Need

Chapter 7

Tuesday morning's bells sounded muffled. The hallway was dark from the snow piled against the windows. With the exception of Kessler and Gregorov, everyone loitered over coffee or tea. Occasionally, someone would do a Tempus spell to check the time, but no one stirred from the relative warmth of the staff room until it was almost the hour for classes to begin.

Both Kessler and Gregorov made only brief appearances before returning to their quarters. Jones asked silent questions to Wronski whose quarters were next to Gregorov's, but Wronski only frowned and gave his full attention to his tea. Loup said nothing. Dressed in her formal black robes, she had her third meeting with her Mâitre that day and focused on preparing for the meeting.

When it could be avoided no longer, everyone bundled up as tightly in their coats and cloaks as they could.

"No Apparating on the campus?" Loup looked at the wall of snow that greeted them when they opened the door.

"I tried once. I bounced." Jones measured the drift against her own height. The drift won.

The crew stared at the snow, no one volunteering to do anything. Kessler stomped loudly out of his rooms, Inge under one arm and his satchel under the other. Folders of homework in one hand, Gregorov appeared followed by his unhappy-looking companion.

With a small sigh, de Rais stepped forward and did something that no one quite saw. The snows parted before him, leaving a small path through the drifts. The height of the snow was enough to keep most of the wind away. In single file, the faculty et al made their way to the castle.

In the main hall, the professors descended into the dungeons, leaving their black-robed visitor to stand at the base of the stairs. Loup was not eager to ascend. Sunday's meeting had been a repeat of Friday. She could count on standing around at least an hour, maybe more. Taking off her cloak, she gathered her resolve before she began to climb.

Things had changed. Her Mâitre was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Smiling, he offered her his arm as he led her into the office. Once within, she discovered why he was so pleased. A stranger sat at the desk. He was gray-haired, well-dressed, practically reeking of old money. The client only gave her a cursory look before ignoring her to speak only to her Mâitre. She was a tool to protect him. Nothing more. Standing at attention, she waited for them to settle the last details. As the client stood two equally well-dressed men rushed to help him into his richly-furred coat, then handed him an elegant cane and gloves. Loup stood as straight as she could and waited as they filed out the door. When the last had left and descended the first set of stairs, Mâitre Faucon closed the door. Smiling, he indicated that she should sit. When she had settled herself into a comfortable chair, he shed the façade of gentility and they discussed the business at hand.

* * *

Gregorov showed up late for dinner. Distracted by a student's question about a homework assignment, he had lost track of the time. By the time he arrived, the meal had already begun and he wedged himself in at the end of the bench with only a quick glance at the others. Although everything looked normal, he felt like some part was gone. It was not until the plates had been cleared and a servant brought a pot of coffee that he realized who was missing.

"Where is she?" Gregorov leaned forward to catch all their attentions. Blank looks and a few shrugs were his answers. No one knew and no one cared. With the weather the way it was, she was either in the castle or back in the offices, possibly stuck behind the snowdrifts.

It was an itchy feeling, a nagging dread that something was missing, a need to find his place. He tried to shrug it off, but it just grew worse. Old demons began to nag at him. Alone. No pack. The darkness seemed to come crashing back.

Across the room, at the Defense Against the Dark Arts table, the Parisian Mâitre was in a jolly mood. He and Professor Heiniger shared a bottle of wine as they told jokes and war stories. If anyone knew, the Mâitre would. Doubt dug at him. It shouldn't matter where she was or even if she was, but it did. He wanted to know. Gregorov, who had never been adept at waiting, fought with the need until it grew too demanding. Cursing himself almost as much as the missing Loup, he stalked over to stand in front of Heiniger and Faucon. They looked up, still smiling. "Where is she?"

The Mâitre leaned back against the wall, looking like the happiest of men. "Her client has arrived. She will be gone until Thursday night or perhaps Friday morning, assuming she survives." Faucon pointedly examined Gregorov. "Would you like to share our wine? I understand that you are an enthusiastic consumer of many beverages."

Gregorov narrowed his eyes at them, annoyed that his drinking habits were that well known. "Thursday? She will return then?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. You cannot possibly miss her?" Faucon turned to Heiniger. "She has been impossible since Armand failed his last contract. Angry. Antagonistic. Ill spoken. I will not be too sad should she not return. And, if she does, she usually goes en vacances for a few weeks between contracts so I will be rid of her either way." With a classic shrug, the Mâitre leaned forward to take up his wineglass again, dismissing Gregorov and returning his attention to the retired Auror.

