Between the Devil and Durmstrang

"You should not have done that," Mueller rumbled from the guest chair in Jones' office. The chair was lost beneath him.

"Old habits. I wasn't sure if I'd need leverage or not." She slumped low in her chair, exhausted. It hardly seemed fair. All the weeks of flirting and joking with the man across the desk, trying to get him call and there he was - there for the wrong reasons. Figures. She tried working up some enthusiasm, a little of the old Jones fire. None of it answered. She was scared. Scared of being singled out. Scared of her past. Terrified of her future. She hadn't counted on anything like this happening. She didn't want to be the object of scrutiny. Not by Werner and especially not by her old nemeses Peterson and Smith. Relative obscurity sounded delightful.

The chair creaked as Mueller shifted his weight forward. The small dark eyes had bags under them, telling of long nights and little sleep. Mueller had adopted the strong, silent role years ago. Getting him to talk took effort, but was usually worth it. He seemed content to sit and wait, not in any real rush to return.

Jones fought for a topic, anything to help take her mind off the evening. Her normally chatty self refused to emerge and she felt horribly uncomfortable at the quiet. Her hands were trembling, the only obvious sign of her fear. To give them something to do, she reached for her cigarettes and found only an empty pack. Even her vices had deserted her. Teetering on the edge, the urges to cry and to laugh battled it out. The empty package made a crinkly sound as she crushed it in a hand and then bounced it out of the trash can with an odd plastic thunk.

The little dark eyes didn't seem to blink. They waited; she waited, hoping for some kind of resolution, which wasn't quick to appear. "Can I bum a cigarette off you?" The question sounded flat. Mueller rummaged around inside his uniform's jacket, eventually withdrawing a rather smashed-looking package. He tapped out two and then lit them both, offering her one. His arms were long enough that he barely had to extend his reach. With her hands still shaking, she took the offering and surrendered herself to the sheer physical pleasure of sucking down the smoke. It helped. A little. It would help more if she could be alone, but Mueller stayed where he was.

With the last possible drag taken, she had to do something. Mueller seemed content to sit there forever. "Can I offer you a drink? I have some brandy. I think there might be some scotch."

She took the nonreply as a 'yes' and stood. The big man stood up and followed her into her living area. The room had the classic Durmstrang cast-off decor. Two chairs, a small table, a sideboard and a coat rack were all the room's furnishings. The walls were decorated with posters of the Seattle skyline. For the first time in quite awhile, she took a look at it, noting how shabby it was. A heap of laundry sat in a corner, its untidy presence embarrassing her slightly. With a start, she realized that her bag was still in the tavern. Not much there, but it was hers.

Mueller took one of the two chairs and slowly looked around. Jones groaned inwardly when she realized that several of her grimoires were stacked on top of the sideboard, in plain view. Steeling herself, she walked over to it and opened a cupboard door to peer in at her small liquor supply. A mostly full bottle of brandy, a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin, and some Amaretto someone had given her. The scotch seemed the best bet. She needed to be able to sleep. Grabbing the scotch and a pair of coffee mugs, she made her way over to the other chair and poured a generous shot for them both. Mueller seemed to find the smell more intriguing than the taste. He played with the scotch rather than drinking it.

She finished her drink slowly, her mind racing for a topic of conversation. Mueller appeared to be content to sit in silence, a concept foreign to her. She watched as his eyes fluttered sleepily and an idea came to mind. Casually, she got up and walked back into her bedroom and went into the bathroom. Flushing the toilet and running some water gave her enough time to formulate a plan. She clawed at her hair briefly, making a small attempt at primping. The face that stared back at her still had wild eyes. Still looked very scared. She needed some kind of insurance.

She felt a bit guilty as she palmed her wand and walked up behind Mueller whose head nodded slightly as he dozed. Made it all the easier to place a Somnus spell on him, sending him into a deep sleep. Satisfied that he was truly out, she pulled out the towel and turned it over in her hands. More of a napkin than anything else. Her linens produced nothing exactly like it, but she doubted that Werner had paid that much attention to the cloth itself. The closest thing she had to it was a handkerchief. She took that and returned to stand in front of the sleeping man. Asleep, he still looked menacing. She stroked his arm and then took his hand, carefully turning it over to see if there were any scrapes or cuts. The left hand was unmarred but the right one had a paper cut, almost healed. Her anthame reopened the cut, blood welling slowly. It took a lot of massaging to keep the flow going. Mueller's body wanted to stop the bleeding and she found herself wincing a bit as she continued to manipulate the wound. She duplicated as much of the blood pattern as she could onto the handkerchief and then crumpled and recrumpled it until it was just another crushed piece of cloth which she left on the table in front of the snoring man. He looked peaceful.

