Ten Minutes to Midnight

Prologue

April 12^th, 1959

That book in many's eyes doth share the glory
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story.

-Romeo and Juliet. Act I. Sc. 3.

It was three o'clock in the morning when Deirdre stepped off the train and stumbled into The Winking Griffin Tavern. The cosy warmth of the building was welcome relief after the bitter cold of the streets. Deirdre staggered over to the table nearest to the fire and sank down into a chair. She lowered the hood of her black cloak and let the strap of her bag slide off her shoulder and onto the floor, then looked around for a waiter or waitress.

The waitress who came over to take Deirdre's order was tall, surly, and exhausted, and she barked out the words, "What can I get you?" with surprising harshness.

Deirdre jumped and blinked. "Er, hot cider, please."

The waitress nodded and went into the kitchens to fetch the drink. Deirdre pulled off her leather gloves and laid them on the table, then held her fingers out close to the fire to warm them up. Although it was technically spring, warm weather had not reached northern England yet. The wind howled outside the walls of the tavern, and Deirdre shivered again.

The building was unexpectedly bright and full for the early hour. Wizards crowded the bar and tables closer to the windows, and a group of old witches sat in one corner playing cards. No one seemed to notice the fair-haired witch roasting her fingers over the fire.

Deirdre pulled her hands back and bent to pull a Muggle street map out of her bag. She needed to find a town nearby where she could live: one smaller and more inconspicuous than Ashington, where she was now. Northumberland was one of the wildest and most unspoilt parts of England, so it wouldn't be hard to find a quiet spot in the countryside and settle down. The map was intricate and detailed, and Deirdre's tired eyes could barely focus on it.

A few minutes later, the waitress returned and set a steaming mug of cider on the table, then bustled off before Deirdre could finish her "thank you." Deirdre picked up the mug and held it tightly, relishing the warmth that spread through her fingers and the sweet, spicy smell of the liquid. She took a long sip and the cider burned her throat, making her sputter. She set it back down to cool and turned back to the map.

She traced her fingers over the roads that branched out from Ashington and led to the countryside. Most of the towns were of fairly respectable size, and only one or two were so vast that she ruled them out immediately. Most of them would do. But she had to find out about their wizard populations. It would not do to be the only witch in a Muggle town. She could not risk anyone finding her magic, nor could she live the rest of her life pretending to be a Muggle. So she resolved to find the nearest library when the sun came up. Most libraries had sections for wizards that were concealed by anti-Muggle spells, much like The Leaky Cauldron in London.

Deirdre placed the map back in her bag and finished off the cider, then let her eyes travel around the room. When her gaze reached the far left corner, she jumped. A wizened old wizard with pale, almost completely white eyes was watching her. She smiled timidly and looked quickly away, unable to suppress the fear creeping up her spine. If he recognized her, even at all, and told someone who she was, that would be the end of her. One hand involuntarily fluttered to her stomach. No one could find her now, not when so much was at stake.

She shuddered and pulled a book out of her bag, then proceeded to stare at the pages until the words swam before her eyes. It was impossible to read, but at least she had something to occupy herself with before sunrise.

But long before the sunrise, at five a.m., three strangers Apparated just outside the building and interrupted her reading. All three of them were tall, thin, and wearing long black cloaks that swept the ground. With a twisted grin, the first one began to walk towards The Winking Griffin, and his comrades followed.

The first shoved the door open so hard it hit the wall with a loud smack and then bounced off. An icy draft swept through the room and the fire flickered. All the inhabitants of the room turned to see the intruders, and quite a few of them gave muffled screams.

The first stranger lowered his hood, revealing a young, pointed face half-concealed by pale blonde hair. He reached up to rub the faint stubble on his chin, smirking as he did so. His cohorts dropped their hoods almost immediately after, revealing a very old man with short grey hair and a young woman with black eyes. The three of them would not have looked so intimidating had there not been green and silver snakes tattooed around their left eyes. The snakes started at the temple, wound up alongside the eyebrow, ran down and across the nose and under the eye, and then curled back across the cheekbone. They were painted in such vivid detail that the woman sitting closest to the three swore that they moved.

The blonde stepped forward, his leather boots making no noise on the wooden floor.

