Ten Minutes to Midnight

Chapter Four

In a dark and distant, dark and distant place

Don't leave me here with only mirrors watching me

This house, it holds nothing but the memories

And the moon, it leaves silver but never sleeps

And then the silver turns to gray.

Bright Eyes, "Arienette"

Jack sat at his desk, having just finished typing a very long report about the Russian shipments, and watched the long hand on the clock slowly make its way around to the six. Work was almost finished for the day, and even though Meredith was dragging him to Knockturn Alley afterwards, five-thirty couldn't come soon enough.

It was only his third day of working at the Department of Mysteries, but already he had come to despise it. Jack had never had any sort of patience for taking other people's information and condensing it into a nice, comprehensive report, and he had been doing exactly that for the past two days. He would much rather be out on the field with the Detection Wizards, or maybe blasting away some Death Eaters with the Aurors, or if worst came to worst, sitting at home in his bedroom playing the piano.

Damn it, Dumbledore, couldn't you at least get me a job in a piano bar? Even that would be better than this.

The more he thought about it, the more he realised that it wasn't exactly the work he hated, but the lack thereof. When he had something to concentrate on, something challenging, it took up every bit of his mind, but this was just too simple. Every minute when Meredith wasn't talking, he sat lazily punching the typewriter keys, doing nothing but transferring information from a note card or newspaper clipping to a clean white paper.

And when he had nothing else to think about, he thought about Bridget.

He would see her in the park on the day they had first met, the wind rustling her hair as she accidentally kicked the football too high, nearly knocking him out. He would see her in her black dress on their first date, drinking too much wine and laughing at everything he said. He would see her in Flourish and Blotts, bent over a huge book and completely oblivious to the rest of the world. He would see her in her white dress, beaming at him as she walked to down the aisle on their wedding day. He would see her in Rome, busily taking photographs on their honeymoon. He'd see her playing her violin, or leaning in to kiss him, or sitting on the windowsill, or even playing Quidditch with the neighbourhood kids. He'd see her like she used to be.

And then he'd see her in his arms, cold and pale and dead, a trickle of blood running down her lips. He'd fight back the tears and bite back the screams, and then Meredith would punch him in the arm and tell him he'd been spacing out.

Sometimes his thoughts would be different, and he'd compose music in his head or think about when he'd have the time to write it and learn it. But then he'd see himself playing it for Bridget, and the cycle would start again.

The bell rang. Work was over.

Jack stood and made his way through the sea of desks and people to the coat closet. He extracted his cloak and pulled it on. There was no mess to clean up on his desk - he was so much more organised than Meredith - and so he went straight to the door and waited for his partner.

It took her at least ten minutes to get her coat and clean up, so he waited in silence by the doors. A few other employees left right away, but many of them lingered, finishing reports or cleaning up.

"Christian!"

He turned his head to see Meredith running toward him, and then she grabbed his hand and dragged him around to the back of the building. It was raining, and Jack winced as the deep mud around the walls oozed into his shoes. Meredith, not saying a word, took him to a small shed leaning against the brick wall. She pushed open the door, the rotting wood soft beneath her hands, and pulled Jack in behind her.

The shed was dark and damp, filled with old gardening tools that were rusty from age and disuse. In the middle of the room a dilapidated table slumped over, one of its legs cut in half, with a cardboard box sitting precariously on top of it. Jack suspected that magic was the only thing keeping it from tumbling onto the floor.

Still holding Jack's hand, Meredith stepped forward.

"No one uses this place anymore. There used to be a lovely courtyard behind the building, but then the gardener died and they left it to die as well." She sighed. "It's sad, how little respect people have for nature nowadays. If I had the time and the strength, I'd resurrect that courtyard myself."

Jack said nothing. Meredith dropped his hand and he wiped his sweaty palm on his trousers. For a moment, she had scared him; the urgency with which she had dragged him out of the building was startling.

She opened the box, and from inside it she pulled out two long, black cloaks, a top hat and a wide-brimmed black hat with garish black roses on the brim. She also pulled out another small box and revealed two pairs of eyeglasses inside it.

She handed Jack the top hat, one of the cloaks and a pair of glasses. Jack stared at the hat in disbelief.

"You can't be serious. I have to wear this?"

"Yes," she said, ignoring his tone. "Put all of it on and then we'll Disapparate."

"But why do I have to wear this hat?"

"We can't risk being recognised," she replied simply, as if he was stupid.

