Between the Devil and Durmstrang

The Ministry office was crowded. While Jones and Wronski were the only people waiting to leave, there was a steady stream of people arriving. They stood crammed against the wall closest to the department owl, watching groups arrive. It sounded like they were waiting in the tower of Babel as conversation rose and fell in waves of Italian, Spanish, Turkish and several other languages, too.

The clerks warned them that they would have to wait until some unknown group arrived, signaling an end to that day's traffic. No specific times were mentioned and they grew restless and bored waiting. Wronski produced a five years out-of-date book on London and they paged through it.

"The Natural Science Museum sounds interesting. Gotta love that Victorian stuff. How about the wax museum?" He hadn't budged from the museums listing for several minutes, ignoring Jones' suggestions to turn the page. "I wonder if we can change some money and take a train out to Greenwich?"

Bored, Jones shifted from where she was sprawled on the counter, changing from leaning on an elbow to slumping against the barrier. A group of brightly dressed men had arrived. They were laughing and speaking with the lilt of the Caribbean. Their patter had a rhythm to it, causing her to smile and dream of white sand beaches. She added palm trees and a good-looking man from her past into the mix, just to pass the time. The page turned, the flash of white flicking her into the reality of the room, only to be ignored when the next page of museums was displayed. Details were added to the daydream, some from wonderful old memories that were well-worth dallying over, so she failed to recognize someone who stopped in front of her.

Wronski glanced up from his book, taking note of the nondescript man standing in front of Jones. The newcomer was average, completely average. Nothing that stood out. Hair the color of average, eyes that were hidden behind sunglasses, dark suit, white shirt. Dull. Easily forgotten. Perhaps it was a three-year association with a Dark Arts professional, but the complete forgetableness of the man made him memorable. Mr. Boring looked Wronski over, too, but Jones was far more interesting. Putting down his book, Wronski tapped her. "You have a fan."

Jones jumped, her pleasant fantasy of white sand, blue water and a man from her briefly wicked youth crashing to pieces. The image of hedonism was replaced by unfortunate shreds of her past come to call. She palmed her wand and hackled up.

"Jonesy. Long time no see. Heard you were around here. Sent your file myself." Mr. Boring's voice had more personality than the figure did. The man in black smiled broadly and held out his hand, waiting for the greeting to be returned.

"Fuck off, Smith. I'm out of your jurisdiction." She grew utterly still as she stared at him.

"Yeah. I know. Talked to a buddy of yours a few months ago. He had some interesting stories. What a fine career you've had. And look at you now - a teacher! Whatcha teaching, Jonesy? Love potions?" Mr. Boring, now pegged as Smith, seemed to shed some of his chameleon dullness. He practically glowed as he spoke. "You certainly led us on some great chases. And, before you ask, we don't have any real evidence. You could come back, you know. Hey, you must be innocent!" With that, Smith broke into an ugly fit of snickering, quite pleased at his own wit.

"Who is this jerk?" Wronski switched to German, hoping Jones would follow.

"Magic cop." Jones didn't bother to change languages, she knew that he knew that she knew. She and Smith had played the roles too many times.

Smith finished his sniggering and took a greater interest in Wronski. "So, who are you? Where'd you work? You a teacher here, too?" When there was no answer, he looked over his shoulder and yelled, "Peterson! Hey, Roy! C'mere a sec!"

Where Smith was forgettable, Peterson was not. The giant of a man who walked like a dancer was the sort of person you remembered. Tall, dark and impeccably dressed, he looked more like an actor or some celebrity whose name was just a bit obscure. Incredibly white teeth flashed as Peterson recognized an old acquaintance. Both Jones and Wronski took a small step back to flatten against the counter. Smith looked like someone they could handle, Peterson had an aura of power that cowed them both.

"Why, it's our old friend Rose. How are you doing? Seattle has been a quiet place without you. Have you missed our chats?" Peterson's voice sounded like velvet, but the eyes took any of the softness away.

"Fine, Roy, just fine." She locked onto his eyes, being very careful to keep her wand where it was.

"How's the locator, Rose? We should check it out, make sure it still works." Peterson began reaching into his coat, looming over the small woman.

"Herr Peterson, Herr Smith, we welcome you to our summer training. I have been sent to find you. There is much to be done." The soft voice of Johannes Werner had never been so welcome before. Clad this time in his usual black Auror uniform, he seemed more than a match for the frightening Peterson. The enormous figure of Mueller stood behind him, reinforcing the image.

"Werner? It's Werner, right?" Smith stepped forward, regaining his anonymous guise.

Giving the appearance of looking down at the taller man, Werner's lip curled in a slight sneer, "Ja. Auror Werner. This is my district."

Smith extended his hand for a handshake. With a glance at the two teachers, Werner slowly gave his hand for the greeting. Peterson smiled thinly, also shaking hands. Mueller refused to step forward.

"You are leaving?" Werner asked, not taking his eyes off the newcomers. It wasn't a question.

Not taking their eyes off the American police, they grabbed their bags and, keeping their backs against the counter, moved to the door leading to the Portkey. The last thing they saw before the door shut behind them was Mueller giving a little wave.

* * *

The hop to Stockholm was anticlimactic. Nobody noted their wild eyes nor seemed to care that the chits were slick with sweat. The Cerebor waved them on to the next station where the London Portkey led them to yet another boring room. This time there was a queue to wait in. A chance to calm down and wonder what to expect when they got back. Wronski's nerves showed plainly. A tic began to beat under an eye and his hands were slick with sweat. Jones went vacant, lost in thought.

The last checkpoint passed, they stepped out onto a noisy London street. The sidewalks were jammed with people. People shopping, laden with bags. Children screaming, "Mummy!" as they raced after retreating backs. Tweed-wearing men with obedient dogs walked by them and into a pub. A group of young women, all dressed from the latest fashion magazine, commandeered the sidewalk as they stalked up the lane shoulder to shoulder. Wronski was bumped into Jones as the fashion army marched by. They retreated into a shop doorway, to stare wide-eyed at the passing world.

"Let's get out of here. Where's that pub that takes us to Ollivanders?" Jones grabbed his arm and began tugging it as she tried to leave.

"Hold on! Where are we going? Do you know what street it's on?" He dug his heels in, trying hard not to be pulled off balance.

"Close to here. Maybe we should go back in and ask?" The façade of strength crumbled as she surveyed the mob of passersby.

"Stay here," he commanded as he turned back to leave. She nodded weakly and huddled against the wall in a miserable heap.

Wronski was gone for only a few minutes, enough time to regain composure. Jones' attitude improved with every snatch of conversation she heard. English. Almost all of it was in English. By the time he returned, she managed a wry smile.

Unable to stop himself, Wronski patted her on the head and motioned that she should follow. He got a quick punch in the arm and they were off to find the deadest pub in London.

The Leaky Cauldron lived up to Mueller's description. In the middle of the afternoon, it was almost empty. An older wizard stood at the bar, nursing a pint. A trio of middle-aged witches clustered at a table, giggling and laughing, their sherry glasses empty next to a drained bottle. The toothless proprietor, Tom, rented them rooms for three days. He didn't seem worried about the possibility of letting them stay on longer. They hoisted their bags and followed him up the stairs to their rooms.