With a heavy heart, she went into her office and rummaged around in her desk until she found something, something she had used a lot in days gone by. Blowing the dust off of it, she uncorked the little glass flask and returned to face Mueller. This was the sad part. The part that every Dark Arts practitioner who made it into their forties and beyond all faced, would all have to do at one point or another, the little thing that said they couldn't trust, couldn't love fully. They had to protect themselves.

The cut had already closed; only a thin white line showed. She set her shoulders and took the knife again. It was better to take from the area closest to the heart and then from a point close to the brain. It felt odd unbuttoning his jacket and almost as if she were violating him when she opened his shirt. The sleeveless undershirt was stretched aside, her eyes searching for a place where the small wound would be difficult to see. Under a curve of flesh, she made her incision and milked out enough to fill the tube to where the walls rose straight from the rounded bottom. She held the edges closed until there was no bleeding and made certain no blood would stain the shirt. Then, she dressed him again and moved around behind him. A lock of hair was pulled away from his ear, and the incision made in the hairline. Again the blood was drawn and again the wound held until it closed. She felt like a rapist. Mueller had never done anything wrong, had always been pleasant. He was a weapon, though - a weapon that could be used to hurt or even kill. Almost as a whisper she could hear a fragment of an old conversation, "The Dark can be generous, but it is never kind." She'd relied on its generosity for years. The flask and the towel were carefully hidden under a loose floorboard before she went back to look at the man. He looked younger when he was asleep, the cautious expression relaxed and the flinty eyes closed. It seemed almost a shame to wake him, especially since she'd hoped one day to lure him in here to do just a bit more than sleep. She draped a blanket over him and sat back in the other chair to nurse another shot of whiskey and eventually fall asleep.

* * *

Mueller's snores woke her a few times. She spent the last hour before dawn trying to figure out how he managed to stay in the chair without sliding out. The travel grime felt overpowering and a shower became her primary interest. Leaving him to his sleep, she indulged in a very long hot shower.

The tiny room was a sauna when she emerged. She enjoyed the warmth and took her time combing her hair and digging out her eyes. When it got as good as it could, she poked her head out to see if she was alone. The soft snoring sound buzzed from the other room. The armoire held her small collection of clothing. She felt stupid as she sorted through for something that would look nice. It seemed important that she not look dumpy. Selections were chosen and discarded until a sweater and slacks were deemed appropriate. She gave up on shoes, choosing instead to scuff on a pair of slippers.

Taking her place in the opposite chair, she stared at him. His breathing was wrong. Too measured. She glanced at the spot on the table where the handkerchief had been, noting that it was no longer there. Smiling, she said, "I know you're awake. How's your neck?"

A dark eye opened. "Stiff. You should have made me leave." He pulled himself into a straighter position. "What time is it?"

"Thought you'd have done a Tempus charm already. I see you retrieved Werner's cloth." Still smiling, she produced a cigarette and lit it. "I don't suppose you could do me another favor?" She waited. Mueller's eyes locked onto the cigarette. "I left my bag at the tavern. Could you get it for me? It's small. Paul may have left his, too. Nothing in there but dirty clothes and some books. Please?" She lit another cigarette from hers and passed it over. Mueller dragged down most of it at once. He gave an almost motionless shrug, an answer open to interpretation.

"I'm dying for some coffee. Is it safe to go to the Great Hall?" She made the effort to sound casual and found that she couldn't look him in the eye. Just like old times. Exhaling a plume of smoke, she found comfort in the soft glow of her wards. Unbidden, a snort escaped her. Good wards. Strong. They would need to be stronger yet. The man in front of her hadn't cracked them, but Peterson had. Peterson could do it. They would need to be strengthened. Everyone's would need to be buttressed.

Mueller finished sucking the last of the smoke down. "No."

"No what? No coffee or not safe?"

"Not safe. Your compatriots will be there. Mr. Smith will undoubtedly want to talk to you again." Mueller could have played cards professionally for all the expression in his face.

Jones bit her lip as she considered her options. "What do you recommend? Or, would that be cheating?"

She didn't like the way he looked at her, as if she were already charged with a crime. Her little living area seemed like one of the many interrogation rooms she had spent too many hours in. This time, there was no crime. Well, not here. Not at Durmstrang. She hadn't worked her craft while she taught. A few demonstration spells, but nothing she'd consider Dark work. Not unless you counted the thing she did for Rabe's stupid presentation. She hadn't done any jobs since her arrival. Why did she feel guilty?