With a disgruntled noise, Jack tugged the hat onto his head and wondered how idiotic he looked. He swung the cloak around his shoulders and slid the eyeglasses onto his face, nearly falling over as the world abruptly went out of focus.

"I can't see a bloody thing!"

Meredith sighed. In her own huge hat, sweeping cloak and thick glasses, she looked like something out of a Dickens book from hell. The glasses made her blue eyes look huge and buggy and the hat was so big it kept sliding off. She growled, took her wand to it and shrank it angrily. Turning her attention back to Jack, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her reading glasses.

"Here," she said. "Try these."

He abandoned the old ones and slipped the new ones on. Although they made his head ache, at least he could see. He forced a smile and threw the useless glasses back into the box.

"All right, now that we look like a pair of twits from the eighteenth century, we're going to Apparate to Knockturn Alley," she said, the faintest hint of amusement playing in her voice. "Got it?"

He nodded, and with a slight pop, they were gone. In a matter of seconds, they reappeared in Knockturn Alley, right outside of Borgin and Burkes. The air was chilly and thin, smothered in darkness and fog. A foul stench drifted through the air as witches, wizards, and other magical folk, almost all dressed in black, haggled, argued, and staggered out of a suspicious-looking pub.

Meredith found Jack's hand and took it in hers. He looked down and saw fear in her eyes. Despite his revulsion at having to hold her hand again, he squeezed it reassuringly. He was frightened himself.

Deciding it was best to put on the air of one who knew what he was doing, Jack held it his head high - almost causing the hat to slide off - and strutted towards what looked like the nearest bookshop.

The building smelled strongly of smoke, decay, and damp paper. Bookshelves covered all the walls, and Jack noted with both amusement and terror that there was also a cage holding a few snarling books, books that had "HIGHLY DANGEROUS" stamped across their covers in big red letters, a book in a glass case that appeared to be bleeding, and many other interesting sights. A pale, blonde witch sat on the counter, bent over a book about vampires and reading intently. Jack assumed she was the owner of the shop.

"Excuse me, miss," he called nervously.

She looked up and smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. Her lips were purple, and she wore a long black cloak over many layers of silk, lace, and velvet, all in shades of purple and cream. Setting her book down, she hopped down from the counter and strolled over to Jack and Meredith.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Um, yes," Meredith said. "We're looking for books about necromancy. One in particular."

The woman gave a tragic sigh. "You're not another one looking for Bringing Up the Dead, are you? We sold our last one not an hour ago." Meredith deflated. "You're not missing much, honestly. There's a reason we kept it with our other banned books." She gestured to the books with red letters stamped across the covers.

"And the reason would be . . .?"

The shopkeeper smiled maliciously. "Page sixty-two burns your eyes out. The rest of the book is perfectly fine and interesting, but as soon as you see page sixty-two, there's a flash of red light and there's naught left in your eye sockets but smoke and ashes."

"Do you tell this to the customers before they buy it?" Meredith asked, startled.

"No," the woman replied. "They're all too foolish to ask." Her grin faded away, and she shook her head. "Is there anything else I can help you with? I'm afraid we're out of all our necromancy books - apparently it's a new trend or something - but I can place a few of them on special order, if you like."

"No thank you," Meredith said politely, her eyes very wide behind the glasses.

"Have it your way," the woman sighed. "Good day."

Jack and Meredith turned and left, and Jack thought he distinctly heard the shopkeeper mutter, "Bloody Death Eaters," as they reached the door.

Outside, it was even darker than before, and a man had apparently just been thrown out of the pub. He was hollering something unintelligible to the bartender, who was red with rage.

"Come near my pub again, and I'll kill ya!" he screamed. "I'll kill ya!"

Meredith pulled Jack away from the pub, but he was abruptly yanked back from behind. He spun around to see a very young witch, dressed in dirty, tattered and quite revealing velvet robes, holding firmly onto his forearm.

"Only a Galleon for my services, sir," she pleaded. "Anything you like . . ."

"Er, no thank you," he said awkwardly.

"Please, sir, at least buy a rose," she persisted. She held up her basket of red and black roses, all of them in full bloom, all of them beautiful. "Or I can tell your fortune."

Jack reached down into his pocket and pulled out a handful of Galleons, placed them in her hand, and took a red rose. The girl released his other arm and a smile spread across her thin face as she counted the coins.

"Thank you, sir." Much to Jack's surprise, she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. "You have a good heart. May it get you far."