Jones took a look around hers and tossed her bag onto the bed. To the shadows in the hallway she said, "Looks fine to me." Something muffled from the next door room was the reply. She popped her bag open and pulled out a small assortment of clothing, laying it over a chair.

"You should put those away in the armoire, dearie," a voice offered. Whirling around, she drew her wand and stood waiting. "Oh, my, we are a bit on edge now, aren't we?"

"Who said that? Come out and show yourself," Jones hissed, still turning slowly around to find the voice.

"I said it. Tut, tut, dear. Everything will be just fine. I was only suggesting that you might want to hang those things up before they get wrinkled." The voice had a matronly air about it and a certain personality, too. The lack of a body to assign it to bothered Jones a great deal.

"Show yourself. Is this some sort of audio spell? Are you down at the bar?" The wand lowered slightly as the possibility of a bad joke reared up.

"Oh, no, dear. I'm behind you. It you turn about slowly, you'll see me."

Slowly, very slowly, she turned and saw nothing but the armoire, a dresser and the mirror above it. Her eyes flicked over everything, starting at the ceiling and working downwards. With a slight nod, she said, "Fumare!" and a thin cloud of smoke drifted through the room. It clung to everything and outlined it with a gray border.

"Hardly a polite thing to do. I'm right here." The voice took on a testy tone. Jones began to walk forward, her free hand outstretched, feeling for the unseen owner of the voice. "Where are you from, dear? I don't think I've ever seen you before. Odd accent, too."

"Why do you want to know?" she replied through clenched teeth.

"Just making conversation, luv. Now, put that wand down. Haven't you ever talked to a mirror before?"

The wand clattered to the floor. "Talking mirror?" she repeated dully. "You're sentient?" Stooping to retrieve her wand, her face took on a sly look as she stood. "So, what do you do? Watch people?"

"Well, I can hardly help that. I'm a mirror. I like to talk, though. It gets rather dull just hanging around here all the time."

Jones stood in front of the mirror and scowled at it.

"Now, dear, do comb your hair and perhaps that blue thing would be a nice change for the evening." The mirror sounded maternal again in its nagging.

She walked off to one side and peered carefully at the mirror. "OK. Got it."

"Got what, dear?" the mirror asked. "I'm sure you're eager to get on to Diagon Alley. Lovely place. I can tell you all the best shops to visit. This time of the day, you might want some tea. Florian…" the mirror was cut off as Jones pulled it off from the wall and wrestled it down. "What are you doing? Put me back where I belong!"

"No way." With a grunt, she lugged the mirror to the bed. Turning it mirror side down, she slid it underneath. "See you later."

* * *

Diagon Alley met all of their expectations. They made it as far as Florian Fortesque's and stopped for tea. The ice cream filled the empty spaces and the tea, for Wronski at least, was deemed excellent. Jones gave up on the tea and asked for coffee. The offered cup held something that was almost, but not entirely, unlike coffee. With a sneer, she pushed it away.

The street itself provided entertainment. "What's with the pointy hats?" Jones whispered loudly. "I've never seen so many robes on people who didn't have to wear them."

"I kinda like them. Colorful. Comfy." Wronski's eyes followed an attractive redhead who wore a dark green robe, cut a bit tight at the chest.

"Yeah, but would you wear one?" She snorted and pulled out her cigarettes.

"I've got two. A blue one and a brown one."

"Of course. Why do guys always buy blue and brown? I've never seen you wear either." She lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply.

"Blue and brown are guy colors. I dunno. It feels like I'm wearing a dress. I bought them in Germany right after I left the States." The redhead entered a shop. He began to look through the crowd again, "Get a load of that hat."

The hat was a lime green bowler and under it was a short, very colorfully dressed man.

"The Whos in Whoville…" Jones drawled. "This is great. I could sit here all day. Hey! Take a look over there!" She pointed at a group of boys, all dressed in purple Quidditch robes. They stood in a huddle, brooms in hand. Another group of boys about the same age in orange robes joined them. There seemed to be a conference between four of them before a decision was reached. As a group, they jumped on their brooms and began to fly off. A whistle screamed. Jones hunched down, trying to hide while Wronski jumped out of his chair. A man in a black cloak and wearing what looked like Muggle clothing ran after the boys, blowing his whistle and pointing for them to descend. They watched as the boys landed and, with hangdog expressions, were lectured to at great length by the whistleblower.

"Cop," Jones said, eyeing the man. "No uniform. Just the cape. Not good. I like it better when they're marked clearly."

Wronski nodded, not taking his eyes off the man. Another man joined the whistleblower. This one wore something that, with a squint, might qualify as a uniform. "Maybe the first one is off-duty?" Wronski asked.

"What time is it?" Jones wondered aloud. "I'm still jetlagged. I think it's morning, but I know it isn't."

"Three o'clock, ma'am," a freckle-faced, redheaded man answered. "Wherever are you from? I haven't heard accents like yours before."

"Durmstrang."

The redhead looked stunned and he left them in peace.

"Let's go get a wand." Jones grabbed up the bill and began counting out Sickles.

Ollivanders was not what they expected. The shabby looking shop had the appearance of being closed. They peered in the window, seeing the dust, the boxes and not much else. "Maybe it's not open today?" Wronski asked, sounding very disappointed.

"Let's see." Jones tried the door, fully expecting to find it locked. The door swung open and they walked in to the sound of a tinkling bell. They stood in the doorway for a while, but no one seemed to have heard the alarm. Jones circled a spindly chair and then hopped onto it, swinging her feet back and forth as she looked around. Wronski walked over to the towering stacks of boxes and held out a hand to take one.

"The wand selects the wizard," said a soft voice from the gloom. "Are you looking to replace your current one?" The voice was attached to a small man with huge eyes. Mr. Ollivander crept out of the shadows to stand in front of them, his hands clutched together at chest level.

"I need to be fitted for one." Wronski stepped towards Ollivander who stepped back as he took in his newest customer.

"Fitted? At your age?" Ollivander made tutting sounds as he looked over Wronski. "What are you using now?"

Wronski's inherited wand was passed over to the old man. Ollivander took it and, running his hand lightly over the surface, began to smile. "Oh, I remember this one. Ten inches, mahogany, with the hair of a chimera. Nice wand, very good for most spells." He turned the wand this way and that. "How did you come by it?"

"It was given to me by someone I went to school with," Wronski offered as he retrieved the wand.

"Yes. Well, let's see what we can do for you. Hold out your wand arm." Ollivander produced a measuring tape that began taking measurements all over Wronski's arm and then traveled to his face. Ollivander took note of the first few measurements and then wandered off, leaving his measuring tape to continue its frenzy.

Wronski waved off the tape after a while, snagging it at one end and then hanging on until it quit struggling. With an odd look at Jones, he handed her the tape. Ollivander appeared with a rickety stack of narrow boxes, which he heaped onto a chair.

Ollivander made appraising sounds as he eyed Wronski again. "Hmm. Perhaps mahogany, ten inches, unicorn hair." He opened a dusty box and presented a wand.

Gingerly, Wronski took the wand and stood there holding it. "Wave it around, Paul. Give it a try," Jones urged, miming waving a wand. With a small shrug, he gave it a flick. Nothing.

