Ticking of the Clock

The Lowenstein living room seemed claustrophobic. Magda carefully poured two cups of coffee and then sat back to wait until Loup performed her rituals to verify that the coffee was not drugged or had any spells on it. Watching the performance, Magda's eyes went small and her mouth hard. Loup saw it and ignored the response. Some things were necessary.

"You had success, yes?" Magda asked as soon as Loup was satisfied that the coffee could be drunk safely.

With a grumpy look at her companion, Loup picked up her cup and took a sip. "I induced Paul into the receptive state and placed a memory there. I guess you could call it a success." It didn't feel like a success. To her, it felt more like something that needed to be worked on before she wanted to try it again on Wronski.

"I have given your suggestion a great deal of thought." Magda set the fragile cup down carefully on the saucer, as if it helped her concentrate. "Perhaps you are right. I am asking far too much of you."

Loup jerked upright in her chair where she had slumped dejectedly. "Right? Wait a moment, what are you talking about?"

"It was too much for me to expect that you were powerful enough to cast such a complex spell with so little time to train. I had thought your abilities were so great that it would be a simple thing, a small exercise."

Suspicious, Loup swallowed the rest of her cup in a gulp, steeling herself for what Magda would say next.

"You said that I should also play a part in this. That I could speed my own cycle to be ready when you are." Magda trailed a fingertip along the rim of the cup. "I have thought of this a great deal. Last night, Ludwig did not return from his practice. It is understood, of course, that I will not object to his occasional absence. I do, but he does not care. It is early for him to not return. Usually, the lonely nights do not begun until November. This girl is particularly beautiful. Unlike me." The last was said with the hint of a sob.

Loup closed her eyes and waited. Trying hard not to be sucked into the emotional trap, she dug her fingernails into her palms to keep her wits.

"You have seen this one, yes? Tall. Blonde. Very beautiful. She plays him well. He even called her name when last we," Magda stumbled over the words and clenched her hands into her lap. "It is nothing, of course. There have been so many that I should not be surprised. It is just that this one is earlier than the rest and I am tired of being good and knowing my place. I need you to help me. I am ready now."

Opening her eyes the barest of slits, Loup saw Magda lean forward. "Ready?"

"I will advance my cycle. I can trigger it. It is not such a set thing as one might think. The familiar dance with the moon is what most know, but many things may cause a woman to be fertile. I have consulted both my heart and my books. I am now ready to begin our quest."

"Quest." Loup turned the word over and substituted "Grail" for "Quest". "How long do you think it will take you to reach the proper state? Do you know what you'll look like for him? What memory do you want him to have?"

"The safest method will take a full week. It is long, I know, but if I do not conceive this month, then it will be easy to bring my body back to readiness again. I would not wish to do this more often than a few times. I have hopes to bear several children and any unnatural demand upon the womb threatens those yet to come."

Stifling the urge to sneer, Loup contented herself with asking again, "Do you have the glamour ready?"

Magda attempted to ignore the query, but Loup reached across the small table to grab her arm. "It's important that we both know what you're trying to achieve. From everything I've read, the smallest details are sometimes the most important. You must have everything ready, not just your body. I need all of the details you want him to know and we also have to schedule this so we have more than one time to try to get you two together. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes, of course I do, " Magda said dismissively. "I would like to know what sort of woman he finds attractive. I have yet to see him with one of the students or anyone else. Perhaps he has confided in you?"

Loup released Magda and pretended to find the process of refilling her cup riveting. While she had long suspected that Wronski might have a small crush on her, she preferred to ignore it. Wronski, she assumed, would be infatuated by almost any breathing, willing woman. As the dark liquid rose to the brim of the cup, she recalled the other name. "Mathilde von Damme. Do you know her?"

Magda sneered, "Of course. That is the beautiful young child that Ludwig now lies with. I refuse to use her visage." Grabbing the coffeepot, Magda ranted while she refilled her own cup. "I had thought him more selective than that. Mathilde von Damme. Beautiful girl. Everyone seems infatuated with her." The china coffeepot clattered loudly as she roughly set it down. "Mathilde von Damme. Eh, I cannot achieve the height." Magda looked away from Loup as she gripped the delicate cup hard enough to show white knuckles. "Mathilde. She can barely fly. I have watched when they practice. She plays the same position that I once did. Bah. She flies slowly and cautiously. The Quaffle rarely touches her hands for fear that she might be bruised. Her time is now spent with Ludwig under the stands. I watch. I know."