Then, before he could say anything else, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jack to stand astonished. He raised an eyebrow at Meredith, who was frowning.

"I think she's one of the Squib girls . . . when they can't do magic, they have a hard time finding jobs, and so they get sent to Knockturn. There are many of them. My mother, when she was still alive, used to come through here and find the girls and take them to a shelter she ran for prostitutes and homeless women." She sighed. "She died when I was fourteen. I wanted to run the shelter myself when I got out of Hogwarts, but then I got pregnant."

Jack didn't know what to say.

"Anyway, that was a good thing that you did. I should have given her something, but I wasn't quick enough." She noticed a group of men who looked quite like vampires eyeing her from across the street, and gave Jack's arm a tug. "Let's get out of here."

Happy to oblige, he let her drag him through the narrow street, only once bumping into a hag who dropped her jar of pickled slugs and then threatened to rip Jack's fingernails off, one by one. They narrowly escaped her wrath, thus making it a very welcome relief to see Diagon Alley up ahead. Jack broke into a jog as soon as he saw it, a scenario in which the hag ripped off his toenails and fed them to her cat still playing vividly in his mind.

The Leaky Cauldron waited for them at the end of the alley, beckoning Jack to stop for a nice, cold ale and get so drunk he forgot his recent adventures - and Meredith - entirely.

"Want to get some drinks?" he asked, a bit grudgingly.

"All right."

Jack wriggled his hand free of Meredith's grasp, apparently much to her dismay. She gave him a disappointed look; in return he rolled his eyes, then slipped off his eyeglasses and ridiculous hat. Meredith took and pocketed the glasses, but took his hat and her own and tossed them into the nearest trash receptacle. She glanced up at her companion and burst out laughing.

"What?" he asked.

"Your hair," she said in between wheezes. "It's ridiculous."

He reached up and ran a hand through it, tousling the curls and glaring at the laughing girl before him. To his surprise, she reached up her own hand and fixed it herself. He batted her away and stepped back, but she didn't seem fazed.

"You have quite lovely hair," she teased. "It would be a shame to let it look less than perfect."

"Don't touch me," he barked, with more harshness than he had intended.

She sighed and crossed her arms, shaking her head as he turned and ran into the Leaky Cauldron. After all these years, her social skills were still hopelessly inept. She shook her head, wondering what about her it was that seemed to drive anyone and everyone away from her.

"He's not mad at me," she said aloud, trying to convince herself. "He just misses his wife." With that, she held her head high and followed him into the pub.

Jack was sitting at the bar, hunched over a foaming pint of ale and looking quite sulky. The dim light of the room didn't show the red rims around his eyes. Appearing quite braver than she felt, Meredith walked over to him and hoisted herself onto a barstool. Jack didn't look up at her, so she cleared her throat. He gave her a resentful glance.

"Christian, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it. I'm not trying to flirt with you, I'm really not, and I know what you must have gone through in the past few weeks--"

Resisting the urge to inform her that she had no bloody idea what he had gone through, he muttered, "Apology accepted," and downed half his ale in one gulp.

Meredith shifted awkwardly. "So. I've been babbling on about me for the past three days . . .I think it's time you told me a bit about yourself, Mr. McBay."

This was what he had been dreading. If she asked him a single thing about Bridget, he'd hoist her over his shoulder, drag her back to Knockturn Alley, and personally request that the hag rip her fingernails off and pickle them. Or he'd just refuse to answer.

"What do you want to know?"

"Age?" she prompted, happily.

"Thirty-four," he grunted.

"Only a year older than me. Favourite colour?"

"Black," he said, a twisted smile distorting his features. "It lets me outwardly express the darkness in my soul."

Meredith was unfazed. "Do you have any siblings? Parents? Any kind of relatives at all?"

His smile disappeared instantly. "My mother died just a few days before my wife did. My father left before I was born. I'm an only child." The words were mechanical, emotionless. He stared into his beer, trying not to think about them.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry . . . I don't know what I'd do without my family. When my mother died, at least I had my father and brother to turn to." She changed the subject. "So, do you have any special talents?"

"I can play the piano," he said, unable to disguise his pride. "I've been playing it since I was four, so I should be pretty damn good."

She looked at his hands, the ones that had felt so good in hers. "You have pianists' fingers. Beautiful hands." He moved them away from her, and she sighed. "Biggest fear?"