"Mmm. Try this: twelve inches, oak, dragon heartstring." A feeble yellow color appeared. "This! Holly, eleven inches, Veela hair." The wand vibrated strongly but not much happened. "Difficult. Here! Nine inches, ash, basilisk scale." The wand bent strongly when waved and sparked. "Ah! Closer! Here! Eleven inches, ash, wyvern talon!" The wand set off a strong string of red and gold sparks and vibrated slightly.

"Wow. It's warm and it feels tingly." Wronski stared down at the wand and then cautiously waved it a just a bit. "It feels like it belongs to me. Not just a stick or something."

Ollivander nodded, beaming, "The wand chooses the wizard! That will be ten Galleons!"

To celebrate the newly fitted Wronski, they wandered down Diagon Alley in search of a place to eat. There were several, but most of the menus posted outside the door were refused in a moment's time. If Jones found a place that sounded decent, Wronski hated it. Standing in front of the London branch of Gringotts, they had almost negotiated down to a fish and chips joint when the breeze shifted and a delightful aroma tickled their noses. "That smells like a Chinese restaurant!" Jones exclaimed as she began walking forward, drawn by the scent.

They turned down a dingy little street, passing by darkened shops whose windows hinted of shrunken heads and giant spiders. The promise of food led them past the only store still lit, Borgin and Burkes. Jones slowed briefly to see what was featured. The windows went dark as she stepped closer.

Down another alley they found a tiny restaurant, four tables only, from which the wonderful smells emanated. Without hesitation, she grabbed the door and pulled it open. The draft from the kitchens was heavy with spices. The sizzle of hot oil on metal and the slap of a spatula on a wok lured them in. The dining room was small, dingy and poorly lit. Lunar year calendars hung haphazardly around the room as an excuse for decoration. "Perfect!" she exclaimed, seating herself at a small metal table where grimy menus threatened to fall off the edge.

"Smells great," Wronski agreed as he squinted at a menu.

Jones glanced up from her menu to watch her companion extend and retract the menu. Wronski's arms appeared to be a bit short to comfortably read it and he was too vain to ask for her help. At full reach, he tipped his head back a bit and peered at the small print.

"Want any help? Didn't you bring your glasses?" she offered aid in a stage whisper.

The menu was flung down on the table in exasperation. "Just order for me. I can't see any of it. And, no, I forgot my glasses at the pub."

"Vanity, thy name is Wronski." Jones settled back to examine the menu, making excited noises as old favorites were read. "How hot can you take it?"

"I'm from Connecticut. I grew up on boiled beef and cabbage. No Hunan, ok?"

"Rats." She put the menu down on the table and leaned onto it, humming to herself.

"No rats. How about some fried rice or lemon chicken. That kind of thing."

"No imagination. You said I could pick." Turning the page, she made an interested sound, "Will you eat fish?"

"Maybe. Nothing too weird."

"Yeah. Right. Like the food at Durmstrang isn't weird." With a nod, she shut the menu and looked around for a waiter.

"No, it's not weird. It's boring. We eat the same thing all the time. Potatoes, wurst, bread, cheese, pickled fish, pot roast kinds of things. It's almost what I grew up with. Maybe that's why I don't like it."

"The food sucks. I'd kill for pizza now and then." She began to drum her fingers on the table, still searching for a waiter. "Is anyone here? I'd like to order."

"What are we getting?" Wronski sounded suspicious as he relaxed against the wall, sitting sideways in the chair so he could stretch out his legs.

"Since you're a weenie, I thought we could get some triple soup, some spicy eggplant and some of that twice cooked pork with rice. I'd really like some tea. It's cold in here." She rubbed her hands and looked longingly at a small overturned teacup on the table.

From the kitchens, the sound of something hitting a hot wok was heard, the air filling with the smell and sounds of cooking. Jones looked around the room, still rubbing her hands. She shifted around to get out of her chair, her elbow hitting something. Looking down at the table, she noticed a teapot. "Paul! Look! Tea!" She wrapped her hands around the pot and made happy sounds. When her hands felt warmer, she opened the pot and peered in at it. "I think it's ready to drink." She poured a green colored liquid into the tiny teacups and they settled back to enjoy it.

By the time the tea had been sipped, a large bowl appeared just as mysteriously as the tea had. Balanced by some unseen hand, two smaller bowls and a ladle arched over the tureen. Jones became more animated with each spoonful of soup, chatting about the food, the town, where they would go, what they would do. Wronski's part of the conversation was the occasional agreeing sound and asking for a refill.

A sullen-faced teenager in a white jacket delivered the rest of the meal in far more mundane fashion. Jones' attempts at jokes were met with a sneer, but the food was good and that more than made up for the lack of charm. They bickered over the bill, each arguing that it was the other's turn to pay and eventually splitting it evenly down the middle

"Now what?" Wronski asked as they stepped out into the empty streets. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he made a show of looking at the empty streets. "This place is dead. At least the village has the tavern."

Her face illuminated by her lighter's flame, Jones puffed out a cloud of smoke, "This is supposed to be their Dark Arts area. You'd think a "dark" area would have some nightlife. Let's see if there's a bar or something around here. Maybe we can get in on a game of darts."

Knockturn Alley was one long, narrow dark tunnel. Every shop was closed and dark, several had their windows shuttered tightly. They made little noise as they walked down its cobblestone streets. The occasional cough from Jones was the loudest sound there. Walking from one end to the other, they headed back down on the other side of the street, stopping now and again to look into the few shop windows that anything could be seen in. Almost back to where the restaurant was, they heard a faint sound. Muffled, but distinct, a rhythm thudded dully from a dark passageway.

"Music?" Wronski asked, not sounding very positive.

"Shoot. Let's go see. I'm bored and not sleepy yet." She threw her cigarette down into the gutter and they walked into the darkness. Shadows gave way into grayness as the passage shifted suddenly to the left. Black rectangles hinted at doorways that seemed to suggest that they continue walking on by. Jones stopped before one of them, deliberately forcing herself to halt and light a cigarette. "Nice work." She took a deep drag and slowly let it out between her teeth. "Paul, c'mere. Check this out."

"I think we're supposed to continue this way." He was several yards down the passageway, as far to the other side as possible without being shoved up against the wall.

"Yeah. We're supposed to. That's the hint. You wanted to learn about magic, well come and look at this." She laughed to herself and drew her wand. When she deemed he was close enough, she said, "This is a good example of a Vitare spell. You don't just want to walk by this place, you want to avoid it. It's a little heavy handed, but nice work." She turned to see how close he was. "Let me show you something. This is fun. Someone showed me this years ago. So, this guy wants you go avoid his doorway. No doubt there's something interesting in there." She held her wand up, checking to make sure he was watching, "Inlicere!" A yellow glow outlined the doorway. It rippled and seemed to tear apart and then fall together. "The Vitare makes you avoid it; the Inlicere entices you into it. The two will fight each other until they cancel or until the stronger one wins. I always liked the special effect."

"Won't the guy be mad when he sees what you've done? You just look for trouble, don't you?" Wronski tapped her shoulder and pointed towards the way they had been heading. "Let's go check this out."

She put her wand away and, with a glance at the rippling light show, followed him down the passageway. Another ten yards and it turned again, this time into a softly glowing hallway. Everything had a dull red color that pulsed slowly and erratically. Jones groaned, "Red and black. Always red and black. Why not purple and green for a change?"

