Ticking of the Clock

The evening was a series of strained non conversations. Unpleasant topics burst out in short volleys, forcing retaliation of sharp, thoughtless retorts or retreats behind the wall of denial. Neither wanted to elaborate on any of the ugly problems that refused to leave. Loup refused to talk about the Aurors and Gregorov's response to any questions about how he might have learned such a useful spell for surveillance was an icy silence. Appetites ruined, they took their defensive positions - he on the couch and she on chair - and settled in for what felt like a long siege.

In the darkest part of the night, Loup woke. Neck aching, she wrapped her arms around herself to hoard her body's fleeing heat. The stone walls and floors sucked the warmth from all of the living quarters, ably abetted by what seemed to be a constant draft. The room was utterly dark. All of the illumination spells had been cancelled, leaving only the cold and the dark to enhance the feelings of alienation.

Rubbing her neck, she tried to rouse herself enough to think. She was cold, tired and longed for the simple comfort of sleeping next to her mate. It took a few seconds to recall why she had found herself asleep in the chair. He had left her there, not a good sign. During their first year together, she'd stormed out of the rooms more than once, looking for any place to sleep other than with him. The roles had been clearer then. She'd had the dominant position, he the submissive. Those were their roles as wolves and seeped over into their human existence. There were only the two of them, hardly enough to make a pack, and Gregorov never spent as much time transformed as she did. He could be cowed, but he refused to remain in his place. To complicate matters, he didn't fight the way she expected him to. Armand and she had fought constantly - horrible, screaming fights that led at the end to near-violent stalemates. It had been a long and wretched association, nothing she had wanted to repeat. Gregorov didn't yell. He sniped or was silent. His tactics included sulking, refusing to speak or twisting her words to the point her convictions wavered. Or worse, he would take the fatalistic outcome and refuse to speak to her at all. Being ignored was the worst. Of all the strategies he could use, refusing to engage was the one that had broken her down. It had been a long evening of refusing to engage, the beginnings of a cold war.

The couch was less than ten feet away, yet it seemed much further. Visions of the very handsome, very articulate Armand played through her memory. It could be like that again. Armand had repeatedly made it clear that was she was beneath him and, if she had not been another wolf Animagus, he would have never lowered himself to consort with her. A sneer twisted her lip. Pretty men. Damn them all to hell. Men like Armand didn't age. They matured into an icon of experience women were drawn to. Or, they would have if Armand hadn't believed his own much-vaunted reputation and had assumed far too much on his last assignment. Le loup argent had died an ugly death that even the pretty face could do nothing to improve. Thus was the life of a Dark Mage in Paris.

Then, there was Gregorov - not a pretty man at all. Big, gruff, no personal vanity that she could discover. He had been a slovenly mess when she had first seen him from the filthy Durmstrang red leather coat to the long, lank, rather greasy hair that hung past his shoulders. A man in his forties is not a creature prone to a lot of change. Yet, he had. It took only a moderate amount of snide comments to get him to bathe frequently. She had taken it upon herself to cut his hair the way she liked. Grudgingly, he created a space in his life and rooms for her and her accumulation of things. Until now, she had discounted his abilities as a wizard. Unlike the professional Dark Mages she had worked with, he spoke little of his talents and seemed ill-suited for the position of a professor, in the Dark Arts or any other field. His lectures had been superficial, skirting around important principles and barely touching on the sorts of dark spells she had been taught at the same age his students were. He could have resented her intrusion, which he had, but he had also slowly increased the scope of his classes at her direction. It had been easy to assume he was yet another failure come to roost in an easy position. Failures couldn't twist memories with so little effort. Someone without the power couldn't both suppress the pulse of energy that all magic had and control it as she'd seen earlier. The surveillance spell had been impressive. So quickly done, so well understood. And, unlike Armand, he had forgiven her more times than she cared to count.

The last counted more. Losing gracefully had never been something she had mastered. Losing at all burned and each time was marked in her memory to be picked at later during the long nights. The nights in Paris had almost always been long and lonely. Her vast collection of expensive books and magical paraphernalia had been poor company while she waited. Waited for a summons to work, waited for Armand to bother.