Gregorov slunk back to the table, a feeling of foreboding settling over him. The others looked up, mildly interested. "Well?" Jones asked.

"Client." Gregorov sat back down and tried to calm his discomort. Distracted, he ignored the dark-haired girl when she came forward. She nervously cleared her throat and smiled at him when he managed to focus on her. Tonight, he wasn't interested. Brusquely, he waved her off.

Kessler threw a roll at him, scoring a direct hit on the forehead. "Fool," Kessler growled before turning his attention back to Inge.

With a grunt, Gregorov pushed back from the table and left to return to his quarters. The storm had passed through during the afternoon, leaving a vast expanse of unsullied snow on the grounds. Between the stars and the snow, it was almost as bright as day. At the foot of the long, stone staircase, he stopped to admire the effect before plowing his way back to the Dark Arts building. He made it as far as the door before he began to wonder what could possibly be happening that would bring anyone important into the area. Standing at the door, he tried to imagine who he could ask when Haken arrived.

After a hard shove to open the door, Gregorov stomped the snow off his boots, contemplating the problem at hand. Once inside his own rooms, he threw his bag down on the desk's chair, one of the few clear spaces, and walked into his living room still feeling uneasy. He didn't like it. For the last few days, his demons had been quiet. Although she annoyed him to no end and he did not like being told what to do, she had provided him with a pack and all the psychological support the wolf needed. Leaning against the doorway between his office and living area, he looked at the empty wine bottle on the small table and the water glass next to it. It had been a pleasant interlude. She wasn't too bad when she wasn't ordering him around, even if she couldn't hold her liquor. He tried to reconcile the image of the professional Dark Mage with the tipsy woman stumbling into the doorjamb. The two refused to mesh. He preferred the clumsy one, which reminded him of the hairs in his coat pocket.

He dug around in the pocket, discarding an old candy wrapper, and took out the little circle of hairs. The few gray ones caught the light as he ran a thumb over the circlet. He didn't even know where she was. Annoyed at even caring, he tried to recall spells that would locate her. It wasn't the kind of work he was used to doing or had been trained for, but perhaps there was enough to work a spell several times, just in case he failed - not that he could possibly do it wrong.

Opening the chest, he pulled out the little green book. It had been a gift from his sister when he had left Russia, the sort of thing a little sister might give her much older brother, a small book of love charms. He had always found it amusing; now, it could be useful, too. Thumbing through carefully hand-lettered pages, he looked for something that specifically used hair. The idea that he could ask Jones flitted by and he dismissed it immediately. Although she had helped him before, somehow, he thought that she would be less than helpful in this matter. Most of the spells were useless things, designed to work only if you were the first thing that person saw. Near the end, he found one that would help find your lover with a lock of their hair.

Setting the book down he began to wonder if he should even try. It seemed a moot point. Even if he succeeded, she would return to Paris. He shut the book around the hairs. There was no reason to continue. None. Yet, it bothered him that he didn't know where she was or even if she was alive. The empty wine bottle chided him. It was a little thing, really. If he settled the question, it would no longer matter. Clutching the book, he left his quarters to find Haken, the only person that he knew who kept track of everyone and everything in the area.

Haken was in the staff room, in his favorite spot next to the fire, and had begun sorting through the day's homework as he prepared to start the endless grading. All of Durmstrang's students were required to take Introduction to the Dark Arts during their first two years. A small population boom and a change in political boundaries had swollen the school's enrollment. His classes had increased from ten students per class to thirty. The introductory course met five days a week and he taught six sections. His job was safe, but he drowned under the homework. Haken gave Gregorov a wary smile when the Russian pulled up a chair and sat down next to him.

"What is going on in the village?" Gregorov asked, trying to sound casual.

Leaning back in his chair, Haken gave a knowing smile. "There is a new son born to a very noble family in the area. The christening ceremony is tomorrow. The village is full of very rich, very high families. From what I have heard, many of those who will attend are not well loved. I have assumed that she was called in to protect one of those exalted men." He rapped his stylus on the board he used as a desk. "She is a professional."

Gregorov nodded, not particularly reassured. Sounds in the hallway announced the others arriving and, with a brief nod at Haken, he stood to leave, deciding that he needed to think. He ignored Kessler and Inge who had had brought the other girl with them as he passed them in the doorway.

Once ensconced in his quarters, he stared out of the small window in his bedroom, fretting over something that was out of his control. Not knowing where she was bothered him more and more, until he gave in and took out the book again.