"What are you going on about?"

"For some reason, every one of these places I've ever been in that catered to our crowd always lights dark rooms with a red light. It's such a cliché." A large door strobed into sight with the next pulse of red. Emblazoned across the center, in letters that sequenced into sight was "The Dark Room". "Oh, this is going to be a trip." Her voice dripped sarcasm as they entered the place.

The Dark Room was neither dark nor a room. Wronski was clearly disappointed when they walked into what could have been any wood-paneled, brass-trimmed pub in England. A long, dark wooden bar looped around the 'L' shape of the tavern. The long part of the 'L' was bordered with small tables, set into the shadows along the wall, all occupied. There was a spattering of smaller, round tables down the center that were mostly vacant. Where the room angled, a single large round table stood. The other end of the place seemed to end in shadows. Smokey, loud and smelling intensely of beer, the pub was busy. Heads turned to watch them walk in, the buzz of conversation never faltered. Jones led the way towards the bar, carefully noting the faces and, just as often, the quickly turned heads. She tried to order a pitcher of beer but the bartender had too many questions. About the time she had a pithy reply ready, Wronski handed the man some money and pointed at one of the taps.

Staring into the pitcher, she gave a cautious sniff. "Smells strong." She held the pitcher up and noted the absence of light shining through. "Is this beer?"

He smiled and retrieved the pitcher, filling a tipped glass slowly. Soon, a glass was shoved in her direction that shown like a dark pillar topped with creamy tan foam. He filled the other glass and they looked for a table. Jones grumbled, "Notice that all the ones against the walls are taken. Oh, and check out the big table - the one with the kids sitting at it."

Arrayed around the central large table, eight young men sat. Although dressed in an odd mix of robes and Muggle clothes, it was easy to smell the money. Several rounds of empty pitchers were shoved into the middle of the table and three more, mostly full, stood ready to migrate in soon. They were arrogant toughs, trying to feel dangerous in a dangerous place.

Jones leaned against the bar and stared at them, a little smile forming on her face. "Don't they just look like the kids we teach?" She shot a glance over at Wronski whose face had turned carefully neutral. "These kids are trouble. Look at the clothes. I bet there's a designer label on every one of them. Buncha jerks."

"Shut up, Rose. Keep your voice down. We don't know the rules here." His face never seemed to move as he hissed the warning.

"Those kind don't scare me." She took a long pull from the glass. "Not bad. Kinda chewy but pretty decent."

They finished the pitcher. The time ticked by as they tried to plan their next few days. The debate was whether to visit any of Muggle London or if Diagon Alley and its environs were enough to keep them busy. The bartender was amused at their accents and asked where they were from. She couldn't resist, "Durmstrang."

It was odd how fast a noisy place could fall silent. People who had given only furtive glances before, now stared fixedly at them. The group of rich boys shifted their attention from the last Quidditch match between Puddlemere and Chudley to the newcomers.

"You're from Durmstrang?" one of the boys asked in a drawling voice. "Are you faculty or staff?"

"Faculty," Wronski replied, shooting Jones a glare.

"Really? You're Americans, aren't you?" The insolent slouch in the chair deepened as a beer was retrieved. "You must teach something simple then. Elementary spells?" The table sniggered.

"Yeah. Right. I teach upper division classes in Ritual Magic, Blood Spells and the Special Projects class." She took a deep breath as she began to ready herself for a load of sarcasm. Wronski elbowed her.

"Blood? My, that sounds rather dark, doesn't it? You certainly don't look like a practitioner. More like my nanny." The table resounded with the pounding of fists as the appreciative crew cheered their champion on.

Jones went stiff. With narrowed eyes, she snarled, "You have no idea what you're talking about. You better call your daddy, son, to save your ass from nannies like me."

"Rose, shut up!" Wronski growled. His tally was eight to two in a room full of unknowns.

"No. I won't shut up." She walked over to the table and stared down at the spokesman. "You got a problem with me? Let's hear it."

The boys howled with laughter, unable to conceive that the short, chunky, middle-aged witch could be any competition. They missed the signs of unease from the crowd as various men and women slid along the wall and out the door. From the shadows beyond the central table, a voice cut through the laughter, "Haven't seen you for awhile, Ms. Jones. These young fools haven't heard of you. You must pardon them." A richly dressed man separated himself from the gloom and stood across the table from her, a hand clamped firmly on the drawling boy's shoulder.

"Nice seeing you again." She dropped some of the anger and gave a small smirk. "You know these clowns?"

With a condescending glance at the group, the man smiled thinly. "Yes. They, however, do not know you. Gentlemen, may I introduce Ms. Jones. You should be honored to meet her. It's not often you get to meet a practitioner of her caliber. Ms. Jones, I would introduce you to these fine young men; however, their fathers would not appreciate having their names bandied about. Some of them have been clients in the past. You do understand."

Dead eyes met dead eyes and she sniffed. "Professor Jones these days. Haven't had much of a chance to work recently."

"Professor Jones, then. Gentlemen," he said, tapping the backs of two chairs, "I suggest you not bait strangers. They some times bite." The boys looked grumpy, but vaguely impressed. The man faded back into the shadows, leaving Jones facing the subdued group.

"Do you really practice the dark arts?" the smallest boy at the table asked, sounding fuzzy from the beer.

"Why? You need something done?" she replied, arching her eyebrows and trying to look sinister - an odd effect at best.

"What's it like? I mean, well, does it pay well? Is it exciting?" A sharp-faced boy leaned forward, putting his elbow into a pool of beer.

"It's a job. Yeah. It pays well, but it has to. There are a lot of risks." She smiled patronizingly down at the crew as she shifted into the stance of a teacher.

"Did you ever get caught?" the pale, drawling boy asked, as he leaned back in his chair to eye her suspiciously.

"The police questioned me from time to time, but nothing was ever proven." She looked at him closely and appeared thoughtful.

"You have to be very clever to work here, you know," the pale boy continued, looking around the room as if he owned it.

"Yeah. It's not legal here. Not in the States, either. I'd say that you'd be surprised how many 'clever' Englishmen show up to contract with us, but somehow I don't think you would be." She gave a snort of suppressed laughter and pulled out her package of cigarettes, "I've done work for quite a few Englishmen in my time. Didn't want to get their hands dirty, if you know what I mean."

The group looked about at each other, eyes wide and frightened. The room stayed very quiet until Wronski cleared his throat. "It's late. I think we should go back."

"What do you do? Are you for hire, too?" The arrogance had subsided a bit and the tone was almost respectful.

"I teach Potions and Poisons." That information was dragged reluctantly out of Wronski.

The group at the table nodded. "Useful. Always a market for both. I have a cousin at Durmstrang." The blond boy paused, "You must be Wronski."

A bit uncomfortable at being recognized, Wronski nodded.

"Do you play Quidditch?" the smallest boy asked. "Are you related to the Wronski?"

Wronski looked balefully at Jones who laughed. "See, I told you." With a twitch of annoyance, he looked back at the table, "No. I don't play Quidditch. I've never even been on a broom."

"You haven't?" the sharp-faced boy marveled. "You simply must! I have a Nimbus 2002 with me. You should give it a go."