"Water." When she laughed, he grew defensive. "It's not funny. We had a swamp behind our house and when I was three, a Grindylow lured me in. I had nearly drowned when my mum saw me flailing around and ran in to rescue me. I wasn't breathing when she found me. She killed that damn Grindylow, revived me, and told me she thought she'd lost me. Ever since then, I refused to even come near the water. I was even afraid to take a bath. On my honeymoon, my wife wanted me to go to Haiti, but I made her go to Rome."

Meredith looked both sympathetic and amused. Jack shot her a withering stare.

"And if you ever think it's a grand joke to push me into some water when I least expect it, I will die, and you will have to live with the guilt."

She laughed. "I won't."

The conversation was broken as a shrill scream pierced the air, followed by more raised voices and the crashing of glass. Jack abruptly stood, spilling his beer, and whipped out his wand. Meredith echoed his movements (although she didn't have any beer to spill), and then followed Jack as he began to sprint out the door.

"Oi, sir, you `aven't paid for your ale!" the bartender cried, but he was ignored.

Jack reached the street and stopped in his tracks. He could barely see through the thick cloud of dust and smoke. A man appeared from the haze, bleeding from a cut above his eye, and Jack caught him just as he fell over. Gripping Jack's shirt for support, the old man looked up at him through bloodshot eyes and gasped a warning.

"Get out of the Alley," he wheezed. "Get out now."

"What's going on?" Jack said, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Death Eaters and Dementors," the man rasped. "They're looking for someone and killing whoever gets in their way."

Fear gripped Jack like a cold hand. "Who are they looking for?" he demanded, his voice slightly hysterical.

"Someone named Thetford. Come on, son, you've got to get out." The man released his hold on Jack's shirt and began to run.

Meredith grabbed Jack's upper arm, trying to drag him away from the smoke, but he would not budge. His eyes were wide and his face white as snow on an early winter's morning. He stood motionless even as a figure, tall and hooded, emerged from the chaos and strode right up to him, so close he could feel its breath on his face.

"Jack Thetford," the Death Eater hissed. Jack's breath stopped in his throat. They had found him. He was going to die, here in the street, at the hands of a Death Eater. "Have you seen him?"

He could have wept with relief. They didn't recognise him.

"No," he lied. "Never heard of him."

A sudden gust of wind pushed back the Death Eater's hood, revealing white-blond hair and a pale, pointed face. Jack knew him immediately.

"Silvius?" he whispered.

The man's eyes narrowed. "What did you call me?"

"Nothing," Jack lied, inching slowly backward, oblivious of Meredith snaking an arm around his waist. Lucius whipped out his wand and pointed it at the chest of the man before him.

"You called me by my father's name," he growled. "How do you know my father?"

"I didn't," Jack cried, desperately, now walking backwards as fast as he could. Meredith stepped in front of him, her chin held high.

"Leave us be. We don't know who you're looking for."

"Out of my way." Lucius pushed her aside and raised the wand so it was even with Jack's eyes. "Tell me, before I kill you. How do you know my father's name? He hasn't set foot on the streets for over twenty years."

"You must have heard me wrong. I don't know you or your father."

"Liar," he spat.

Meredith was pulling Jack away. They broke into a run, but didn't get far before Lucius turned to another Death Eater and growled orders they couldn't hear and didn't need to. Sweat was running into Jack's eyes but he made no move to push it away; he simply kept running, holding blindly onto Meredith and trying to ignore the increase in the screams around him.

It was because of his deep concentration that he almost didn't hear the splinter of wood and clank of metal as a curse detached a hanging sign from its supports and sent it soaring down towards his head. He didn't realise that it had fallen, or that it had been meant to kill him, until Meredith had pinned him against the nearest wall and he was out of harm's way.

Sweating and panting, he stared in shock at the debris littering the ground and thought of those thousands of splinters stuck deep into his flesh. He shivered but was unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. Meredith collapsed against him with a shuddering sob.

Lucius and the other Death Eater were advancing on them, wands at the ready. Jack's fingers were still tightly gripping his own wand. He raised it.

"Stupefy!" he shouted, and was quite shocked to hear another voice echoing his own.

The combined force of both spells sent the two Death Eaters sprawling. The unknown Death Eater flew back into a wall, revealing the face of a woman. A trickle of blood ran down her cheek from a cut near her thin, long nose.

"We have to Disapparate," Meredith was whispering. "C'mon, Christian, we've got to get out of here."