The charm was a simple one. It required only a little bit of hair and a conjured blue flame. Feeling rather foolish, Gregorov recited the verse that went with the charm and put a part of a hair into the flame. He had expected the smell of burning hair, but instead sniffed the spicy smell of carnations. What had he expected coming from a book like that? Before him, A diagram glowed. Pocketing the book, he tried to understand what he had wrought. Because the scale was off, it made little sense. The spell had assumed that both parties were relatively close to each other and the village was far away from the school. Leaving it intact, he leafed through several other books, looking for some kind of augmentation that would enhance the results. The search led to nowhere but frustration. This was not the kind of work that he did. His previous employer had trained him in control spells, spells that would alter memories, force confessions. His own studies were more along the lines of creating and destroying, not finding.

From his cache in the corner, he pulled out a bottle of vodka. He settled onto the sofa and picked up the glass left there from the night before. The bottle gurgled comfortingly as he poured a drink. In his mind's eye, he could see Loup's disapproving look. Instincts kicked in and he began to pour it back into the bottle until he realized that he owed her nothing. Nothing. Angrily, he flung what was left in the glass down his throat. The familiar burn teased out the little demons, egging him on to finish what he had started. The cycle had begun again. He took no notice when he poured another glass and then another.

When he woke in the morning, sprawled on the couch with an awful taste in his mouth, the first thing he saw was the diagram still glowing its awkward geometry. Groaning, he sat up and buried his face in his hands, dreading the morning. He managed to get off the couch, stumble into the bathroom to wash his face and drag his fingers through his hair until it looked good enough.

He staggered out the door and into the staff room, surprised to find only Rabe there. Rabe looked surprised, too, and handed the coffeepot to Gregorov, forgetting that Gregorov drank tea. Gregorov sniffed at it. She was right. The coffee was too weak. Shaking his head, he handed it back and began to heat his own water.

While he was waiting for the tea to steep, he glanced out the little window, catching his own reflection in a tray someone had set next to it. He looked horrible. Dirty and unkempt. He could hear her little sniff of disgust and felt very alone. The anxiety began to set in. Familiar feelings. Feelings he would rather not experience again.

Jones' endless chatter and Wronski's muffled replies announced that morning for the rest of the staff had begun. He found himself steeling his nerve as he turned and, before he could stop himself, asked, "I need your help in casting a Reperi spell. Could you help me?" His pride screamed, "NO!" But he needed this done. The need said yes.

Jones dropped her mug, sending ceramic shards and hot coffee everywhere. "You want me to help you?" Flustered, she tried to clean things up, but only succeeded in making more of a mess when her satchel spilled part of the graded Ritual Magic assignments into the puddle.

All Gregorov could do was to nod. Cursing whatever insanity had allowed him to ask, he pulled out the little green book and teased out a single hair to hold out for her to take.

Jones' normally suspicious nature kicked in. "Why? Who are you looking for?" She picked up the last of her assignments and began to dry them off. "You're not looking for her, are you? If you are, find another witch."

A huge wall of frustration and fear come crashing down. He held out the hair again. "Please."

The entire staff was present by then and no one said a thing. The tableau presented by the desperate Russian and the scorned American was enough to hold everyone's attention. When it became clear that Jones was not willing to budge, the ever-helpful Haken stepped forward. "I can do it for you. If not me, then Professor Heiniger."

"You?" Jones sniffed, not willing to believe that someone who taught the entry-level spells could pull off something that complicated.

In a cold, dead voice Haken answered, "You know nothing about me, Professor Jones." He held out his hand to Gregorov and took the hair. In silence, he peered closely at both ends of the hair. "Do you have one that has a follicle end or perhaps a bit of skin. This will work, but it would be more precise with more of her on it. Saliva would work, too."

Gregorov's mind raced. "She drank out of a glass the other night. She did not use any of the cleaning spells on it. I used it to drink out of last night." His hopes fell when he realized that he probably spoiled whatever use the glass would have been.

In a voice that was utterly unlike his usual one, Haken said, "Bring the glass and whatever else you have of her."

Gregorov strode back to his quarters and grabbed up the glass. He checked the chair and the doorjamb to see if anything else was there, but there was no other trace of her. He quickly walked to Haken's office where the other man waited, standing at ease in the doorway. It crossed Gregorov's mind that Haken looked a lot like Werner in that position. Unlike Gregorov's office, this was a model of neatness and order. Photos of Haken's family cluttered every inch of wall space, providing an odd contrast to the rest of the anonymous decor.