Jones watched as several of the boys exchanged sly glances, warning her that perhaps it was time to go. "C'mon, Paul. You're right. Durmstrang is three hours later and I'm beat."

Wronski continued to stare at the boys. "It isn't legal to fly a broom around here, is it?"

They smirked and sniggered and made agreeing sounds. "We do it all the time." The sharp-faced lad looked around for agreement. "If you're frightened, well, then we do understand."

"OK. Just for grins. If anything happens to me, Rose, make sure they pay for it." Wronski turned to head for the door, smiling as he heard the gasps behind him.

"Uh. Maybe some other time. It is rather late." The voices faded behind him as he reached the door, holding it open for a chuckling Jones.

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron's breakfasts were something to be avoided. The toast was cold and served in something that looked suspiciously like an old-fashioned letter rack. The butter was nearly frozen, rendering any attempt to spread it on the toast, which cracked at the slightest touch, impossible. The immense fried breakfast was duly poked at. The only thing that received a passing grade was the tea. Jones held her head in her hands as she leaned on the table, grumbling. "I never thought I'd find a place that served worse food than the school." She glanced over at Wronski who had buried himself in The Daily Prophet. "Do you think any of the cafés would have coffee? I'm dying from caffeine withdrawal."

Wronski grunted a reply and turned the page. The paper was rattled slightly his hand fumbled for the teacup. "Interesting article on import tariffs on Vodyanoi hair in the white phase. I wonder if our area is affected?" He set the paper down, not taking his eyes off the article. "Did you say something?"

"Coffee!" She stretched the word out as she leaned forward as far as she could. "I need coffee!"

Distracted, he filled his cup again and stirred it, the faint tinkling sound of the spoon hitting the cup his response.

She groaned loudly and threw herself back into the chair to glower at him. "Paul, if I don't get some coffee soon, I'm going to explode!"

"Huh?" The emphatic reply dragged him away from the paper. "What did you say?"

"Cof-fee! I need cof-fee!" She bugged her eyes out at him and puffed out her cheeks, suggesting an explosion.

"I'm almost done with the paper, Rose. Can you hang on a second?" Wronski whined.

"You have until I get back from my room. Ok?" She made it sound as if it were a major concession, but was glad just to receive any kind of response. When he read, Wronski disappeared into a world of his own and rarely heard anything unless it was shouted in his ear.

The paper was rattled back into position as an answer. Jones took one last poke at her breakfast, peering dubiously at the lump on one side of her plate that had been labeled "pudding". Shuddering, she grabbed her jacket and headed back to her room.

There seemed to be few locks at the Leaky Cauldron. Even the rooms were mostly unguarded. Unable to resist, she rattled a few doorknobs on her way back. Most opened easily and two giggled as if she had tickled them. A grin began forming that grew broader with each silly enchantment she encountered. The pub was full of charmed furniture and fixtures. The whimsy of the place was marvelous. Well, mostly marvelous. The chatty mirror annoyed her. It had complained nonstop from the moment she had returned from their night out. It didn't like being face down under the bed. Not one bit. It had threatened to speak to the proprietor. She had found that a Sileo spell worked just as well on an enchanted mirror as it did on a person.

Her room was still strewn with clothing and the bed unmade when she walked in. Securing a brush and a bag of toiletries, she headed down the hall to the communal water closet, hoping to find it free. The wait was minimal, enough to look at the various paintings and stare at the wallpaper. The wallpaper, like so much else of the place, had a spell or two on it. It reminded her strongly of Saturday cartoons as butterflies fluttered amongst roses that bloomed and faded. If she held very still, a fox would dart between clusters of flowers.

With her hair beaten into order and her teeth brushed, the day looked more promising. Her stomach growled a request to be fed and a tiny caffeine deprivation headache tightened. She walked back to her room, watching as characters in the paintings waved or yawned. Her room had achieved order during her absence. The bed was made and her clothing had disappeared from its heap on a chair. Her friend, the mirror, gleamed over the dresser again. She could almost hear its huff of annoyance when she walked in. The dresser and armoire yielded her clothing and spare shoes. She made certain that everything was still there, exclaiming when she found that her wrinkled shirt had metamorphosed into a starched and ironed garment. Definitely better.

Wronski had finished the paper when she returned. He was sipping the last of his tea, watching the few others in the place. With a last deep draught of the tea, he stood to meet her. "Where are we going now?"

"Coffee. Must have coffee. Something that isn't drenched in grease to eat would be nice, too." Her voice carried further than intended and several of the patrons and the owner looked offended. A muttered "Americans" caught their ears as they exited to the alley.

It took a bit of searching to find the right brick to tap. Wronski insisted on using his new wand and gave a full report of how it felt as the entrance to Diagon Alley manifested itself. The streets were still quiet. They had to wander almost all the way to Gringotts before they found an open café. The request for coffee was met with silence and, for a horrible moment, Jones envisioned life without her morning hit. As the horror passed over her, the waiter grunted, "Sugar and cream?" She let her breath in a loud puff as relief spread over her.

Coffee, more tea for Wronski and a selection of sugar-laden pastries provided both inspiration and energy. As they sat at a table next to the window, they watched the narrow streets wake up. The colorful crowd thickened slowly. The robe store across the way opened and they enjoyed watching the first customers walk in.

"You should have brought your robes," Jones said as she poured yet another cup of coffee.

"They take up too much room." Wronski slouched lower in his chair, watching as the pretty waitress smiled at him.

Jones followed his eyes and smiled. "She's not a leggy blonde. Must not be your type."

With a wry grin, he responded, "She's breathing."

The waitress asked if they wanted anything else and then hung around for a bit, clearly waiting for Wronski to strike up a conversation. Rolling his spoon over and over on the table, he looked anywhere except at the woman. Jones shook her head in disgust and managed idle conversation until it became clear that he wasn't going to join in. The women exchanged smiles and the waitress left.

"You're pathetic, did you know that? Why didn't you say 'hello' or something?" Jones dug out enough coins to pay for their breakfast.

"Thanks. I needed that. I don't see you cutting a swath through the local wizards. Or, are you saving it all for Mueller?" He stood and stretched, stealing one last look at the waitress.

"What if I am? Look, I don't have guys sidling up to me, trying to start a conversation. What is it with you?" She shook her head and finished the last of the coffee.

Wronski didn't answer, the set of his mouth declaring the topic closed. They left the quiet café to enter the bustle of Diagon Alley. Just a few doors down, the Owl Emporium provided a fascinating half-hour of bird watching. The place had the musty avian smell and there was more than a hint of fluff drifting in the air. Huge yellow eyes followed them from every perch. It was feeding time. Mice were being doled out liberally as birds clacked their beaks and screamed for their turn. The noise level was a bit too much, forcing them back onto the street.

They crossed the street, pushing by a crowd of teenagers and early twenties types. The taller Wronski stood on tiptoes to read the sign. Disappointed, he announced that they were in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. They both rolled their eyes and walked up the street to Flourish and Blotts. There, the shopping was glorious. Books!

Jones practically burbled in excitement. "I used to mail order from these guys! The damn shipping alone cost almost as much as the books!" They loitered through the aisles, picking up book after book. The reference section was where Jones finally gave up and sat down on the floor. The rest of the shop's customers were forced to make a wide berth as she buried herself in some of the more arcane sections. The manager tried asking her if there was something in particular she was interested in and received only a grunt for a reply.