But Jack couldn't stop staring at the woman. She had opened her eyes, heavily hooded eyes, and her glare was boring into his. He knew who she was, somehow . . .

"Christian, please, don't make me leave without you!"

A young girl fell to her knees before him, breaking his concentration. He recognised her immediately as the Squib he'd helped in Knockturn Alley. She grabbed his trousers and pleaded, tears leaving tracks on her dirty face.

"Squib!" someone was shouting.

"Please, sir, help me. They're hurting us. Sir, sir, you've got to help me, please . . ."

He looked down at her. Her eyes were a dull olive green behind the shimmering wall of tears; her hair was tangled and dirty brown. She looked utterly terrified and completely helpless.

"I can't Apparate, sir. I'm going to die."

Without a word, without thinking, he picked her up and she buried her face in his chest. She was feather-light. He noticed that she was also quite bloody. He yanked his concentration away from the girl and focused on the chaos before him.

Through the crowd, over the shoulder of an advancing Death Eater, he saw a man watching him. Well, one of the man's eyes was fixed on him; the other, a round, vivid blue one, was ceaselessly moving. The man's slash of a mouth twisted into a faint smile. Jack blinked and the man was gone.

"Where do we go?" he asked Meredith.

"Somewhere where they won't think to look for us . . ." She appeared to be thinking hard.

"I'll take her," he motioned to the girl in his arms, "to the hospital--"

"No, no, not there!" The girl grabbed his collar. "Anywhere but there, please, they'll find me there . . ."

"Where am I supposed to take you, then? We have to get out of here now."

"To your house," she suggested.

Jack shifted her weight and gave Meredith a long look. "I'll take her to my house and you'll go to the law enforcement and get help, all right?"

Meredith nodded wildly. "Good luck."

They both Disapparated.

Jack reappeared on the damp steps and slipped, sending the Squib girl tumbling. With a grunt, he sat up and looked wildly around to make sure no one had followed them. After finding no one, he brushed his sweaty hair off his forehead and took a deep, shuddering breath. The girl said nothing.

Shaking and using the steps for support, Jack pulled himself onto the porch and looked down at the girl sprawled in the mud.

"Who are you?" he asked, overwhelmed.

"Sophronia," she said simply. "But they call me Sophie."

"Sophie?" he repeated.

She nodded, causing her dirty hair to fall into her eyes. "I don't actually know my last name, but since I was wearing a grey dress when they found me, they call me Sophronia Grey."

"Who found you?"

"Them." She began to get up. "Can we go inside now? It's really quite dreary out here, and I think I may need some medical attention."

Jack noticed that she was bleeding from a deep gash on her forearm and rushed over to help her up. He let her lean on him as they limped into the house, smearing mud all over the beige carpet. He led Sophie into the kitchen and she hoisted herself onto the counter and watched him as he rummaged through the cupboards, searching for the First Aid kit.

"It's in that one over there, on the top shelf," she said, pointing to a cabinet.

Jack gave her a suspicious glance and moved over to it. Sure enough, the kit sat innocently on the top shelf, right where she had said it would be. Jack took it down and then walked back over to Sophie, who had the faintest hint of a smile playing on her lips.

He washed her arm in warm water and applied a healing potion to the cut, then wrapped it tightly in a bandage. He muttered a quick waterproofing charm and then looked up at Sophie, who was covered in dirt, dust and soot. Chunks of plaster were stuck in her hair.

"Would you like a shower? I can fix you something to eat, too, if you like."

She nodded. "That would be nice."

"Take off your shoes," he said, glancing at the muddy floor in dismay. "The carpet is ruined enough as it is."

Sophie obliged, then hopped down from the counter and followed Jack up to the bathroom. He left her standing at the bathroom door and quickly darted into the bedroom to find some clean clothes for her to wear. He had saved a few of Bridget's things: her wedding dress, her favourite black dress robes, her Quidditch robes, and a fuzzy jumper she loved to wear. But sentimentality wouldn't allow him to let Sophie wear any of his dead wife's things, and so he pulled out his own red t-shirt, jeans and a brown belt for her to wear.

He left the room and went back to Sophie. She took the clothes from him, gave him a funny little half-smile, and disappeared into the bathroom. As soon as Jack heard the sound of running water, he turned and went down the steps.

The kitchen had been a mess from breakfast this morning, but now it was a veritable disaster. Mud was smeared across the counter and on the floor, blood stained the white sink, and Sophie's shoes lay on the mat. Jack muttered a few cleaning spells before going to the refrigerator and trying to find something to eat.