All it took was to close her eyes to see it, her old apartment in Paris. On the top floor, it had a view the length of le rue des sorciers. Dark walnut furniture, walls of books and shelves crammed full of magical brick-a-brack and tools, illuminated by the barest sliver of moon that fought its way through the tall buildings. An elite address to reflect her abilities. The rooms at Durmstrang were small and cramped, furnished in broken-down, ugly furniture and far more alive and welcoming. And Paris was no longer an alternative.

Beaten, she stood and crossed the few steps to the couch. Her outstretched hand found no one there. The fabric was cold, holding nothing but dust and his scent. Obtaining his pardon was not to be that easy. The actual surrender would take place in the most personal of spaces. No snores heralded her into the small bedroom. That would have been preferable to the quiet of him waiting.

Trying to cling to the façade of the ordinary, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off her boots. Clothing was peeled off slowly as she scripted possible rejoinders should the assault be renewed. As the last item whispered to the floor, she slid into the bed, noting how far away he seemed. How could a spat widen a mattress? How could something that barely held one large man and a tall woman suddenly become vast enough that neither touched? Although his body's heat had already warmed the sheets, it felt very, very cold. Near-silent breaths fell out of sequence until the waiting grew too sour. She'd come this far. In time with his next inhalation, she rolled over to nestle her head against his shoulder. The quiet rhythm of his breathing broke. All of her carefully-rehearsed explanations seemed pointless. If he was going to remain angry, he would. She counted on both generosity and the desire to avoid a stiff, angry morning and, keeping silent, moved her head onto his shoulder. His arm moved far enough to let her bury herself there and then clamped down around her, holding her still and respecting the silence of the dark.

* * *

The morning grayed in slowly. The bells rang later on the weekends, not chiming until seven. Loup slept through the peals. Gregorov woke with them, but chose to remain still, opting to enjoy the quiet of the morning. One hand idly stroking her head, he looked down at her. Asleep, she looked like any other woman. No black within black eyes, no tingle of energy, just a woman. Fighting the urge to reshape her will, he leaned forward enough to rest his head on hers and wait for her to wake.

* * *

Halloween morning saw a slow progress of groggy professors into the staff room. The entire room smelled of coffee and tea and was strangely quiet. Through her sleep-muzzed senses, Loup watched people yawn, sip at their mugs and try to wake up. The early bird of the group, Todor Rabe, had already made two pots of coffee by the time they'd arrived. Pointedly, Rabe swept up both pots and walked off to the low table in front of one of the couches to leave them there. He still took offense at Loup's accusation that he made weak coffee. Kessler sprawled on the couch facing away from the door, looking for a moment as if he was alone until Loup glanced back and saw a blonde head resting on his chest. Quickly, she looked away and tried to pretend that she hadn't seen the girl at all.

There had been little conversation between the wolves yet. Gregorov had wisely chosen to ignore the previous evening as Loup hoped he would. He filled her coffee press with water and handed it to her. The process of actually making the coffee took all of her concentration. To ensure she woke up, she added extra grounds, which produced a thick, black liquid that didn't resemble coffee as much as sludge. It burned its way down her throat until her ears and eyes cleared, although her wits were hoping for another press' worth.

Rolf Haken arrived, cheerful and awake as ever. He nodded to those there and helped himself to one of Rabe's carefully guarded pots. The pot was no sooner set down before Magda arrived carrying her own mug. She waved hello and sat down next to Rabe. Soon, a yawning Wronski meandered in. Wearing his morning face, Wronski staggered to the back of the room to fill his teapot. Loup watched Magda track him, trying to appear as though she was focused on something else. When Magda caught Loup's eye, the smile brightened into an impudent grin. The coffee press demanded attention again. Even de Rais wandered into the room, pausing briefly in front of where Loup and Gregorov sat to smile thinly at Gregorov before taking up position in front of the tiny window at the back, book ready to read. Gregorov refused to return Loup's curious eyebrow twitch.

With only the occasional sound of a mug being set down, the room was companionably quiet.

"What time are they going to set food out?" Wronski asked during a long yawn. The words smooshed into each other, barely coherent.

It took several seconds before Loup realized the question was aimed at her. "I don't know. Why should I?"