"I apologise for startling anyone," he said in a faint Scottish brogue. "The wind is rather strong this morning, and seemed to open the door more forcefully than I had intentioned it to." He smiled pleasantly, and a few witches noticeably relaxed. "We are looking for a young woman by the name of Deirdre," he paused, "Thetford. Business matters."

The black-eyed woman's black eyes flitted to the spot where Deirdre sat, petrified by fear. "There she is," she rasped.

"Ah! Deirdre." The blonde crossed the room in four quick strides and seized Deirdre by the forearm and lifted her to her feet. "My dear. We should step outside."

She opened her mouth to protest, but his eyes flashed dangerously and she thought better of speaking. They walked outside, and once they were completely outside the door, the black-eyed woman and the old man nodded deeply to the guests at the tavern and then left, shutting the door behind them.

The blonde had pressed Deirdre to a wall and he held her there by thick folds of her cloak. She wasn't struggling, but she was whimpering.

"I thought they told you to get out of England," the blonde hissed in a low voice that sounded almost serpentine. "They trusted you enough to allow you time to get out of the country, and we get a message from Roland saying he saw you get off the train in Ashington." Roland. The man with the white eyes. The blonde shook Deirdre roughly. "Tell me, should I kill you now or give you another chance?"

Deirdre gave a small cry. "I didn't know where else to go! I thought this was far enough North that no one would find me . . . I didn't know you had spies! Please let me stay, I have nowhere else to go!"

He pushed her against the wall again. "You'd better find somewhere, or we'll kill you." She reached out to grab his face in desperation. His voice softened with the reminder of the affection he had once felt for the woman before him. "Think, Deirdre. You've been all over the world. You must have someone, somewhere, who will take you in."

"But Silvius -"

He shook her again. "No excuses. Think."

She tried, but her mind was too tired, too confused, to form one logical thought. There were hundreds of people in Europe that liked her enough to take her in, although with the circumstances, the numbers were bound to be significantly fewer. Yet she could not think of anyone, until she cast her mind around and it landed on Ireland. Ethne.

"I--I think I've found someone who would," she stammered, and dropped her hand from Silvius' face.

He relaxed and let her go, and she sank to the ground in a crumpled heap. "Good. Now get on the next train and get out of here, and I'll pretend that you were never here."

He turned around and pulled his hood back on. The black-eyed woman and the old man stared at the shaking heap that was Deirdre before following suit. Then the blonde held up a hand, waved his fingers lazily, and the three strangers disappeared.

Deirdre sat alone, crying silently, for a few moments before she dragged herself to her feet and stumbled towards the train station. Seeing Silvius again, no matter how brief and strange the meeting had been, brought back floods of memories that fatigue had nearly erased since she left London. The sense of urgency to get as far away from London as possible was back, along with the terror. Deirdre brushed her dirty hair out of her eyes and walked warily into the train station.

The old woman sitting at the ticket booth looked as tired as Deirdre felt.

"Where to, sweetheart?" she said.

"One-way to Liverpool," Deirdre replied.

She purchased the ticket and the moved into to her platform. The train did not depart until six o'clock, so she sank onto a bench and curled herself up, hoping to catch a quick nap before the train left. But sleep, or even the faintest glimmer of peace, would not come.

She inhaled deeply and tried to block out the constant questions her mind kept forming. All that was important now was that she got to Ireland safely and that Ethne let her stay. After that, she'd make it up as she went along. Everything would work itself out if she made it to Ethne.

She closed her eyes and drew her cloak more tightly around herself. For a woman of just thirty-one, she looked much older, and felt it, too. The last ten years of her life had been a whirlwind, and she was lucky to be alive. Her survival was lucky for her, at least, although someday the rest of the world would beg to differ. But right now, as she lay curled up on a bench in the middle of a train station, luck was on the world's side.

The clock chimed six and the train's whistle seared through the air, startling the sleeping woman awake. She jumped up and practically leapt onto the train, shoving her ticket at a startled conductor.

"No bags, miss?" he inquired.

She moaned softly. Her bag was still at The Winking Griffin. "No, sir." He nodded and she passed.