With an air of great distaste, Haken looked at each hair and ran several spells on the glass. With a small motion of his hand, as if indicating that these were not the best of materials, he sat down at his desk and began working his way through what seemed like an excessively complicated ritual. He mumbled his way through the incantation and, at various points, brought forth the glass and a hair. The methodical nature of the spell seemed to work, as a very detailed map, of what Gregorov recognized as the village, slowly appeared. A single red spot blinked on the map.

"This is good. The blinking indicates that she is alive." Haken tilted his head from side to side, looking at other things that Gregorov could not see. "Large crowd. They must be getting ready for the christening. I will leave the spell intact. We can look at it later." Gregorov blinked, confused. "It is time for me to teach my first class." Haken put his coat on and pulled a cloak over it. "You have a class to teach as well. Go."

Haken shooed Gregorov out the door, which, for the first time, visibly glowed with the addition of wards. Most of the doors were warded after Auror Werner's last business visit.

The rest of the day dragged for Gregorov. He went back at lunchtime to check the spell, but Haken's wards refused him entry. After his last class, he had to wait for another hour until the last Introduction to the Dark Arts class ended. Together, they went back to the office and checked. The red spot still blinked steadily. Haken's reading was that the ceremony was over and that the parties had started, but a hesitation made Gregorov nervous. "What else is there?"

Expressionless, Haken weighed his words. "This is when it will be the most dangerous. There are a great number of people there. It will be difficult to monitor all of the activity. Depending on who her client is, he or she may have many public duties to perform, making them vulnerable. As it gets later, it will get worse. Events like these do not end after dinner, they continue through the night."

"Where is she? Exactly?"

Haken looked at the map. "It looks to be one of the large homes on the main square. The party seems to encompass all three of the houses that border the south side."

Gregorov stared at the blinking red spot, willing it to stay safe. "Do you mind if I stay and watch?"

Haken shrugged and left the office. Gregorov settled in for a long night.

It was some time after midnight when the Russian woke. He had managed to find a comfortable spot and drifted off. The office was dark; he could hear Haken mumbling to himself in the other room. Haken talked in his sleep, often loudly enough that Jones, who had the quarters next to his, could hear him. Rubbing his eyes, Gregorov sat up, wondering why the room was lit so oddly before he realized that the spell was still active. Through the confusing display of lines and shapes, he realized that the red dot was flashing erratically and quickly. It had moved from the middle of town to the outskirts, past the bridge. He did not need to wake Haken for an interpretation of the change.

Out the building he ran, changing into a wolf because he was faster that way. Skidding to a stop at the gatehouse, he transformed back and demanded to use the Portkey to the village. At this hour? The guards laughed and started to go back to the warmth of their room. The last one did not make it back in. Gregorov considered using an Imperius curse to force him to open the wards to the Portkey room, but chose instead to merely slam the man's face into the wall. That worked, too.

The tavern was closed at that hour. Gregorov hoped that no alarms would be set off when he opened the front door, and none were. The empty streets were silvered by the stars' light reflected by the snow. He shifted to his wolf form and ran through the village, through the square where the party still went on in those three rich homes, and across the bridge. He ran a long way out of the town before he caught the scent - that weird, almost ozone smell of a certain kind of spell. The scents were jumbled together. Several people, the sharp odor of magic and the tang of blood. He snuffled loudly, looking for her scent and finally caught it. Not far from the road, lying in a heap, she lay, her hand still closed around a wand. Close behind her, a very elegantly dressed older man lay still, quite dead.

There was only a little blood on the ground and that gave him hope, but when he tried to turn her over, his hand came away sticky. He leaned closer and could hear her ragged breathing proclaim that she was still alive. While he hesitated, wondering what to do next, he heard shouting. The voices grew closer. Startled, he picked up her wand and Apparated into a stand of trees a hundred yards away. Dark against the snow, a crowd of Aurors arrived. From the shadows of the trees, he watched as they swarmed over the scene, most paying attention to the dead rich man. A large man bent over her, reaching down to check something. Changing back into a wolf, he slunk into the shadows until he was close enough to pick out individual voices.

"She is still alive." The voice identified him as Mueller, as if the size of the man had not already done so.

Two shadows separated themselves from the crowd. "It is almost dead," Werner said flatly.