"I thought you were supposed to be helping over there." Wronski yawned again, this time throwing out both arms in a long stretch. "Anyone seen Rose?"

Those that cared to, shook their heads "no" in silent response. Loup fidgeted with her mug, realizing that she had been expected in the kitchens both the previous evening and during the morning. Bette would be angry. There would probably be a lecture. Kitchen scullion. A loss in status. What else could go wrong? She felt Gregorov's eyes boring into her and tried to ignore them. He leaned his head close to hers, his breath, smelling spicy and sweet from the tea tickled her ear when he spoke. "You have duties, no?"

Her face a mask of resignation, she tried to ignore him. It was so low, so menial. She hated the idea of it. All those years of training to spin potatoes under a paring knife. Surely, there had to be someone else who could work those spells? Wretched job. Her skills should be used for something better, something that brought in money as she used to. The subservient labor was what allowed her to stay. It was part of her contract at Durmstrang. The Headmaster himself had told her so. How many years had she signed on for? The standard contract in Paris was ten years, sealed with a binding spell and recorded in the Mâitres' logs. She'd signed something, but had never read it. Maybe there was a way to get out.

Gregorov looked amused as he threw back the last of his tea in a gulp. "Bette will be angry."

Sniffing a response, Loup swirled the last of the coffee in her mug. He was right. It was her part of the deal. She could stay, but she had to work. Stupid that she had thought that the work required would be Dark Arts work, not something else. Contracts came through occasionally, but the Headmaster didn't pursue work for her. Most of what he had asked her to do the last several months was to put on her robes and stand behind him as if protecting him.

A hand slid over her knee as Gregorov leaned over. "I will go with you. She will not be angry if I kept you late. An excuse."

A simple gesture changed everything. With one touch, she knew she had been forgiven and she would also have an alibi! The entire day looked brighter. She ignored Kessler's laugh and the whispered explanation she could easily hear. A tinny giggle from the girl was quickly silenced in a fashion that Loup didn't care to see. Shaking his head, Gregorov scooped up their dishes and left for his quarters. As she pushed back the chair to stand, she caught Haken's eye. Casually, he glanced from her to Magda and then to Wronski and then back to her. The circuit was ended with a raised eyebrow and a facial tic.

Before she had to respond, Gregorov called for her from the hallway, her cloak draped over one arm. Being relieved of the burden of a response, she followed.

The day looked promising. Clear sky, no clouds, none of the icy, biting wind that battered at the mountain during the long winter. Pausing long enough to settle the cloak around her shoulders, she slowly began the trek across the grounds towards the main entrance. The castle staff was already at work. Three bonfires were being built of towering stacks of wood. Long wooden tables waited to be arranged and benches seemed to be scattered everywhere. As they passed a group of men, one called out, "Bette wants to see you!" The bright day lost a bit of its shine.

The Great Hall roared with noise. It was a holiday and no one cared about decorum. The fact that the holiday fell on a weekend seemed to increase the clamor. Shrill laughter bounced against the stone walls. Walls of noise replaced the usual buzz of conversation. The youngest children, excited by the prospect already, seemed to bounce in place. The scene stopped Loup in her tracks. It didn't look like the Durmstrang she knew at all. Order seemed to have vanished. The teachers in the room seemed different. No one wore anything that looked "normal". No uniform coats, hardly any red at all could be seen at the teacher's tables that ringed the hall. Infecting everyone was a tang of mischief. Gregorov set his hands on her shoulders and leaned over. "It will be an exciting night. See how it is now. Just wait until it is dark. " She wasn't sure she wanted to.

Walking into the kitchens was like walking into some wildly choreographed modern dance. Arms seemed to flail in angular positions as last-minute chopping and mixing sent bits of food flying. A line of five women kneaded mountains of dough in a strangely synchronized fashion. Only a few of the usual endless pots of soups and stews bubbled on the stoves while huge trays of cookies and cakes were piled on the long central worktable, waiting to go into the ovens. Fruit spilled out of crates crammed under tables and around the door. The smell was overwhelmingly sweet.