"Magda," Loup ventured, hoping to stop what sounded like a diatribe, "maybe he likes the blonde hair or maybe the accent?" She stopped herself before she mentioned Mathilde's rather amazing form. "Maybe he noticed her because of something else."

With a harrumph of disgust, Magda leaned back in her chair. "Perhaps. Have you seen him look at any others?"

Keep your lies simple, Loup thought as she struggled to keep a neutral face. "I've seen him look at a dark-haired woman, so maybe he isn't fixated on blondes. He's probably just shy."

With another small sniff, Magda left the table and walked over to where the couch and two chairs were arrayed around a small coffee table. There, she scooped up a pile of magazines and returned with them. "I have looked through the photographs within. There are many possibilities that would require little effort." Leaves and stems marked places of possible faces. Magda peered at the array of vegetation that poked from the top of the first magazine until she found one. "Rue, for remembrance," she smiled briefly before opening the fashion magazine to that place.

The face on the page had the anorexic, pouty look that Loup loathed. The eyes looked enormous and hungry as the cheekbones angled out like buttresses. "That one?"

Magda pursed her lips and looked again. "No? She is considered one of the most beautiful models of today. See. Here, in this article, she is called thusly."

"I think they're all called that," Loup mumbled as she claimed the magazine to look at the other places marked. The beautiful faces all looked the same to her. Nothing with any character or spark looked back from the pages. Shrugging, she closed it. "I don't think you need to change much. Smaller changes would be easier to maintain, right? You'll probably be, uh, distracted." Loup grit her teeth when she felt the heat of her blush. "Maybe just a nose and hair color? I don't think men pay that much attention."

Retrieving her magazine, Magda tapped it into line with the rest. "Do you truly believe so? Do you think thus of Yuri? Hmmm?"

Stretching her legs out, Loup winced. She didn't want to think about Yuri at all right now. Last night had been humiliating as well as long and icy. De Rais had chosen to ignore any questions she had about memory spells and their control and instead had given her several passages to learn on the topic of mastering pride. The hours she spent before dinner had left her feeling like an inept dolt. Sparring verbally with a man who had far more experience than she would ever have was useless. He would give her no easy answers nor even address the topic. He discussed allegories relating to pride and control, but nothing that pertained to that which she wanted to discuss. When it was the hour for dinner and she could politely leave, she found herself wedged between Kessler who was still unsure of his status with Gregorov and Gregorov himself who wanted to speak to no one, especially her. The silence had continued afterwards and into their bed. Normally, Gregorov liked to sleep half on top of her, but he had turned away from her, leaving her to stare into the darkness.

Irritably, the dark mage snapped, "You know more about this than I do. Cast whichever illusion you want, but I need to know what it looks like so I can work with it. Did you draft your story so I can plant it?"

"Vague is better, no? I recall Siegfried mentioning that we forget most details and retain only a few and that was why a bare stage was better than a crowded one."

Loup remembered nothing like that from the document she had memorized. A bead of cold sweat tracked its way down her back. "Probably," she squeezed the word out slowly. "We'll need a timeline, though. When did he meet you? A weekend, I guess."

"Siegfried said that it was better to not be specific. A month might be better. Let us say this month, October."

That didn't sound right at all. Looking away slightly, Loup struggled to start the process to recall all of the memorized text.

"I feel that we could claim that he met me in October. I am visiting a relative. That should be enough. We met," Magda tapped a finger against her head as she thought, "at the greenhouses. He goes there from time to time in search of ingredients. He invited me back and things progressed from there." Satisfied with the fabrication, she smiled broadly and leaned forward to take Loup's cup and saucer away.

Caught off guard as the memorized information began to flood her mind, Loup had to break off the process to listen to what Magda had said. "October, visiting relative, greenhouses," she itemized back as another drop of sweat joined the first. "I don't think that's enough information."

"Oh, I am certain it is enough." The words were filtered through the clatter of the china being collected and the bells tolling the day's end.

* * *

Gregorov wasn't among the group of professors that returned after classes had ended. Standing in their doorway, she watched as they straggled into the building in twos and threes. When Kessler stomped the snow off his boots and no one followed, she stepped back and closed the door.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Helping out a friend wasn't supposed to alienate her mate. It wasn't supposed to affect anything except Magda's happiness. Loup perched on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, watching the door. It wasn't fair. She'd been accused of being selfish, been told that she was heartless and that she cared only for herself. Why was it, when she tried to help someone, the rules changed?

Raking her fingers through her hair, she glared at the corner of the couch where Gregorov should have been. The cushions had flattened into the shape of his shoulders and hips. He should be there. She should be listening to his day and receiving the mass of folders of today's homework. She'd finished the last pile. The completed assignments were stacked on the corner of his desk, without too many comments.