The train was richly furnished, and Deirdre found her secluded seat in first-class. It had been a hefty price to pay for this seat, but she considered herself deserving of it, and she had taken a good bit of both magical and Muggle money with her when she left London. The red velvet seats, sleek mahogany walls and tables, ornate light fixtures trimmed in gold, and tall windows made the cabin feel more like a hotel than a train, and she was eternally grateful for that. She slid into a plush velvet seat, pulled off her shoes, and slid off her cloak. She leaned back into the seat and closed her eyes in contentment.

A woman with a cart of drinks wheeled by just after the train had departed the station.

"Would you like anything to drink?"

Considering that the mug of cider was the only food or drink Deirdre had had in three days, she was starving. "Oh, yes - orange juice. Are you serving breakfast yet?"

The woman smiled. "Not yet, but I can have the kitchens whip something up for you, if you like. What would you like?"

Deirdre thought for a moment. "Could I just get a full English breakfast? Oh, and some tea?"

The woman smiled and nodded, then poured her a glass of orange juice and wheeled the cart away. She came back a quarter of an hour later with a tray heaped with a sausage, two thick strips of bacon, three fat slices of black pudding, an egg, a sliced mushroom and a tomato, beans in tomato sauce, two slices of fresh bread, a plate of butter, a kettle of tea and a teacup. Deirdre sighed happily as the woman placed the tray in front of her, muttered a grateful "thank you" and began to shovel the food into her mouth.

With all the English breakfasts she ate, it was a wonder Deirdre didn't look like a whale. On the contrary, she was a wispy little waif who had once been very beautiful, although only traces of that beauty remained. Her face was lined, her eyes darkly circled, her hair frizzy and unkempt, and her clothes rumpled. Anyone who saw her thought she had probably been through hell and back, and they would have been right.

It showed in the haunted, slightly deadened look in her brown eyes. It showed in the way she looked behind her shoulder at every opportunity. It showed in the cautious way she walked and the hesitant tone of her voice. It showed in her quick reflexes, her fiercely protective nature, and the scars on her body. It showed in the way she ate, the way she slept, everything she did. It was so clear that the woman with the food cart watched her in painful silence, wondering if the poor thing would live through the night.

"Do you mind if I sit down, dear?" the woman asked.

"Oh, go ahead," Deirdre said through a mouthful of tomato.

The woman sat, folding her hands in front of her. "Are you all right, dear? You look dead on your feet."

Deirdre swallowed and then took a sip of tea. "Yes, I'm all right." She brushed a few stray hairs off her face. "I've just had a rough couple of weeks, that's all."

The woman shifted uncomfortably. "Where are you headed to?"

"Well, the train is taking me to Liverpool, and from there I'm hopping a ferry to Ireland. I'm on my way to visit a friend." She said this with a certain finality to her voice that she hoped would signal the end of the conversation.

"What's your name?"

"Deirdre--" She had to stop herself from blurting out her married name, and since she'd be using her maiden name, she decided on a false one. "Wilkes. Deirdre Wilkes." She picked up her fork to eat again, still hoping that the woman would stop her interrogation. Answering her questions, harmless as it may seem, could prove deadly. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm very hungry and very tired--"

The woman nodded and patted Deirdre's hand. "Sorry to bother you, you just looked so sad that I wondered what--" she shook her head. "Nevermind. I'll leave you to your breakfast."

"Thank you."

As soon as the woman and her cart were gone, Deirdre resumed eating and gazing out the window. The faint, rosy smudges on the golden and blue sky just above the horizon suggested the coming sun, and the last remaining fog lingered very close to the ground. This part of England was flat and deep green, but she could see jagged cliffs in the distance rising out of the mist. The view was really quite beautiful, and served to calm her down slightly.

She finished her last bite of bacon and then took her last sip of tea. Feeling five pounds heavier and five times happier, she wiped her face with a napkin and then pushed the tray away and lay back in the seat. The cabin was oddly silent, although it carried quite a few people making their morning commute. Most of them just drank tea and ate pastries as they read the newspaper, and very few of them spoke.

The train pulled into its first stop, and Deirdre watched as half the passengers filed out and even more took their place. To her dismay, one man took the seat across from her. He was a respectable-looking fellow, with a neatly trimmed moustache and a grey suit. He smiled pleasantly at Deirdre, who forced herself to smile back.