Through it all sailed Bette, wooden spoon clutched in one hand while the other punctuated orders. Resembling a general surveying his troops, she marched around the enormous kitchen, issuing declarations and heaping abuse where things weren't perfect. When she rounded a corner and spotted Loup by the door, her voice pierced through all the noise. "Finally! You have finally arrived! Damn you for being late! You were to be here last night. Do you know how long it took to move all of this food to the kitchens? You should have been here!" Both spoon and hand seemed to move of its own volition to emphasize how upset she was.

"It is my fault," Gregorov said with a half bow. "Accept my apologies."

That was unexpected and Bette stopped mid tirade, mouth still working, but no words came out. "Professor Gregorov," she managed at last, "of course, of course." Bette turned a dark color, the look of someone who is both frightened and angry enough to do something foolish. "Thank you for delivering her. There is much to be done."

Gregorov cleared his throat and gave Loup one long look, as if appraising her worth. "How much is there to be done?"

"A great deal! The bread must be baked. And the sweets as well. Meat to be roasted. Look at that huge pile of vegetables that must be peeled and cubed! There are pigs to spit. Pumpkins to carve." Bette sounded as though she read from a long list, getting more frantic with each item.

Gregorov held up his hand. "What needs to be done first?"

Huge hands balled into fists to grind into Bette's hips, the puff of flour ruining the effect slightly. "The vegetables must be cut. They will go into the midday soup and there is a side of beef that must be butchered."

Nodding as though he understood, Gregorov reached out and hooked Loup's arm. "We will make certain it is done quickly."

"We?" Loup hissed as he dragged her through the kitchen towards the crates of vegetables that were mostly hidden behind the boxes of fruit.

"We." Sounding defeated, he pulled out his wand and eyed the round heads of cabbage that sat in the first set of boxes. "You should watch and memorize. It will speed your work during the day." As he raised his hand, he barely smiled. "The sooner you finish the work here, the sooner you will complete the homework. If the weather holds, we can hunt more often."

* * *

It was late afternoon before all of the chores were complete. From the victorious look in Bette's eye, Loup suspected that more than one day's worth had been done. The butchering alone was for more than a day, perhaps more than a week. The vision of enchanted knives slicing through carcasses was as awful as anything she could have imagined. It may have sped things along, but it had been messy work. The vegetables had taken only an hour or so and had been dull, but neat. The seemingly casual question regarding whether magic could handle a knife to do other things had led to a lot more work. Gregorov handed her a damp towel. Loup began the tedious process of wiping off the spatterings of blood and fat that had flown during the process. Why, she wondered, does it seem so disgusting like this and so exciting during a hunt?

Released from servitude, they walked back together. The crisp fall air was a relief. Her nose was still full of the scent of raw meat and sugar. The variety of useful spells demonstrated over the day had been many. When pressed for an explanation as to why he had such a diverse background, Gregorov had mumbled something about work on a collective and left it at that. It was more than enough that he had helped and she decided not to push for more information. Not to push for anything that would shatter the good will. Halfway back, he nudged her. With the dream of a long, hot shower to rid herself of the smell teasing her onward, it was hard to slow down. When she did, he pressed something warm into her hand and then grinned. A large, still-warm pumpkin-shaped cookie leered back at her.

* * *

A hot shower changed everything. Relaxed and no longer reeking of raw meat and desserts, Loup made the critical mistake of lying down for a moment. When she woke, it was to the sounds of yelling and harsh laughter. The room had a subdued blue glow, dark enough to sleep, but light enough to see where shoes treacherously reached out to trip sleepy feet. Not quite sure what the racket was about, she pulled on a robe. The weather had been balmy enough that it should be warm enough with her cloak.

The living area held no mate nor did the office. The staff room was bright and empty. No one seemed to remain in the building. The only sign that anyone had been in or out recently was a large platter of food and an open bottle of wine. The large bundle of scrolls next to it marked it as Haken's prize. Of the group, Haken had the most homework to grade and a constant stream of it. All of Durmstrang's students were required to take his Introduction to the Dark Arts courses for their first two years. There were times she wondered if he used the assignments as an excuse to avoid mixing with the rest of the professors.