The hours passed silently. Loup tried reading, tried cleaning up the already tidy rooms and kept finding herself sitting in the middle of the couch, staring at the doorway, waiting. When the bells tolled their final peal of the day, calling everyone to dinner, she slowly stood. This was what defeat felt like. The war hadn't been declared, but she had been vanquished by the cold and by the silence.

It shouldn't bother her. There was a time not very long ago, when the empty rooms would have seemed normal and peaceful. She'd lived alone almost all of her adult life. Twenty years in Paris, all in the same apartment, all alone. She had never lived with her mate Armand. Well, she conceded, not that it had ever been an option. Armand's wife would have never allowed it, although Loup had ventured the possibility once after fortifying herself with three glasses of wine. The memory of screaming Gaulish fury coupled with the equally bad recollection of the endless snipes and jibes from both Armand and Mâitre Faucon made her wince. No. Alone and Paris were synonymous for her. She had only lived with anyone, meaning Gregorov, for two years. It was humbling to realize that she liked it.

She bundled her cloak around her and left the rooms. A few of the others were huddling by the door, all gearing themselves for the startling blast of cold air that would strike when the door was opened. Loup stood at the back and listened while Jones and Wronski snarked in English about life, the school, the lack of amenities and everything else. The two egged each other on in their complaints. There were times that Loup almost wished that she didn't understand them.

"Why don't we have rooms in the castle? Don't we rate?" Jones dug around in her pockets, looking for her lighter.

"We don't rate the same. You know that. They don't like the smell, don't like the attitude, don't like the whole Dark Arts thing." Wronski leaned against the wall, looking down at Jones.

"I think we ought to ask about quarters. I know there are unused rooms in the floor above the dungeon." Jones sighed heavily and set her satchel down as the search for the lighter began in earnest.

Wronski made a face. "No windows. No way. That would make this job even more depressing. There have got to be rooms in one of the wings. I know there are a bunch of classrooms that aren't in use on the second floor."

"You mean third floor. They don't count the floors the same way we do. That'd be ok. But those are classrooms, right? One big room. No bathroom. No. I don't think so. I never got into this bathroom down the hall thing. Aha!" Jones laughed as she pulled out the lighter.

The acrid smell of the cigarette filled the hallway. Jones pointedly ignored the glares as she exhaled a long cloud. Loup waved the smoke away and coughed, a mistake. Jones' eyes went small and mean when she spotted her rival. "Don't like it? Then leave."

She caught herself just barely before responding to the jeer. There was a possibility that she might have to go, something that Loup had bandied about as a choice, not a necessity. When it wasn't an exercise in "what if", the chance that she would no longer have a place at Durmstrang left an icy feel down her spine. "Let's go," Loup snarled as she stepped forward, pushing through the group.

Kessler, who had been listening to the exchange, raised a questioning eyebrow and, when he received no answer, put his shoulder to the door. As the door obligingly squealed open, he stepped back as if making way and onto Jones' foot. The cursing covered his whispered "He has been waiting for you in his classroom. You must go to him." Loup ducked her head in acknowledgement and headed into the wind.

Head down, she slogged down the barely-visible path towards the castle. The wind bit at the corners of her eyes, forcing them almost closed. Would it be better somewhere else? In Paris, it would be cold, rainy, but not like this. In Paris… No Paris. To Le Office des Mâitres des Sorciers, she was officially dead and, without the spells to allow her to cross the boundaries, she could never get into the city. Even if she could get into the city, without her Mâitre's sponsorship she couldn’t work. The Aurors and the Mâitres frowned on freelance Dark Arts work. If caught performing any magic for hire that could be construed even remotely as "dark", she would spend the rest of her life in prison or be used as a training exercise by the Aurors or, worse yet, the other, legitimate Dark Mages. The prospect stopped her. As the howling wind whipped at her cloak, tore at her hair, she tried to imagine her old life's pleasures. The only image that kept coming back was the one letter she'd received in response to the many she'd sent declaring that she was alive and asking to return, stating quite simply that she was officially dead. Caught in that memory, she was frozen, not seeing as the rest passed her, ignoring the questioning looks and barbed comments from a limping Jones.

"You will never learn." Kessler grabbed her arm and propelled her forward. "Go. Go now! I do not want to listen to him say nothing. Go!" The last was said as they entered the castle. With a rough shove, Kessler sent her sliding towards the staircase that led towards the dungeon classrooms. She clutched the banister and turned to snarl a response. In the middle of the hall, Kessler stood and shook a forefinger at her. "Go. Do not be the fool that I think you to be."