"You should check with the others. They may have already made arrangements for food. I haven't seen any of them in the hall since the first week." Mueller stood and stretched, filling the room.

It was all she could do not to tug his uniform into place. A grin twitched back into place. "You're wrinkled."

He grunted as a reply and smoothed his hands over his clothing. "I am scheduled for the offices today. This will not do."

"You got another one back at your place? Is it close to the offices? How many uniforms do you have?" Feeling more comfortable with small talk, she grew more animated, enjoying feeling normal again.

The chatty Jones received what for Mueller was a warm smile. "Only two. They make us buy them. They only give you the first one. The other one needs to be cleaned." He sounded resigned. "Do you know any spells that could take care of…" A large hand waved in front of the disheveled attire.

"I know some basic laundry spells. If electricity worked here, I'd iron it for you, but it doesn't. I'm not much of a," she paused and thought for a second, "hausfrau? Housewife sort." Still surveying his rumpled uniform, a thought hit. "Magda would. She seems to know all sorts of this kind of thing. Maybe she's around. Wanna check?"

Mueller looked dubious, but, in best silent Mueller fashion, followed as Jones led the way. He slowed at the doorway to take in the glow of the wards, a look of what possibly be termed "respect" showing.

She wandered over to the staff room and peeked in. Gregorov slumped over the table, sipping what always looked like a small mug in his hands. Not seeing the much-hated Loup, she walked in. "Are Ludwig and Magda still here?"

Gregorov's head swung slowly in her direction. The strange pale eyes looked wary, staring at a point behind her. Jones glanced behind her to see Mueller. The Russian had never made it a secret that he didn't like the Aurors. A scraping sound caught her attention. Next to Gregorov was a large black shape, a wolf, curled up on the floor. Gregorov noted Jones' stare, "Too many of them. Makes her uncomfortable."

"What's that matter - scared?" Jones' laugh sounded brittle and shrill. The wolf raised its head and black eyes burned. "Well, I can't say that I blame you. Had a run in with some of my old acquaintances last night. Big fun." The wolf looked at Mueller and, in an instant, Loup appeared scowling.

"They're everywhere," Loup snarled. "I think we should leave." She threw herself into the chair next to Gregorov. "He can't go, though. The Headmaster has ordered him to stay."

Gregorov looked over at his mate, his face impassive. He sipped his tea quietly as they had one of their strange silent conversations.

"How are we getting food?" Jones leaned against the doorway, hoping to get an answer. The wolves didn't always respond when they held one of their little wolfy tête-à-têtes.

Whatever the topic, Gregorov seemed to win. He finished his tea and poured the last of the pot into the mug. "We go in after they start their seminars, unless you care to dine with a room full of Aurors. Loup has convinced Bette to allow us access to the kitchens earlier. They have their dinner at seven. There are only a few of us here, so we are allowed to eat with the staff."

Jones watched as her rival sulked, wondering why the other woman remained at the school. The eyes alone would attract the visitors. The pack thing. She really didn't understand it, but it seemed to bind her former crush and Loup together even though their fights echoed through the building regularly. Grumpily, Loup picked an insulated carafe from the floor and filled a mug with what smelled like very, very strong coffee. The black within black eyes took in Mueller standing behind Jones. "Yours?" Loup took a sip and wrapped both hands around the mug. "Kind of wrinkled."

Mueller shifted uncomfortably behind her and, torn between automatically wanting to snipe at Loup and enjoying the idea that Mueller might be "hers", Jones cracked a smile. "I'm hoping that Magda knows something that takes the wrinkles out. I've never been much for useful spells."

Loup turned her attention back to her coffee. "Me, neither. There was always someone else to take care of it." She leaned against Gregorov, a rare display of affection. "You probably know one. You're pretty useful to have around."

Gregorov looked embarrassed, his attention swinging quickly from his mate to Mueller and then fixed onto his tea. "Sternere works well on many things. Abluere might be better for the uniform. Especially if it's been slept in," Gregorov muttered to his mug, uncomfortable at having his domestic side exposed.

From her spot, leaning familiarly against Gregorov's shoulder, Loup yawned, "I think you should do the laundry. You're better at it. I just run the Abluere spell to get it clean."