"Where are you heading, miss?"

She resisted the urge to sigh and say, "Not again."

"Liverpool, and then I'm on a ferry to Ireland."

"Ah. Lovely day for travel, hm?" he responded.

"Oh, yes."

And indeed it was. The sun had risen completely, bathing the countryside in warm golden light. A decrepit old castle loomed up ahead as the train snaked over a hill. It was the kind of day that reminded Deirdre why she loved England, and why she was so very sad to go.

The man had taken out a newspaper and was reading it, although he kept glancing at her over the top of the paper. She smiled at him and stared out the window, praying that he would ask her no more questions.

"I know you," he said after a moment, and Deirdre whirled around to look at him, startled.

"Do you, now?" she said, hoping to keep her voice casual.

"You're Deirdre Thetford." She couldn't stop herself from nodding. He folded up his newspaper and leaned forward, intrigued. He kept his voice low as he spoke. "They tell tales about you. One of the most brilliant, charming witches ever to come out of Hogwarts disappears one day and isn't heard of for five years . . . they printed marriage certificates all over the papers, concocted tales about your death, Witch Weekly published articles written by your family members about how sorely you were missed . . . and then you're really married and supposedly up to your forehead into the Dark Arts. The Daily Prophet comes after you begging for a story, and you're gone again. No one's heard from you since."

She fidgeted. "Yes, that does sound like me. I must assure you that half those rumours are entirely false, and I'm divorced and trying to get away of anything and everything to do with my husband. I'm on my way to a new life now." She forced a sunny smile.

The man leaned back, stroking his moustache. "My sister said she knew you. Do you remember her? Marie Carroll, a Ravenclaw two years older than you."

"Marie . . . Yes, I remember Marie. She was so smart, how could I forget? She was in my Potions class when I was a fifth year, and I simply idolised her . . . funny you should mention her, really." She had really despised swotty Marie, but there was no reason to tell him that.

"So where have you been all these years, if those rumours aren't true?"

"I--" There was no clever lie that came to her now. She lowered her eyes, and decided to play for his sympathy. "I prefer to not discuss that. Those were hard times for me, and the memories are still painful."

He nodded and ceased the conversation, although he continued to look at her with mounting suspicion until they reached Liverpool.

They got off at the same time, and Deirdre headed towards the closest bus station. It would be easier to Apparate, of course, but she was so tired she feared she'd mess up and end up Splinched.

"Wait, Deirdre--"

She turned around to face the man. "Yes?"

"Where have you been all these years? Really."

She smiled grimly, took his arm, and pulled him into the nearest alleyway. "You wish you knew, don't you, so you can run to the newspapers and make a fortune on me, hm? You don't care about me, and neither did your whore of a sister."

"No, I just want to know--I do care--"

Her smiled became even more twisted. "Don't lie to me. I know your type: the kind who will do anything for a bit of fame, a bit of recognition, to be the hero of the moment . . . I would kill you now, but I don't have the strength. So instead," she reached into her pocket and pulled out her wand, then pointed it right between his eyes, "OBLIVIATE!"

She pulled away and watched as his face went blank, and then he blinked and looked puzzled. Deirdre smiled and put on a fake French accent.

"As I said, monsieur, I think you may 'ave a concussion. Zee hospeetal eez just across zee road." She pointed, smiled, and then left him there, ignoring his calls.

As she turned the corner, smirking sadistically, she immediately collided with something large and solid. She bounced off it, and looked up, right into the face of Silvius. It was hard to keep from sighing in exasperation, but she managed.

"I'm leaving England right now, as soon as I can get to a ferry, no need to threaten me with death again, Silvius."

"I heard you talking to that bloke," he said lightly. "You came very close to giving yourself away there, and had he not called you back, you would have put yourself - and me- in danger."

Deirdre raised an eyebrow. "Did you listen to the whole conversation? Have you been following me since London?"

"No, just since Ashington."

She put a hand on her forehead. "Why?"

"I want to see you make it out of here alive." He lowered his voice. "I know what's going on, Deirdre."