He hadn't been to the store in at least a week. It was all right for him, because he didn't eat much anyway and sometimes skipped meals when he was feeling his most depressed, but there wasn't anything to make for Sophie.

He searched his refrigerator, feeling completely overwhelmed. This was too much to comprehend. Why had he brought this girl here? How had the Death Eaters found out about him? Was everyone all right? His mind swam and his fingers groped blindly through the interior of the fridge and then closed on an oddly-shaped object. He pulled it out.

It was a map of the Muggle London Underground. He stared at it, puzzled, for a moment and then pocketed it. He resumed his search for something edible.

Much hunting revealed a box of instant rice, some leftover roast beef, and a bag of frozen vegetables. He set to work heating them up.

Just before dinner was ready, Sophie reappeared in the kitchen. Jack's clothes were almost comically big on her tiny frame. The dirt had been scrubbed off her fair skin and her hair was a dark, shiny brown without the dust and plaster. Beneath the grime, she had a mischievous, elfin face. Jack guessed that she was about eighteen.

"Feel better?" Jack asked, feigning cheerfulness.

Sophie nodded. "I want to thank you for what you did. You saved my life twice back there. I wouldn't have lasted much longer without that money and the Death Eaters would have murdered me if you hadn't taken me away. Thank you, Jack."

"You're wel--" He cut himself off and stared at her. "What did you call me?"

"Jack. That's your real name."

"No, no, you must be mistaken, my name is Christian. Christian McBay. Here, sit down; dinner's almost ready," he said hurriedly.

Sophie took a seat. "You don't have to lie to me," she said. "I know who you are. You're in disguise. Those people were looking for you. I think they wanted to kill you."

He took the roast beef out of the oven and gave her a look that was half fear, half distrust. "How do you know?"

She slumped down in her chair. "I have the Sight." She said it as someone admitting that they had a rare, incurable tropical disease would. "I may be a Squib, but I'm very good at Divination. Want me to read your palm?"

"No," he said, placing the food on the table. He took a seat and stared at her. "If you have the Sight, doesn't that just mean you can see the future? How do you know my name, then? I don't understand."

"I knew someone named Jack Thetford was going to save me today. When you picked me up, I knew it was you." She picked up the serving spoon and served herself some food. "You don't look like the man I saw, though."

He didn't touch the food. "As you said, I'm in disguise. What else do you know about me? Can you see my future?"

"In a way," she said, her mouth bulging with carrots. "Let me read your palm. I'm quite skilled at palmistry."

He stuck out his hand nervously and she took it. Her thin fingers traced the lines on his skin. She furrowed her brow and frowned.

"Your lifeline shows that you had a steady life, full of vitality, but you started to lose your way around age 35," she said.

He smiled bitterly. "I'm 37 now, and I have no idea what's going on in my life. It's spun out of control."

She nodded. "You have a deeply etched heart line. You're very emotional and aggressive in love. I can tell that you hide your emotions and bottle them in, though. You're afraid to let people in, but that doesn't stop you from falling in love fast and hard. I see two women in your future: one that loves you and one that you love. I see three in your past . . . two of them your lovers, and one of them strictly platonic; a mother, perhaps. You love her the most."

Jack nodded. "My mother, Deirdre. She died just over a month ago."

Sophie smiled sadly at him and began to analyse the shape of his hand. "You have a water hand: long fingers and lots of fine lines. You're a very good musician. Your feelings often take over your ability to think practically."

Jack looked impressed. "You're very good at this."

"I know," she said, without the slightest hint of conceit. "Divination is the only form of magic I can do, besides the simplest charms. I can conjure a light, open a door, and clean up broken glass, but that's about it. Of course, I never went to school . . ."

"You never went to school?"

She shook her head. "No, I didn't. Let me finish with your palm."

Her hands ran across the lines and loops. It tickled. Her touch was light and cold, and her eyes focused and bright. She stuck the tip of her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated.

She closed her eyes and hummed softly, deep in thought. "I see--"

A knock at the door interrupted her. She opened her eyes and Jack gave her an apologetic shrug, then pulled his hand out of her grasp and went to answer the door. He could not have been more relieved at the sight of the man standing on his doorstep.

"Dumbledore!"