Shrieks and yells sounded as though people stood in the hallway. She didn't remember it being that loud the year before. The year before that, she had been too weak to care. Standing at the door, the noise almost held her back, but images of what Gregorov might be doing were enough to make her brave the party.

It was wild. It was everything she vaguely recalled from the previous year. The fires soared, creating strobing images of faces and bodies. There was music blaring from somewhere and everywhere, a pounding beat that a few hardy, mostly sober souls tried to dance to. The tables were laden with food, bottles and the occasional drunk. A group tangled together by arms lurched by, passing a bottle. Barely visible in the gloom, Loup spotted someone gesticulating wildly and, at the last heaving of arms, a pillar of green flame shot upwards that was sundered by a jolt of white light. It was glorious in its chaos.

The fire closest to the building seemed to be populated solely by frightened or fascinated students. They crowded at one end of a long table. The other end was occupied by two women and a mostly disrobed man. The fire made gold stripes on the man's torso where the women's tongues trailed. One of the Headmaster's aides walked by, a hand darting out to run along two of the youngest one's shoulders. One dove under the table while the other clung to his neighbor's arm. Some of the older ones, the ones that Loup thought might be about fifteen, seemed intrigued. A few had dared to exchange their usual blood red robes for other clothing and those that had looked the most uncomfortable. The uniforms bought a sense of anonymity and place. The regular clothing seemed to say that they were there to partake. Another year and it would be different. This year, it was still a bit overwhelming. Edging by them, Loup wanted to concur. The sheer loss of restraint was frightening. It was probably just as well it happened early in the year instead of later. Durmstrang didn't put much effort into Christmas or even New Year, although New Year's parties happened of their own volition. Only Halloween and May Day seemed to be celebrated with any vigor.

The second fire had faces she recognized and preferred to avoid. Huddled around a table sat the remaining Defense Against the Dark Arts staff. The department head, Heiniger, was making a point in an argument with a balding man whose annoyance clearly showed. Usually a happy sort, Heiniger's brushy brows were drawn down into a sharp "V" and his cheeks had gone red. Whether the large bottle of some amber liquid parked in front of the retired Auror had anything to do with the rosy cheeks was another matter. To his left sat Jessup, the man who should have retired. Jessup was already too drunk to focus. Supporting his head with both hands, Jessup leaned on the table, drooling slightly. Berger, or was it Hyde? The two resembled each other and, in the flickering light, she couldn't tell which it was. One of the two sat on Heiniger's right, laughing with a sharp-faced woman whose head was crowned with silvery braids. When Loup focused on her, taking in the posture, the way the eyes slid around and the way the fingers played with the tip of a wand in her sleeve, the word "Auror" seemed to flash over the blonde. A silent black man sat next to her and seemed amused by the scene. There was nothing in front of him that indicated he was drinking. Every few seconds, he shifted position slightly to watch some new variation of the mob. At one end, Todor Rabe lectured to a thin man with graying hair. The listener had little chance to add to the one-sided conversation. Loup was about to leave when the listener looked her direction and the oddness caught her. Head cocked to one side, she stared hard, trying to figure out what was different. Rabe's diatribe slowed for a moment and, after peering her direction, he waved her closer.

"This is an example of a foreign-trained professional." Rabe's attention returned to the strange newcomer. "She is also someone you would deal with should you come to Durmstrang."

The newcomer seemed to have to think hard before answering. When he did, his German was that of an Auslander. "I would deal with?"

"Is he a wolf?" Loup came closer, curious now.

There was a pause as the man translated her question. "No. Not really." He looked uncomfortable.

"Professor Lupin has some special requirements. Should he be chosen to teach here, our department," Rabe paused and corrected himself, "the Dark Arts department, would need to assist him during certain times."

Feeling as though she was missing something obvious, Loup crossed her arms and waited for an explanation. Rabe leaned back with an air of superiority. The other man straightened and involved himself with selecting a piece of chocolate from a plate.

"You said 'assist'. What do you mean and what certain times? Why me?" When no one answered, Loup stepped closer until Heinger's argument suddenly ended and she felt conspicuous.

"Loup, how are you? We have not seen you much since poor Richard's funeral. Not that you have been missed. The smell has improved dramatically since you've returned to your own. How are the wrists? Better?" Heiniger made no effort to be polite. His contempt shone through clearly.