The domestic scene amused Jones to no end. She made a mental bet that the two would argue over it later. They seemed to snipe at each other over everything, but, she had to admit, she rarely saw them and only heard them when they fought. Any real gossip would have to come from de Rais whose quarters were next to the wolves and he rarely shared that sort of information. A pulse of power startled her. Spinning around, she watched as Mueller made several false starts at the spell before getting it right. Terribly cute, she thought, watching him concentrate on forcing his uniform into order.

"Excuse me," a familiar voice muttered as the owner squeezed past Jones. Still more focused on Mueller than anything else, she only vaguely registered the presence and pressed into the doorjamb to make room.

"They will want to see you in an hour." The familiar voice was speaking to someone else and Jones continued to ignore it.

"What do they want this time?" Loup demanded. "They've called for him every day this week."

She turned to watch as Gregorov held his hands up in what looked like a placating motion. "Is fine. I do not care. They can call me as they wish. They pay me for my inconvenience."

"I don't trust them. I can't believe you're letting them order you around," Loup growled and slouched away from Gregorov. "I don't understand what they're doing. Why do you have to perform the same spells over and over again?"

That got Jones' attention, forced her to take note of who was there. Loup looked as though she was about to either stand and fight someone or flee. She flickered, her wolf form blinking over her human self, showing how nervous she was. Gregorov looked resigned. The man with his back to her was out of place. He shouldn't be there. Rolf Haken never stayed at the school during the summer. He always went home to his pack of kids and wife.

"What kinds of spells are you doing?" Jones asked, her voice flat. "Let me guess, they're having you do some summoning spells, maybe a Crucio, maybe have you kill a rat or two and maybe have you do an Incendio. They make you cast it with both hands. Maybe try a little unfocused magic."

Haken turned to face her, for once not even trying his role of the ever-smiling, ever-helpful sort. Jones looked at him and saw another man. "You know this routine?" Haken sounded wary, his eyes narrowed as he carefully looked her over. Then, his attention focused behind her and something passed between him and Mueller. A small nod and then Haken left, squeezing again by Jones to leave the building with the Auror.

Jones turned and watched the men leave, watched them huddle together talking. Things clicked into place, making an incomplete puzzle with little parts of the whole fitted together. "So, tell me what they're doing. What they make you do. How often they want you to do it and who tells you what to do." She pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Gregorov.

Gregorov's odd pale eyes squinted almost shut. "It is much as you said. I am called into the Great Hall. The little man, the American, Smith, he orders me to do this or that. Some times he tries to get me to try it without a wand, other times I am told to switch hands. Over and over this exercise is performed. I do not understand. They send me out; they call me back."

Jones nodded and hunched over the table. "Is there a machine?"

"There is, but it does not seem to work very well. They spend a great deal of time tinkering with it."

She nodded again and, focusing on a spot in the past, remembered doing the same things over and over again, a little black box clicking with each movement, recording and analyzing. The box was the worst part. It didn't listen to explanations, couldn't be bought off and was shielded electronically, magically and physically. She hated that thing. Every time they hauled her in, she had stood in front of it and listened to it click. "So, do they seem pleased with the results? Do they send you out quickly or do they have you repeat the motions again and again."

Gregorov leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "No. They are not happy. I do what I am told to do and then they stare at the thing. They turn knobs and peer at it. Once, the small one, Smith, struck it and swore a great deal."

"Too much magic. It won't work right here."

"I don't understand. What's going on?" Loup whined. The normally in-control witch's nerves were strained. "What does it do? Should we be worried? I don't like this. They come through here daily, looking, touching, pushing at the wards."

"Why don't you leave?" Jones couldn't resist asking.

"I would like to, but…" The sentence was bitten off as the other woman hugged herself tightly, her attention on the man next to her.

"That is unkind." Gregorov glowered at Jones who chuckled and hunted around for her cigarettes.

"Couldn't resist. What they're trying to do is get a signature. The machine records it so they can compare the energies left at various crime scenes to see if they can get a match. If it matches your signatures, then they feel they have a case. It's very accurate. If you aren't very, very careful and make certain you've dispersed all of the energies and, better yet, masked them, they can try and hold you. I don't know how the laws work here, but I know that the US has been trying to get some sort of across-the-world agreement on certain things. The damn machine is scary."

Loup shot a glance at Gregorov. "I may have to leave after all. I can't risk having a record. I can sleep in the woods. Can you join me?"

Gregorov rumbled something that Jones didn't catch and she was quite amazed to see him take Loup's hand. "They do not know you are here. They think you are a pet. Stay with me."

Jones watched as the other woman squirmed, torn between the request and the desire for flight. Surprised at herself, Jones felt pity. If it were her, she would run, but Loup needed Gregorov in a way that Jones really couldn't fathom. "You've covered your work, right?" Jones asked as she lit the cigarette. "I know you have. You're a pro. You're also a French citizen, right?"