"I came as soon as I heard," Dumbledore said gravely, brushing past Jack to enter the house. "I was at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when Meredith burst in, babbling about an attack on Diagon Alley and someone named Jack Thetford. I cannot stay long, as I must go to the scene of the attack and aide the Aurors in their cleanup, but I felt the need to speak to you immediately. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," he said quickly. "Something happened, though--"

Dumbledore was staring straight over his shoulder. Jack turned around slowly to see Sophie, looking ridiculous and surprised in those too-big clothes, standing behind them.

"She's one of the Squib girls of Knockturn Alley. She was wounded and they were going to kill her, so I brought her here. She's a Seer, Albus. A very real one."

Albus stepped around Jack to look at Sophronia.

"Hello," Sophie whispered. "I'm Sophronia Grey, but you can call me Sophie." She walked up to Albus and held out a trembling hand. He shook it.

"Pleased to meet you, Sophie," Dumbledore said, sizing the girl up.

She took a deep breath and began to explain, avoiding his eyes. "Sir, like Jack said, I'm one of the Squib girls from Knockturn Alley. I have very little magical ability beyond Divination and I never attended school. I do have the Sight, and I know who Jack really is. I don't, however, know why he's being sought by Death Eaters . . ." She gave Jack a long, almost sad, look. "But he saved my life and brought me here, and so I am in his debt. If you wish me to keep his identity a secret, I will."

Dumbledore nodded and clasped her hand. She looked up at him, frightened.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, my dear. I can assure you that you will be safe. I ask you to please keep the secret, and I do wish that I could share the rest of the information with you, but I'm afraid that is up to Jack." He looked at her wound. "You'll need to see a doctor about that cut."

"No! Please, not a doctor. They ask too many questions. Too many tests . . ." She trailed off, a distant look on her face, as if she was recalling something from long ago. Jerking back to reality, she recovered her wits and continued. "I'm feeling fine. Can I stay here tonight? No one will think to find me here."

Dumbledore gave Jack an inquiring glance. "Jack?"

"It's all right with me," he said.

"Very well, then. Sophie, I would like to speak to Jack alone, and then I will have a word with you." Sophie nodded and Dumbledore smiled. "Thank you."

Sophie moved away and went back to the kitchen, as Dumbledore watched her retreating back with interest.

"What an extraordinary young lady," he said, shaking his head. Jack and Dumbledore stepped into the next room.

Jack fumbled in his pocket for the map he'd found in the fridge. "Dumbledore, you'll never guess what I found in my fridge."

"A chipmunk with earmuffs?" Dumbledore guessed.

Jack blinked in surprise, then laughed. "No, actually, it was this." He held out the map and Dumbledore took it, then studied it curiously.

"A map of the London Underground? Well, I was close." He furrowed his brow. "Any idea why--"

He broke off as he peeled back one frozen sheet of paper to reveal messy ink letters that had bled down the page. They were nearly incomprehensible, but Jack knew what they said:

I'M SORRY

He stared at the page. "I'm sorry," he repeated softly. "Who . . .?"

A frantic tapping at the window interrupted his question. Dumbledore swiftly turned his head in the direction of the noise, finding a small tawny owl as its source. He opened the window and the bird flew in, perching on a lamp and hooting distraughtly. Albus removed the letter from its foot and absentmindedly smoothed its feathers as he read the message.

He frowned deeply as he finished. Shaking his head, he looked up at Jack with an odd expression in his blue eyes.

"I'm very sorry, Jack, but a few of our Aurors have succumbed to the injuries they sustained during the attack today and I'm needed to help out. Will you be all right here? I can send someone to help if you need them . . ."

Jack shook his head slowly. He knew Albus was an old man, but he had never thought of him as such. The twinkle in his eyes had been extinguished, and he suddenly looked ancient, exhausted, and utterly lost. Jack felt helpless.

"I'll be fine," he sighed. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No," Dumbledore said. "Not right now. You are too much at risk. Take care of the girl, and stay on your toes. There's no telling what could happen." He handed Jack the map and sighed. "Meredith seemed very distressed when she turned up at the office. We sent her home, but I gave her your address. If she comes here, please do your best to help her."

Jack nodded. "I will."

Dumbledore clasped his arm, looking as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it. "Goodbye, Jack," he murmured, and he was gone.

Jack stood immobile for a moment, unsure of what to think or what to do. He didn't hear Sophie come up behind him, or even notice her at all until she had slipped her arm through his and was leading him upstairs.