Wronski lost himself in the Potions section. He found several things he thought he could use and was delighted to find that Durmstrang had an old account with the shop. He laughed out loud when he discovered that Petrov, the man he had replaced, was the contact name listed. When asked for any kind of proof, Wronski scowled and pulled off his jacket. The staff took a step back, as if expecting a physical attack. Instead, they watched, bewildered, as he unbuttoned his shirt's cuff and rolled back his sleeve to reveal the Durmstrang mark on his forearm. "I'm bound for another year at least. I'll probably opt for renewal." He held his arm so the manager and the rest of the clerks could see it. The staff seemed uncomfortable, but no one asked any more questions.

They made four piles on the counter by early afternoon: one pile each for things to charge to the school and another pile each for their personal use. The clerk muttered under his breath as he filled out page after page of forms. Neither paid any attention as they paged through their newest acquisitions. When shipping was being arranged, Jones gave up quickly and left it to Wronski to figure out the best way to get their hoard back.

Outside, they paused and Jones lit a cigarette. They leaned against a corner of Flourish and Blotts and tried to figure out what to do next. "I wonder if we have an account at one of those places down Knockturn Alley?"

"Dunno. We could do that tomorrow. No need to do it all in one day. I'm not ready to go back to a school full of Aurors. It's only July. School doesn't start until the first of September. What are we going to do for almost two months?"

Jones puffed at her cigarette thoughtfully. "We could travel around. Shoot. I have no idea. Maybe we could go back and hang out around the village and our offices. That might work. I'm kinda tired of travelling. I want to sleep in my own bed."

"You almost sound homesick for Durmstrang. Now, that's a concept." He tried to sound sarcastic but the truth of the statement sat there. Homesick was the correct term. "I wonder what the rest are doing with those guys there? Can you imagine how Loup must be handling it? Werner will make her life a living hell. Siegfried is in Berlin. Rabe went back to Bulgaria." He scratched at his forearm where the mark was. "That's weird."

Jones roused from her own thoughts. "What?"

"Haken was there."

"So? I'm sure Gilles is there, too." She yawned and looked down the street.

"Haken always leaves as soon as the students leave. I wonder why he's still there?" Wronski pondered the question, but was distracted by a group of women out shopping. "There certainly are a lot of pretty women here."

She laughed briefly, her eyes drifting back to a dark, narrow street. "I want to see that place. C'mon."

Knockturn Alley began with a few shops carrying things that could only be called "dark" if they were in a closed closet. Jones became increasingly impatient as they toured the street. The giant spiders were amusing, but hardly dark. The shrunken heads received a curled lip as several were proclaimed fakes. The poisonous candles got a long appraising stare and a few were purchased. Wronski looked askance at the thought she might find a way to give one to Loup. She didn’t laugh laugh when he asked if that might be her plan. It was Borgin and Burkes that garnered the most interest.

It was one of those places where the proprietor watched their every move and openly eavesdropped on their conversation. Jones didn't seem to mind. She whispered that she expected it. She closely examined the selection of cursed items and requested the history of each. Mr. Borgin was sparse in his descriptions. When she was certain that everyone was out of the store except the two of them and Borgin, she got as close as she dared and, in a very low voice, asked, "I collect manuscripts. What's for sale?"

Borgin refused to answer, turning his attentions to rearranging things in his display case. Jones looked over at Wronski and winked. "I know for a fact that you're the contact point for most of the Dark Arts manuscripts that enter Europe. I'm a professor at Durmstrang. I was also a professional in Seattle. My name is Rose Jones. I've bought things from you before."

Borgin looked her over with heavily lidded eyes. "What did you buy from me?"

"I got a small grimoire, five years ago - 17^th century - black leather cover, of course, all blood rites. The other one was a 19^th century book, a reprint on demons. Really pretty, but almost entirely useless. I got the ingredients for a whopper of a very illegal thing that I'm not going to mention here in three separate shipments. I did a little work breaking a curse for you on..."

Borgin held up a hand, indicating he had heard enough. He leaned over and whispered, "You might want to keep your voice down. I think they have an ear spell in here."

She coughed loudly and pulled out her wand. "Let's see." Nothing was said but several things sparkled ominously, as if a veil had been pulled off them. "I'd say you're right."

Borgin sucked in his breath. "By Merlin," he began as he turned about taking in the revealed spells.

"Make ya a deal," she waved her wand idly, indicating the spells. "Them for…" She gave Borgin a steady stare and held out a hand as if requesting payment. Borgin's hands fluttered uncertainly as he looked around and then back at her.

"Could you?" he whispered.

Jones smirked. The spell was more of a sensation than anything else. The building seemed to swell out for a long moment and then suddenly constrict down. An audible pop was heard from several corners and a little whizzing sound came from under a mask on the wall. She slowly turned around in the room, the wand still out as she examined her work. Borgin began to speak and she held out her hand to silence him. The wand tipped slightly and a silvery mist spun out to fall on everything. Things that had been hidden were revealed in a glowing outline. The obvious faded back and the secrets blazed. She raised an eyebrow at Borgin and began to point at the outlined objects one at a time. Borgin nodded yes several times and then no. She described a circle about each item that he shook his head no at. When they completed the circuit, the circled items glowed brighter still. The sensation returned stronger that time and was recalled twice more until all of the glowing objects were gone.

"Wow!" Wronski's eyes were huge as he watched. Borgin's eyes were huge, too, but he wasn't looking at Jones, his eyes were directed towards the doorway.

In the doorway stood two men, one leaning on each side of the entryway. Although dressed in middle class robes, they looked like Aurors, smelled like Aurors and definitely had the feel of Aurors. "Impressive," growled one of them. The other was busy pulling out a wand.

"What's up?" Jones asked. She didn't even try to look innocent. "Anything wrong?"

"Americans." The one Auror looked at the other significantly. "Paperwork." He extended his hand towards Jones.

"Why?"

The Auror flexed his hand again for the requested identification. He turned to his partner, a sneer fixed on his face. The flash of light was telling. Bright for an instant, it was still reflected in their eyes as they began to crumple to the floor. Borgin let loose a hissing sound, half-angry and half-afraid. "They can't be left here."

She tapped her wand on her hand, considering what to do next. This had not been in the game plan. "First things first. Paul, move them to the back of the room where they're out of view. Do you know these guys?" she asked Borgin as she flexed a hand.

Borgin's eyes darted about, looking for anyone else who might be trouble. "Taylor and Wright. They're local."

With a slow nod, she looked around the room. "Do they come here often?"

"Oh, yes. Frightfully so." Borgin glared down at the fallen Aurors who were slowly rising under Wronski's magic to glide into the shadows at the back of the room.

"My bet is they set most of these. Time to do some work." She rolled her head once and shrugged her shoulders. "Lock the doors, ok?"

Quickly, Borgin locked the doors and drew the curtains. The closed storefront fairly screamed out that something illegal was happening. With an admiring audience of two, she wiped the Aurors' memories and planted another of someone's wand going off and taking out their auditory spells. "It'll do. As long as they don't question it too much, it should work. We're not dealing with a lot of lost time. I'm not great at this kind of thing." She shot a glance at a white-lipped Wronski. "Not like the boys are. I'd like to learn how to do that some day."