Loup looked uncomfortable. "I never gave up my US citizenship. Didn't see the need. Those two, they smell wrong. They can't take me, can they?"

Jones took a long drag as she thought about it. She knew the law in the States, but not international law. "Smith said they couldn't extradite me. Do they have anything on you?"

"No. I never had a run-in." Loup sounded certain.

"Who'd you work for?"

Loup looked away, not willing to reveal the names.

"It's ok. I understand. Names are power. I don't think they have a case, but I'd make myself scarce. If they don't officially know about you, then I think you're safe."

"They think I'm his pet dog." Loup snorted, "I sleep under the desk and wag my tail. Makes me sick."

"Has Werner or any of his guys been around?"

"No. I think we've seen the rest of them, but none of the local Aurors. I've scented Massys twice, but he's never come in. Mueller was a surprise." Loup cocked her head and smiled. "New?"

"We'll see. So, the rest stay up in the castle all day long?"

Loup shrugged. "Depends. They spend a lot of time in lectures. I'd love to listen in, but that's not a good idea. They've done some exercises outside that we've watched. New spells, detection techniques, some role-playing. Some of the things they've been doing make me nervous."

Jones sniffed, "It should. It always scared me." Drumming her fingers on the tabletop, she reviewed what she knew. She didn't like the idea that the electronic techniques were showing up in Europe. The differences between the Old and the New World's police were things she hadn't worried about before, not since she'd been teaching. But, what if she needed to do a little job? The rich Englishmen knew she was at Durmstrang now. She'd seen both of them in Seattle. They'd come a long way, drawn by her reputation and they might want to use her again. If she made a mistake in dispersing the energies, if the target didn't fall and the traces were there or if the laws were changed and Smith and Peterson could get her hauled back to the States, she'd have a very rough time of it. Visions of an ugly room with bad lighting, Peterson towering over her, Smith's unpleasant laugh, being dragged out of a nice restaurant for questioning, having to produce identification every few hours when they were making the Dark Arts types nervous, all clicked by, nothing pleasant, nothing to look forward to. Her vision turned inwards, she didn't see the mug placed in front of her and almost knocked it over. It took an effort to come back from her musings, but it was worth it. A mug of the black sludge that Loup called coffee sat in front of her. Startled, she looked up to see the other woman's measuring glance.

Taking the mug, she pointedly did not examine it for anything malicious. She'd seen Loup cast the Confirmare spell countless times. She'd also heard rumors of the black mage's work, her reputation. If Loup wanted to kill her, it would have happened already. So, mug in hand, she saluted her rival and took a sip of coffee strong enough to take the enamel off her teeth. It tasted like heaven. Jones sipped it for a bit longer, trying to order her thoughts. Finally, she put the treasured mug down. "How is the crowd taking it? Are they losing patience or are they getting anything out of the demonstrations?"

Gregorov had been playing with his own mug, batting it back and forth between his huge hands. He didn't bother to look up. "Less patient each time. The Americans are due to leave soon. I heard the large one say that they had to return to their offices next week." Tilting his head just barely enough to look at Jones from under his bushy brows, Gregorov asked, "Would this technique change anything? I have seen…things in my past profession that tried for similar results. They were unsuccessful. My former employers were very interested in what our skills could provide. They were also quite paranoid that it could be used against them."

Jones goggled. It was, without a doubt, the most she had ever heard Gregorov say at one time. "Your former employers?" She tried to sound casual. Gregorov never talked about them to anyone but Kessler who was quite free with his own store of information. "Did they ever manage to pinpoint a spell to a person?"

"No." Gregorov resumed batting the mug back and forth. "They did not, however, have a little clicking box. Another division had achieved good results using specially trained wizards."

"And?" Both women leaned forward. Jones found herself holding her breath. What little she knew about Gregorov implied that he had worked for an Intelligence agency, breaking minds and rebuilding them.

"A great deal of training to enable a few men to be able to tell what the spell was and who did it." The mug ceased its side to side motion. "Men are fragile. They die easily."

From the area outside the building, a voice yelled for Gregorov. With a sneer plastered over his face, he pushed himself back from the table and stood. His mind set on another day of being made to perform, he began to slowly walk towards the door. Jones watched his back fill the doorway, turning away when he was in the corridor and almost to the outside door. She looked up just as Loup shifted to a wolf. The animal trotted out the door and turned to the left, no doubt to take up position under the desk.