Neither of them spoke until they were both sitting down in the darkness of Jack's room; Sophie in the chair at the desk, Jack on the bed. Sophie broke the silence.

"Are you frightened?"

He jerked his head around to look at her. A sliver of light, an escapee from the space between the window and the curtain, illuminated her pale skin and dull green eyes. She had pulled her knees up to her chest and was hugging them tight to her, as if they were an anchor against reality.

"Of course I'm frightened," Jack said softly. "They know who I am. If they find me--" He considered, for a brief moment, telling her exactly what would happen if they found him. She looked as lost and scared as he felt. "If they find me, I'll probably die," he finished lamely.

She shivered. "They want to kill me, too. Just because I don't have magic. Just because I'm not like them." She fiddled with a loose string on her sleeve. "It's not the first time someone's tried to kill me for being a Squib. When I was three, my parents were so frustrated that I wasn't showing any signs of magic that they tried to drown me. Mama found me floating down the river in my grey dress, and she took me back with her to Knockturn Alley and called me Grey. Then I started showing signs of being psychic, so she re-named me Sophronia and kept Grey as my surname."

"Mama?" Jack asked, puzzled. The word on his tongue brought back memories of his own mother, but they dissolved as Sophie kept speaking.

"She ran a sort of boarding house in London for the Squib girls she found on the streets. No one wants us, you see. There are a lot of us, too magical for the Muggles and not magical enough for the wizards. She takes us in and cares for us, trying to teach us the little magic she knows and see if we really are Squibs or just slow in showing magical signs. A few go to Hogwarts, but most of us stay behind. We'd do an assortment of odd jobs: working in pubs, cleaning up, working on the streets, marrying old men who don't care who we are. It's not a horrible life most of the time . . ."

She trailed off and looked down at her dirty nails. One had broken, so she brought it to her cracked lips and bit it off. Jack wanted to ask her more, but he could tell she didn't want to talk about it.

"How old are you?" he inquired, changing the subject.

"Twenty-five," she replied.

"My God. Are you really?" He was incredulous. She didn't look a day older than eighteen.

She nodded. "I know I look young. That's what you get when you haven't had a square meal since, well, infancy." She sighed. "But I feel so old sometimes. I really want to thank you for letting me stay here. I know it sounds crazy that I don't want to go to a hospital, but they ask too many questions and I'm a quick healer anyway. I just wonder . . . Who are you?"

He shook his head. "You don't want to know."

"I do, really. I think I deserve to know, if I'm going to be staying here." She saw the guarded expression on his face. "I won't tell anyone. You can trust me."

Another twisted smile lit his features. "You really don't want to know. But if you insist: My father is Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort."

She laughed brightly, like the sound of bells tinkling. "Don't be silly. Tell me the truth."

"I am telling you the truth," Jack replied frostily. "My father is Lord Voldemort."

Sophie shook her head frantically. "No. No, you can't be. He doesn't have a son. He couldn't. Certainly not you. No. You must be mistaken."

"I'm certainly not," he snapped, and nearly felt the realisation sink into Sophie.

Even in the darkness, Jack could see the paralysing fear that contorted Sophie's features as the words burned her ears. She stood abruptly, knocking the chair over, and fumbled for the door. Jack realised what he had done and moved toward her, grabbing her wrist and trying to protest that he didn't want to hurt her.

She jerked away and managed to open the door and stumble out into the hallway. Jack grabbed her roughly around the waist and pulled her back, accidentally slamming her into the wall as he overestimated her weight. She gasped and struggled, tears coursing down her cheeks.

"I trusted you, you bastard, you traitor, you . . . you . . . monster," she spat. "Get off of me! Don't touch me! You're his son, you're that bastard's son . . ."

"Please, Sophie, please, I don't want to hurt you--"

"No! Stay away!" She was hysterical.

"Sophie," he whispered. She looked up at him wildly, then stopped fighting. She shuddered and gasped, but no longer struggled. "I don't want to hurt you. I'm not like my father. I never knew him, and now I'm running away from him. I don't want to hurt you. I don't."

"You don't?"

He shook his head, smiling sadly. "I don't."

She shuddered one last time, then collapsed against him, her arms wrapped around his waist.

"I knew you wouldn't. I could see that you wouldn't. . . I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Jack. I didn't mean to say that . . ."

He, forgetting everything except that she was warm and she was holding him like Bridget used to, buried his face in her hair and rocked her back and forth as she cried and hiccoughed like a little girl.

"Don't be sorry."