She gasped. "You know about--"

"Yes," he said, nodding. "And as much as it might kill me to say it, I know why you did what you did, and it was right." She started to say something, but he put a finger to her lips. "I know how crazy this is, but you're my friend," he silenced her again, "and I'm going to see you get out of here. I'd take you out of here myself if I could. Do you really have somewhere to go? Tell me the truth."

"Yes," she whispered. "I'm not sure if she'll take me in, though."

He nodded. "If she doesn't, send me an owl - it'll get to me somehow - and I'll send you to a safe house I know of in France. They'll take you in. And remember: don't ever, ever, tell anyone where you came from, who you used to be . . . they'll use it against us." He turned and looked at his watch. "Bugger, I'm late. Well," he looked uncomfortable, "good-bye."

He started to walk away, but Deirdre reached out and grabbed his forearm and pulled him back to her.

"What?"

As soon as he was facing her, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was a good-bye kiss, one that Deirdre threw herself into. It lasted only a few moments, and then Deirdre pulled away. She smiled her first real smile in quite a long time at him, then reached up and brushed a lock of blonde hair off his face.

"Silvius Malfoy, even though you're a arrogant little bastard, I'm going to miss you."

He gave her a cocky grin. "I know you will." Then he stepped back into the darkness of the alleyways and Disapparated.

Deirdre shuddered and pulled her cloak more tightly around herself. She was completely alone again, without even the brief comfort of Silvius to keep her company. She brushed her hair off her face and then left the alley to make her way over to the ferry.

The ferry ride was long and uneventful, giving Deirdre the opportunity to sleep most of the way. But her dreams were haunted by feverish nightmares of what would happen if she were discovered, and the horrors she was running away from. Not all of the past 10 years had been hell - in fact, she had rather enjoyed most of it - but the last sixth months or so . . . She shuddered involuntarily in her sleep. That was all behind her now, she was going to Ireland and she was going to be safe there. And if Ethne wouldn't take her in, there was always the safe house in France. Not the most luxurious option, of course, but she trusted Silvius, perhaps against her better judgement.

She arrived in Ireland at one o'clock in the afternoon, feeling a bit rested up but hungry as ever. Deciding that since Ethne's house was not far away at all, and she didn't want to go through the same thing she had in the last tavern, it was best to just wait until she reached Ethne, she purchased what she hoped would be her last train ticket in a very long time and headed towards Limerick.

Ethne, who had been Deirdre's closest friend since they were first years at Hogwarts together, lived quite a few miles west of Limerick. The two had not corresponded for the past ten years, just as Deirdre had not spoken to anyone else from her "old life" since then. There was a lingering doubt in her mind that Ethne wouldn't recognize her, and she was afraid that Ethne would be bitter about how their friendship had fallen through. If she had to, though, she'd throw herself at Ethne's feet and beg her for a place to stay.

She stepped off the train less than an hour later and into the streets of Limerick. She slipped into the first alley she found, and muttered the incantation for Apparition. A moment later, she was standing on the steps of Ethne's formidable-looking stone house. She raised a hand to the metal doorknocker carved in the shape of a serpent (Ethne had always been quite the Slytherin) and knocked three times.

Ethne, her brown hair in a messy bun, answered the door a moment later. The first emotion to cross her face was recognition, and then fear, but then, slowly, her face broke into a grin.

"Deirdre! Is it really you?" She leaned over and embraced her friend tightly. "Oh, it's been so long! Come in, come in . . ."

She ushered Deirdre into the foyer, which was dimly lit and dusty. Apparently the house was not as well taken care of as Deirdre's home in London, but Ethne lived alone, without any maids, so it could be forgiven. They walked into the brighter drawing room and sat down in plush, straight-backed green armchairs.

"Would you like some tea?" Ethne gestured towards the teapot and a few teacups that sat beside it.

"Oh, yes please," Deirdre replied.

Ethne poured the tea for herself and her friend, and then held it in both hands as she waited for it to cool. "So what brings you here, after all these years?"

Deirdre swallowed, then paled significantly. She set her teacup down on a table next to her chair, then leaned back and ran her fingers through her hair. She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice as nonchalant as possible and her eyes downcast.

"I'm running away from Tom Riddle. Because I'm pregnant, Ethne . . . I'm pregnant with his child."

The only noise that followed was Ethne's teacup shattering as it fell to the floor.