It was too tempting, too easy. When she turned to face Heiniger, the scent went from normal to sharp fear among the men. Something in her rejoiced and she made certain to show her toothiest smile. "Professor Heiniger, how are you feeling? You look a touch pale." In a gliding stride, one perfected over many years in front of a mirror, she crossed over to him and leaned forward. So easy. Heiniger froze, just for a moment, and she reached out to snatch a hair from his shoulder. "A quiz, Professor. What could you do with this? I know what I could."

Trying to look official, Rabe pushed around the table. "Loup! Give that to me! The Headmaster will not approve!" He tried grabbing the hair from her, making a big flutter of sleeves and hands, but gaining nothing. "The rest are over there!" He pointed towards the last fire. When she didn't move, he changed tactics. "Professor Gregorov and Professor Kessler have a fine bottle of vodka to share. Professor Kessler's friend," Rabe paused to cough, "has also provided additional liquor. Perhaps you would care to join them?"

The growl that came out wasn't planned, it was frustration. Lupin's head jerked around to look at her again. "You are an Animagus?"

"Yes. A wolf. And you? What are you?" Loup asked as she turned to go. Images of a very drunk Gregorov flared in her mind's eye. She didn't like it when he drank. Not at all.

"Cursed," was the reply and then Lupin calmly picked up a block of chocolate and began to break it apart.

The third fire seemed smaller and darker than the rest. Seated at one end, Siegfried Kessler was carefully pouring out shots of a clear liquid into a variety of glassware. On either side of him were two blonde girls. Loup recognized one from the morning and she'd seen the other before, too. The slack look on their faces suggested that this wasn't the first round. Next to Kessler, sat Gregorov, still looking remarkably sober. De Rais watched from the shadows, his cold amusement like a warning beacon. At the far end, sat Magda and Wronski. Magda seemed to shimmer, hair color changing slightly and nose narrowing, when she turned, alerting Loup to the possibility that she had her glamour spell activated. Her stride slowed and she quickly scanned the rest present. No Ludwig to be seen, but Haken had taken a seat in the middle of the table, ready to play a game of chess against something large.

Circling around, she approached from the other side. The large thing was Hans Mueller, who still looked like the "black wall of death" that Wronski had labeled him. Even in a jacket and slacks, he looked like a bouncer. He had the first move and the chess piece disappeared in his hand.

Gregorov looked over and smiled, holding out a hand to her. The smile itself was a giveaway. Years fell away from his face with the grin. More than a few rounds had been drunk. When she got within reach, he pulled her onto his lap and beamed. "You have been asleep far too long. I should have come and gotten you hours ago, but…" He trailed off and gave her a long look. "Then, I would have not returned at all. " The heat of the stare was enough to reflect on her cheeks. Confused at having lost control of the situation, she squirmed off his lap to sit next to him. He leaned over, buried his nose behind her ear and sniffed, checking her scent. "You are too tense, little wolf. Come! Have a drink with me." Before she could say no, he pushed his over. "We have waited to share the vodka you bought until you arrived." Without much effort, he leaned over the table, snatched up the full bottle and opened it. Mixing the supposedly "good" vodka in with whatever was left in the glass, he pushed it over to her. "Drink."

Loup eyed the glass dubiously. Her experiences with alcohol had almost never been good. With no tolerance and a long career requiring control, drinking was not something she did. While she still sniffed at the glass, the rest's glasses were also filled, sometimes to overflowing from the bottles that littered the table.

"A toast!" Kessler stood and held his glass up. "To the continued health and happiness of Yuri Gregorov, a good man!"

There was a chorus of rough cheers, well practiced and short, followed by the clunk of glasses being set down roughly. Loup glanced at her still-full glass and wondered if she could disappear back into the night.

"Drink!" Gregorov slipped an arm around her waist and leaned over her. "It will make your blood sing. Drink! For me, drink." His voice lowered significantly at the last, almost as if it was an order.