The first staircase down was broad and well lit. Loup stopped at the landing at that floor and tried to come up with something to say. Apologizing seemed futile. Maybe she could outwait Gregorov's anger? Kessler's admonishment came back to taunt her. "Do not be the fool…" It was enough to force her down the next flight. That stair was narrower and the torches were spaced further apart. The last flight down was lit strictly for ambiance. The torches there glowed a dark red and were held by gargoyles crafted to leer evilly down. Tonight, they looked disapproving, not frightening. She gave in to the temptation and stuck her tongue out at the last one.

Gregorov's classroom door was open, but the room was dark. Loup looked in from the corridor, wondering if Kessler was wrong. It would be her luck to have lowered herself to this state and then find it was for nothing. Still, she'd already descended this far…

The dark room held rows of tables and Gregorov's lectern and desk. She crept in and looked back into the gloom, wanting to call the effort enough and leave. He must have left. It was dinnertime and he rarely missed a meal. No. It had been for naught. Stepping forward to his desk, she trailed a hand over it, allowing herself a moment to silently apologize before she left. The desk smelled strongly of him. If she closed her eyes and inhaled, the scent brought his image to her and pleasant memories. "I'm sorry," she whispered and turned to go.

"I had not thought you to forfeit so easily. Are you truly le loup de l'ombre, the great dark mage, or are you a doppelganger? You look like my mate, yet you do not act like her. She would never bend. She is always right. Always in charge." The room lit slowly, showing Gregorov sitting on the last table.

"You didn't come back after class ended." Loup folded her hands in front of her and waited.

"There was nothing to return to."

"Yuri…" She fought to find something to say.

"No. Say nothing. It is enough that you have come." He slowly slid off the table and stood. "Humility is not something you understand. You do not do it well."

"I don't do anything well," she said with a sigh. "I don't know what you want or what to do. I'm not much of a mate for you."

He crossed the distance slowly, stopping an arm's length away. His face was unreadable. No features moved. The stillness unnerved her. "You are as you are. I had not thought to see you at all until it was time to sleep." He looked out to the hallway. "It was a long night. I listened to you breathe. You were awake. We were both awake for many hours. The silence told all." When he looked back, there was a faint smile. "I would rather listen to you snore and feel you steal the blankets."

For once, she shut up and took the first step towards him.

* * *

Things looked and felt more normal in the gray morning light. Loup woke slowly, enjoying the familiar weight of Gregorov's arm and the annoying pressure of his chin burrowing into the top of her head. His breathing was too shallow for sleep. When she stretched, he pulled her into his chest and murmured in Russian. Intimacies were never spoke in German or French, which she understood, but only in his native language and then growled roughly, making it more difficult to comprehend. While the intent was plain, it frustrated her that he would never let her understand what he said.

They missed the morning's usual coffee and tea with the others and Gregorov had to run to be only a little bit late for his first class. A sleepy-eyed Loup lounged over her coffee smiling at the memories and hoping to keep things as they were. She had the entire staff room to herself for the morning as she graded the first two folders of homework, easy enough as the year was still early. She closed the second folder in time to hear the bell toll for lunch.

It was worth the cold trek to the castle to sit almost crushed between Gregorov and Kessler. It seemed that all grievances had been forgiven. Loup forced herself to be generous and ignore some of Kessler's more sexist comments. The conversation drifted towards Durmstrang's policies and procedures, a topic interesting only to those affected. Her attention wandered as the men griped about more stringent reporting requirements. As always, Kessler had a great deal to say on any topic and his voice rose and fell in loud waves. Sipping on her third cup of coffee, she scanned the students, not really seeing any of them. Plans for an evening devoted to having all of Gregorov's attention were laid. She would attempt to get food from the kitchens, perhaps scam a bottle of wine. Maybe not. She glanced up at Gregorov, weighing the wisdom of encouraging him to drink. There might be some of the nicer bottled waters around. The plan spread warmly before her.