They floated the Aurors out the back door and into a small courtyard behind the shop. Borgin supplied a wand that they placed well away from the two unconscious men. They sprinted back into the shop and stood protected behind the walls. "I almost hate to do this," Jones sighed. "Get your drapes open and look busy." Borgin disappeared to make his shop look as normal as it could. Jones counted to thirty slowly, listening for the sound of conversation in the front of the shop which would give convenient witnesses that Borgin wasn't involved. "Here goes." She dipped her wand slightly and muttered "Discutere!"

White light flooded the small courtyard. The concussion from the energy threw them back against a stack of boxes. A tinkle of broken glass and then a cat's yowl were the only sounds for several seconds. Then, the popping sounds started. The small courtyard filled with Aurors Apparating in. Jones grabbed Wronski's wrist, "We have got to be out of here. I need time to disperse the energy from my wand and we need to leave town. NOW!" He didn't question anything. They walked swiftly out of the building and into Gringotts to stand in line as if they had been there for hours. The street outside became a whirlwind of activity as men and women swooped down on brooms, searching for whoever or whatever had exploded the wand. One man ran into the bank, casting about for something, but soon ran out.

Jones let out her breath slowly and found herself at the front of a line in front of a waiting goblin. With narrowed eyes, the goblin regarded her closely. "What do you want?"

Her wits were scattered. Gone with the blast. Wronski stepped forward, looking as innocuous as he always did. "Does Durmstrang have an account its faculty can take money from? We're professors there and would like to get some supplies for the upcoming year." It sounded so simple and plausible. The goblin began to sort through ledgers and ask questions and soon they were huddled over old files and books as the question was researched.

* * *

The whole of Diagon Alley and its environs buzzed with Auror activity. They slunk back to the Leaky Cauldron and continued out its front door onto Charing Cross Road where they melted into the crowd and wandered around London for the rest of the day.

In a filthy bathroom at a Marks and Spencer, Jones worked on dispersing the energies from her wand. It took a lot longer than she had hoped. Regular knocks pounded against the door as anxious women waited their turn at the loo. The jingle of keys signaled a security man come to check on the patron's health. In an indignant voice, she lectured the man about harassing a woman with gastric distress. Wronski's stifled laugh sounded out of place during the harangue.

With no English money at hand, they were forced to spend the evening wandering the streets. Forlornly, they stood in front of restaurant after restaurant as they killed time playing the menu game. "The soup sounds good. I'd have a vindaloo and a lager." She sucked down a lungful of smoke and looked over at Wronski.

"How about a biriani and a lager? What's the difference between a vindaloo and a madras?" He was bored and hungry, facts that had been mentioned several times throughout the last few hours.

"Spiciness." Jones' stomach rumbled again. "Do you think it's late enough yet?"

He shook his head slightly, watching the shadows behind them. "I still see shapes flickering in and out. I don't know if it's better here or back there."

"Probably out here. We don't really fit the mold back there. We stand out too much. I wish I could find some place to change some money. I'm starving."

"Why don't you just Accio some food?" Wronski's voice took on a bitter tone. "You already broke the law today. What's one more thing?"

"Paul! Ok, so I made a small mistake. How was I to know there would be that many ears and eyes and that their Aurors keep such good tabs on them?" She wrapped her arms around herself and stared up at him. He didn't reply, still keeping watch. "You're right. You're right. I'm out of practice. I should have put a containment shield around the place first. I was showing off. Stupid!" She tossed the cigarette butt into the street. "I used to be a lot more cautious. Haven't had to think about all the little things."

"Little?" queried Wronski, his voice hard. "What's 'little' about trashing police surveillance spells? Give me a break."

"Sorry. I said that I was sorry. Look, it's not a total loss. You found out that Durmstrang has what I guess could be called a petty cash reserve with Gringotts. We can buy some of your supplies for next year tomorrow morning. It won't look as odd if we do that and then we can leave."

"Are we going to walk around London all night? I'm tired and hungry and sick of looking for things that blink in and out." The whining began as he slouched angrily against the wall of the restaurant.

"The Leaky Cauldron is the deadest pub I've ever seen. Everyone was asleep when we went back yesterday night. I thought we could hang out until about the same time and then go back. That's only a little bit longer." She tried out her most optimistic tones, noting that he looked away from her. "Oh, come on! This is what life is like for people like us!"

He turned to look at her, his face lit harshly by the light from the menu's display. "'People like us'? I'm not like you. I only teach in the Dark Arts department because I couldn't find a job as a chemist."

"Don't go getting all pissy on me. You killed your thesis advisor. You've got a dark streak." Jones felt a bit guilty bringing that up. Whether Wronski had actually killed his advisor was open to debate. Jones privately thought that the man had died from a heart attack and not from anything her friend had done.

Wronski ground his shoe at the grit on the sidewalk, making a loud scuffing noise as he stared down. "I didn't mean to kill him," he whispered. "I should have done what my mom wanted and gone back. Maybe I could have gotten off with manslaughter."

Jones panicked; the last thing she needed was Wronski getting morose and confessional. "Hey, it's done! It's over. We have two months before school starts. I can hardly wait for those boxes of books to show up at school. I would have never thought to ask about an account. Rabe is going to have a fit, but he'll also wish he'd thought of it first. You're a smart guy." The words came out quickly, almost slurring into each other as she tried to distract him.

With the air of a martyr, he looked over at her. "I'm tired. Can't we go back and just go straight to our rooms?"

She weighed the possibilities and the dangers. The only person who knew for certain what had happened was Borgin and it was very doubtful he would say anything to the authorities. She'd dispersed the energies from her wand. Anyone who would check it would find that she cast Lumos a lot recently. The kids at the bar might be a problem, but she gotten the distinct impression from her former client that they wouldn't want their parents to know that they'd been in a place like the Dark Room. Still, she didn't know how aggressive the English police were. After much internal debate, she nodded.

The Leaky Cauldron was not dead that night. It was stuffed full of colorful, chatty witches and wizards. As strangers, they were invited for a pint and then another. After the third, Wronski shook off his depression. Jones backed into a corner and stood in the shadows not listening to an elderly witch who wanted to share her life story. The old witch was very drunk and was retelling some pointless tale for the second time, having gotten confused midway into the tale before.

It was almost 10 PM when the woman arrived. She was in her thirties, blonde and nicely dressed in expensive Muggle clothing. She had the kind of air that commanded men look at her and Wronski complied. Jones noted her in passing when she walked into the pub, mostly seeing the cost of the clothing and putting a tick in the column of "potential client?".

Later, after the old witch finally completed the odd reminisces, Jones realized that Wronski had captured the blonde's attentions. Jones smiled to herself, hoping that he got lucky and quit feeling sorry for himself. Perhaps unwisely, she crept up the stairs, leaving Wronski to be predator or prey.

* * *

Jones stood outside Wronski's room, wondering if she should knock or not. It seemed stupid either way she looked at it. They needed to leave. If Wronski had lured the woman upstairs, she didn't want to be the one to wake them. The nagging suspicion was that getting out of London was the best idea. He'll forgive me, she thought and banged on the door.