She'd seen him switch from happy to savage in a second when he was like this. It was a very big part of why she didn't like him to drink. Although she'd never been the target before, she'd seen what could happen and he was clearly focused on her. With a small cough, she raised her hand to verify the content's safety, but Gregorov waved his hand over the drink. "I have drunk from this. It is by my word that it is safe. For me, to you. Drink."

She tried taking a sip; it tasted awful. It was hard swallowing any of it. Kessler and Gregorov shared a laugh, as if she had done something stupid.

"No. You do not drink it like that. First, you exhale like so." Kessler made a show of blowing all the air out of his lungs. In a tight voice he squeaked, "Then, you drink it so!" With that, he tossed the shot back and swallowed. He cut a piece of pickle and ate it, smiling. "Now, your turn."

Warily, she picked the glass up again and breathed out and tried copying the easy toss of the liquor to the back of her throat. It burned all the way down, feeling as though it exploded in her stomach. What she didn't realize was the way it felt when she inhaled. Everything felt very charged. Glasses clinked and people laughed. Another round instantly followed the first. With just a little effort, she found she could get Gregorov to drink most of her refills. It wasn't hard. He was having a fine time laughing with Kessler. The usually taciturn Russian seemed to have suddenly discovered how to talk. And sing. And tell an amazing variety of dirty jokes. Loup got quieter the louder he got. At least they were happy drunks, she thought, wishing she could go some place else. When Gregorov realized that she was neglecting her end of the consumption, he made her join in a double toast with their arms linked. Touching made it far more interesting. Her sharp nose detected what the alcohol was doing to him and part of her couldn't help but respond. His grin grew and she found herself returning it. Things seemed to get hazy after that.

Everyone was funny. Even Kessler, who she normally found obnoxious, was great fun. One of the pretty, blonde girls passed out before long, to be replaced by the third one that Loup could sort of recall. That girl, however, was sober and refused to drink. There was a hard, malicious sort of look to her. Kessler desperately wanted her to join in. It would require winning a bet. The actual winning and losing parts confused Loup. To her, it sounded as though the girl won either way and perhaps that was the idea. The idea was that Kessler, who had always touted himself as an adroit lover, would have to tie a cherry stem into a knot using only his tongue. The facial expressions before, during and after were worth having to have another shot to enjoy. The pause when Kessler had to concede defeat and was dragged off by the sober and the very drunk blondes to perform whatever it was that the loser had to do was long enough that Loup realized she had passed over the line and would soon descend into the state where she always did something stupid. Gregorov's hand wandered freely, distracting her. The scents and noise were both exciting and confusing. Blearily, she tried to dislodge him and leave. As she tried twisting away, she saw something that made her stop. The large mass of Mueller seemed to have doubled. Haken was gone. The game sat half played. Blinking hard, she tried to focus only to see something she had rather not. Quite involved in each other was the massive Mueller and the far smaller Jones whose arms draped around the big man's neck. Well, Loup had suggested that Jones take the initiative. Or had she? The whole concept was rather alarming that Jones and Mueller… No.

"Amazing, no? I have watched her try to work up the courage for hours," Gregorov purred into her ear as he reached around with his other arm. "Can you imagine," he started.

"No. I'm trying not to." But the image did flash by. "He's three times her size. Ok, twice, but..."

"Shhh, do not look. Here. Come with me. You will not have to see." Taking her hand he led her away from the fire.

Away from the light, her eyes had trouble focusing yet again. She had to lean on Gregorov both for support and guidance. Where she felt incredibly unsteady and more drunk than she liked, he seemed able to navigate. He stopped for a second and turned her around to face where they had left. "Is beautiful in its way. All of man's instincts there on display. No pretense, no masks. Look."

Warm breath on her neck, the scent, the relaxation of too much vodka, her breathing changed and, in response, Gregorov seemed to forget whatever German he knew for his native Russian. All the signs were there.

Over the noise of the laughter and the periodic scream, a voice sang. In a measured beat, words puffed out, coming nearer. The amorphous sound of laughter coalesced into direction. As if illuminated, the large form of a nude Kessler jogged by, singing some song about the glorious state. The sober girl ran behind him, eyes glinting evilly.

Loup's laughter was cut short as Gregorov turned her around to face him. "Da?" Not really a question. She swayed slightly as he leaned down to kiss her and then let him lead her over to an area behind some brush up against the wall.

