dirty, but there's only so much point to a cleaning charm when everything is going to get soiled again right away, anyway.

At least I'm amusing to her. I'm sure Charles will find me so. His friends often did.

Q