No one answered. She pressed an ear to the door and listened intently. Nothing. They couldn't have gone to her place, could they? She put a hand over her eyes and opened the door. "Paul?" Nothing. She inhaled deeply, checking for his scent. Nothing new. Everything had the oldish yesterday smell to it. She cracked her fingers, expecting to see clothing scattered on the floor and pale limbs poking from covers. The bed was still tidily made up. "Where the hell is he?" she grumbled aloud.

"Oh, he never came back, ducks," a voice cheerfully answered.

Jones glowered at the mirror. "What is it with this place? All the furniture talks. OK, mirror, when did you see him last?"

"The mirror isn't charmed. I am." The voice was oppressively happy.

Jones groaned loudly. "OK, which piece of furniture are you?"

"Why, I'm the bed. Oh, I do have some lovely tales to tell. Would you like to pull up a chair and have a nice chat? No one talks to me much, especially once they discover what I am. You'd be surprised to hear what they say to me! Cheeky gits."

Jones wouldn't be surprised at all. "I need to find Paul. If he gets back here, will you tell him I called?" She felt stupid talking to a piece of furniture, especially one that was dying to tell her gossip about people she didn't know.

"Right then!"

She wasn't sure, but it sounded to her like the thing was humming to itself as she closed the door.

* * *

Real coffee had appeared at her table that morning. She squealed in delight and thanked the owner Tom over and over. The food was still hot and greasy or cold and brittle, but the coffee made up for a lot.

The hours ticked by slowly. Jones brought a novel down to the lobby and pretended to read, starting every time the door opened or someone cleared their throat. By mid morning, Wronski had not yet appeared. Jones became agitated and annoyed all of the clientele by drumming her fingers loudly, snorting and chain smoking. By eleven, she gave up and went back to her room. Something had to be done.

She looked at the mirror for a long time and tried getting it to talk about the weather. The mirror said nothing, either it was offended or her spell still held. She wanted to make sure it couldn't talk to anyone before she proceeded. Still not feeling very comfortable, she took off her jacket and rolled up the sleeve of her shirt until she could see the Durmstrang mark. Binding spells were used to call and punish. She'd never tried to activate it. Having had it used twice on her was enough and she didn't relish the thought of doing anything at all with it, but maybe she could use it to summon her tardy companion.

She tried many different techniques to trigger it. Usually binding spells were energized with a key word or spell. She'd been terrified when they'd applied it to her and the time it had been used as punishment she'd been unable to hear anything except her own scream. Time passed by as she sat on the bed, trying to find the key words and using different spells to try to make it do something.

Clunking footsteps in the hallway caught her attention. With a shake, she settled the sleeve back down and gratefully buttoned the cuff. She'd spent more time looking at it that day than she had for the two years she'd borne it. Cracking the door open, she saw Wronski standing in front of the door, swaying slightly as he fumbled in his pocket for a key. He reeked of sweat and liquor and looked as though he'd been wrestling in his clothing.

"It's not locked," Jones said as she opened the door to watch him.

"Hiya." A stupid smile was plastered over his face, his normally sour expression gone. With an unsteady hand, he pushed his hair back from his face. "I think I like this place."

"Uh huh. So, did you score?"

He looked down his nose at her, but the grin undid any attempt at looking offended. "A gentleman never talks about such things." The affected English accent wasn't bad.

"Does she have a name?"

"Narcissa. Beautiful name. Beautiful woman." Wronski beamed down at the fascinated Jones. "We went dancing. There's a club around the corner called the Bludger. Pitch dark. The music was deafening."

"Dancing? Never had you figured for a dancer or a clubber. Get you out of Durmstrang and you become a wild thing. What's her last name?"

"Malfoy. Sounds French, doesn't it? She doesn't speak the language. I tried, but she didn't understand."

"Uh huh. Malfoy? I've seen that name somewhere. Never heard of a Narcissa. Some guy's name." Jones scratched her head as she tried to recall where she'd heard the name. "I think there's a 'Malfoy' on the list of donors for something or other. Oh, I had a Gerard Malfoi in my Blood Rites class last year. Scary kid. Sure loved to talk about his ancestors. Claimed to be descended from the same line as Henri Plantagenet. Something about a woman named Melusine. Maybe they're related?"

Wronski yawned and stretched. A distinct odor hit Jones' nose and she looked away, grinning. She was certain that he would be in a much better mood for several days.

"Why don't you take a shower. Bath. They don't have a shower in here. We need to get out of here, remember?"

With a sad sigh, he agreed. "I know. I told her we had to leave today. Funny, she seemed to get really interested in me after that. Women are strange." With that, he sidled around the doorjamb to get a change of clothing.

Jones snorted and went back into her room and began packing.

The owner was a bit put off when they announced they were leaving a day early. Rather stiffly, he agreed to let them stow their bags for the afternoon as they made one last sweep of Diagon and Knockturn alleys. It was a rushed visit. Jones' nerves were on edge, causing her to be brittle and easily startled. Wronski's attempt at a systematic examination of everything at the Apothecary was ruined as she kept poking him to hurry up. With an apology to the shopkeeper, he shoved her outside, telling her to have a cigarette.

Jones slunk into the shadows close to the cauldron shop. The crowds were thinner at that end of Diagon Alley. The squawks from Eyelop's Owl Emporium provided a discordant accompaniment to a group of children's endlessly repeated song about "Bathilda the Baggy". Three chainsmoked cigarettes later, she crept out from her illusion of safety to peer in the Apothecary window at Wronski's back. A large pile of boxes and bags jumbled next to him as he pointed at something else on a shelf. Jones whistled lowly, Rabe was going to have a fit when the bill came in.

A drawling voice caught her attention. Looking at the reflections in the window, she saw a family pass by. The men looked like mirrors of each other: pale, blond and sharp chinned. She furrowed her brow, trying to recall where she'd seen them as they both looked familiar. When the older one laughed, she finally placed him. She'd done a little job for him five years ago. Nothing too exciting and she had never asked his name. The younger one's air of superiority and the long pause at the Quidditch supply shop marked him as the loudest of the boys at the Dark Room. The door to the shop jingled as Wronski stepped out. She glanced up at him, surprised when he stared straight ahead, not acknowledging her. Tracking his gaze, she realized it was the woman that held his attention. Jones gave up looking at the reflection and turned around to get a better view. It took three heartbeats before she recalled the elegant woman as the one from the Leaky Cauldron. Jones groaned just loud enough to catch Wronski's attention.

"You don't think," he began, his expression looking tortured. "She isn't, she couldn't be, not…"

"Married. Yeah. That's the word. Married. You were a one-night stand, kid." She tried to make her voice sound light. Working at Durmstrang didn't expose Wronski to a lot of single women, unless you counted the students. Unlike Kessler or Gregorov, he had never seemed too interested in pursuing the seventh-years. Jones looked away, trying to decide what to do next.

Wronski slumped against the store, watching the trio continue their stroll down the street to eventually disappear into Madam Malkin's Robes store. With visible effort, he straightened and glanced down at the oddly quiet Jones. "Stupid of me, huh? She seemed so nice. I never thought to ask if she was married."

"Why should you? Look, you both had a nice time, right? So, forget about it. Well, maybe not forget about it, but take it as a compliment instead." She read his face, noting the sad eyes and tight jaw. "You should get out more. "

Looking down, he said, "Yeah. Right. Let's get out of here, OK?"