Feeling an odd mixture of satisfaction and embarrassment, Loup walked back to the table with Gregorov. His contentment radiated, helping to overcome some of the discomfort she felt. She had expected to see almost no one and instead found most of the professors there. Almost as if they were having a staff meeting, the group ringed the table. At the one end, Rabe sat, flanked by a very drunk Wronski and a nervous Magda. Next to Magda, sat a slit-eyed Lowenstein. To Wronski's side was Jones who leaned heavily on the now-drowsing Mueller. Haken stood, one foot on the bench next to Mueller, a neutral look on his face. De Rais stood behind Rabe, arms folded, eyes glinting in the darkness. The last sobered Loup considerably. Something was wrong.

Wronski leaned on the table, a wide grin plastered sloppily over his face. Every now and then, he would look over at Jones and then at Magda, all the while grinning. Magda twitched frequently. Sandwiched into a corner between her husband and her lover, she broadcast guilt. Lowenstein enjoyed the scene. Mimicking Wronski, he also leaned onto the table and tried to keep the other man's attention. Wronski was too distracted. With a glance at a half-finished plate of cookies and at a ring of bottles and pitchers around Wronski, Loup wondered if it was the sugar or the alcohol that affected him more. She couldn't hear what Lowenstein was saying, but it made Wronski's grin grow and Magda blanch.

"A competition then. A small one. In honor of this lady. Yes?" Lowenstein sounded cheerful.

"Sure. What kind of competition?" Wronski scratched his head and picked up a cookie. As he leaned forward again, he began to crumble it into bits.

"We are both men of culture. Perhaps something literary. In your condition, dear Professor Wronski, it would be unwise to do anything else."

"Yeah. I'm really drunk." Still looking back and forth between Jones and Magda, he dropped the remains of the cookie and took a sip out of a beer mug.

"Recitation perhaps. Or a poem? Can you recall anything? Or, should we declare this a loss since you are so obviously the poorer specimen?"

"A recitation? I could recite 'Jabberwocky', but her toes aren't slithey in the least."

"Toves," Jones corrected.

"Toes. I like toes better. Um, I could recite a bunch of chemistry stuff, but that's nothing in honor of a lady. I can't remember much like this. How about we make something up on the spot?"

"Very well." Lowenstein's careful mask of cordiality was beginning to slip.

"A limerick? How about that? I think I can do a limerick. Does it have to be in German? I'm not sure I could do that. Heck, some of the German words have nine syllables all by themselves. Would hardly be fair. More like haiku." Wronski pushed his hair out of his eyes and seemed to concentrate. "Does it have to be very good? I could do this better later. Tomorrow?"

"Tonight."

"A limerick for the angel. Angelika." Wronski looked down, trying to muster his few brain cells to work together. Magda flinched at the name and nervously began to pluck at her skirt.

"You look quite colorful tonight. Quite reminiscent of when we first met." Lowenstein made a study of his wife. "Angelika. A pretty name." He paused and watched as Wronski mumbled to himself, counting out syllables on his fingers. "If we had a daughter, you wished to call her that, no?"

"Ludwig, let us go home. It is very late," Magda whispered loudly.

"I thought you would like to have him compete, just a little, for you. It is the way things are done or were done." In the firelight, the golden eyes flashed. "Professor Wronski, are you ready?"

"I think so. This isn't very good, but it's the spirit of the thing, right?" Wronski stood and began, "And here sits a beautiful angel/whose bright smile sends me into dang-el (Wronski smiled apologetically)/Smelling sweet of herbs/it's she I will serve/my beautiful, dark-haired, earth angel." He flushed red. "Not very good, huh? I dunno. I'm not very good at this kind of thing. Your turn."

"Quite amusing. It is to be done in English, then? Ah, yes." Bowing his head, Lowenstein took only a few seconds before returning with, "This lovely young woman, so sweet/ Has decided her husband to mistreat/Teasing the Lion/There'll be no scion/And all of her plans end in defeat."

Jones was the only one who laughed. Magda stood and ran off towards the building while Wronski slowly sank onto the table and passed out.