With a small smile playing on her lips, she gradually focused on the scene before her. The students had begun to leave for the next class in gaggles of gossiping girls, clots of shouting eleven and twelve-year-olds, the too-cool-to-talk-to-anything blocks of boys and the squads of Quidditch teams and fans. The last caught her eye. The blonde beauty of Mathilde von Damme and her Red 7 team (also known as the Firebirds) strutted past the table. Loup tried to look nonchalant as she turned slightly to look down the table to where their coach, Ludwig Lowenstein, sat. The good mood dimmed slightly. Lowenstein had risen from his place on the bench, plainly planning to follow the team. The girls had slowed at the door to wait, Mathilde wore a teasing expression. The scent of arousal was enough to swamp the sensitive noses at the Dark Arts Table. Conversation hushed and a pronounced sniffing punctuated the pause. It was obvious enough that Lowenstein sat back down. To Loup's surprise, she saw the disgust she felt mirrored plainly on Rose Jones' face. The two women's eyes met and Jones' eyes tracked to Lowenstein and then back to Loup. When Jones rolled her eyes and sneered, Loup felt the tension drain.

"Come with me," Gregorov muttered in her ear. "Sit in my room. You can grade there. Be with me."

The request startled her, but she nodded in agreement. "I'll need to collect the folders. I didn't expect to stay."

"You will come?" Gregorov sounded uncertain and looked plaintive, far different from the cold, angry man of the night before.

She smiled quickly in response, catching sight of Kessler' smirk and amused head shake as she turned to collect her cloak. A well-aimed poke in the ribs was the best riposte she could muster.

Having to trudge back through the storm seemed a small price for peace. Shivering as she shoved the door shut, she scraped her shoes and stomped quickly before darting into the office. There were two classes left in Gregorov's day. Shuffling through the folders, she tried to make a decision as to which ungraded assignments to bring. Tomorrow's courses had questions that required concentration to mark. There was a folder full of very easy to score questions as well as one of the fifth year students' essays. How much would she actually be able to get done? The decision process slowed until she gathered the lot into her arms and left the office burdened.

The cloak had to be layered around just so. The last thing she wanted to do was chase down assignments torn out of her grasp by the wind. A tuck here, a twist with one hand to bring the neckline tight and then a shrug of the shoulders to relieve the bunching that dug in. Ready.

"No, really? Do your students not understand or do they not care?" Magda's soft voice laughed from the staff room.

Loup started to walk forward to say hello before she left.

"Really. You'd think they never read any of the assignments or listened to the lecture. I put a lot of effort into it." Paul Wronski sounded tired, but cheery.

"I cannot imagine why they would not listen. Surely, all of the girls do well? They must pay attention. They always do when the professor is handsome."

Loup raised an eyebrow and padded silently to the door.

Sounding younger than normal, Wronski laughed. "Some of the girls do ok. Some of the boys do, too. Do you think they're in love with me or maybe it's just the sexy potions?" Any traces of the normal disillusionment he tended towards vanished before Magda's teasing.

"Oh, it is the teacher most definitely. Talk to me. Tell me of your potions, your work."

The conversation fascinated Loup. The fine art of flirting was not one of her skills, but it certainly was Magda's. Magda pretended great interest in everything Wronski had to say, asking questions and cooing responses. Wronski's inability to catch on to the flirtation was also amusing. He had no clue at all, but he sounded as if he enjoyed the attention.

"…so much to grade. I can't keep up." Wronski sounded annoyed. "I should be working on getting it done. I couldn't believe my luck in finding someone to proctor my tests this afternoon. I have a few hours free."

Grade! She had to leave. Loup decided to head out the side door to avoid having to walk in front of the staff room door. As she left, she heard Magda positively purr, "But a man like you should take advantage of the few amenities that Durmstrang has to offer. Some of the better seventh-year students would be thrilled to act as a teaching assistant to help free you of the burden of grading. I could aid you, too." As she shoved open the side door, Loup wondered what Magda could possibly need her help for. The woman seemed more than capable all by herself.

Gregorov pointed to a seat in the back with a bad-tempered grunt. Clearly, he was annoyed at the time it had taken for her to return. Loup grimaced, wondering what good had been undone as she opened the first folder of homework. The folder chosen contained work that required concentration. She didn't hear the first class end or the second class enter. She noted that Gregorov walked over once and sorted through the stack, removing one and replacing it with another. His hand lingered on her shoulder, the thumb massaging briefly. Forgiven.

By the time he finished lecturing and answering questions, Loup had completed two of the folders. She listened to the last few questions, trying hard to keep silent and let him teach his class. He stared at her, not the student asking the question when he answered, daring her to interject. A smile slowly grew across his face when she managed to not interrupt.

He ushered the class out, closing the door behind the last straggler and walked back to where she tapped folders and their contents into line. "These," she said handing him the two completed folders, "are complete. I'll have to finish the rest tonight."

Gregorov tossed the folders onto the table next to where she had been sitting. The response was in Russian, the actions clear in any language.