"The badge. I require it for my report." The accent identified the Parisian Mâitre who held out his hand for something that Mueller put into it.

"Should I take her to the hospital?" Mueller again.

"Why? She failed in her duty. There is no shortage of Dark Mages in Paris." The Mâitre sounded bored. "Still, such a sad ending to a long career. At least I will not have to argue with her again. I will leave for Paris tomorrow. Merde, the reports will take days."

The Aurors combed the site briefly. Rich people killing other rich people did not want the kind of ugly publicity that the public craved. Family members descended on the scene almost on the Aurors' heels. Gregorov's ears flattened as the accusations began to fly. It was the Aurors' fault. It was the hired protector's fault. Who else was at risk? Why weren't the Aurors all back at the party to protect them? A shrieking female voice began arguing about the cost of the contract. No sorrow there, only avarice. Gregorov used his paws to cover his ears, but the shrieking voice was still loud. In time, the hubbub calmed as people were convinced to leave. There was a brief angry discussion about the body, which was levitated out, leaving the other to remain a blackness against the snow.

"Shall we bring a doctor?" Mueller asked, prodding the still form with his boot.

"It will be dead by then." Werner seemed to be involved in rearranging paperwork. Papers rustled as loudly as he spoke. "No. I need everyone back in position. If there was one attack, there may well be others. This will cause enough trouble as it is. It was foolish of him to contract to one of them. Had we been contacted, we could have arranged a professional bodyguard."

"Then what do you want done?"

"Leave it. Cover it with the concealment cloth and we will return for it later. It is not going anywhere." Werner handed the paperwork to the Mâitre who signed it with a flourish. "Come. We must all resume our places."

One of the Aurors stepped forward, shaking out a large piece of cloth. As soon as it was snapped open, the cloth seemed invisible. Two men draped it over the fallen mage who disappeared into the snow.

When Aurors were out of sight, Gregorov resumed his form and began his search. Whatever the Aurors had used to hide her blended perfectly with its surroundings. Long moments were spent feeling about. Frustrated, he shifted and sniffed for her, recoiling at the overwhelming tang of blood. When he pulled the cloth off, it seemed she was as pale as the snow itself, but she still breathed. Kneeling next to her, he realized that he had no idea what to do next. His talents were to break, not mend. With no other options, he picked her up and carried her back through town. Before he reached the square, he had to set her down and rest. No coherent sounds escaped her, only a low-pitched sucking sound, the noise of pain too deep to cry out. His mind shut down when he reached the tavern. The door had locked itself behind him. Repeatedly, he shoved at it, unable to think of what to do. She swayed in his arms and shuddered with each movement. Her breathing changed and he panicked, kicking open the door. At Durmstrang, the guards fell back and said nothing. No one challenged him and, when he threatened them, swore they would say nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the Dark Arts building, swearing a cheer when the door was still ajar. Then, in his quarters, he draped her over his bed. By that time, it was almost the hour for the morning bells. Her breath sounded ragged, a hand twitched uncontrollably. He needed to talk to someone, needed to get help for her, but whom could he turn to? In a fog, he walked through his rooms and, when he opened his door, Haken stood there, waiting.

Giving Gregorov an odd look, Haken followed his nose and the drops of blood to where she lay. Setting his shoulders, he began to undress her. Gregorov made a whining sound, not certain if this was a good idea. Flashing a toothy grin, Haken said, "I need to see how badly she is hurt. Here. Help me get her robes off."

Getting the robes off turned out to be difficult. The expensive, wool robe had hidden fastenings that fooled their fingers. There were closures inside of closures that needed to be undone in a specific order. After several false starts, they gave up and slit the robes into pieces. The clatter of her second wand hitting the floor startled both of them. Its slender form looked out of place lying atop the blood-soaked clothing. Removing the sweater and slacks was easier. Stopping the bleeding was harder. After a short while, Haken had to tell Gregorov to leave. The big Russian's hovering was distracting. Left alone to do his work, Haken took care of many of the problems. The bleeding stopped, several broken bones mended, and some internal damage repaired. Other injuries needed rest to restore them. He hummed to himself as he cataloged the damage and repaired it as best he could. She was strong. She would probably live.

By the time the nine o'clock bells chimed, Haken was finished and annoyed that he would be late for his first class. Annoyed even more that he had to do this kind of work again. He ordered Gregorov to let her sleep. They would do more at lunch, but she needed to be still. To ensure that, the last thing he did was place a Somnus spell on her and, as he left, handed her wand to Gregorov.