Dreamwalk Blue

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE -- WANDERLUST

This is the dead land
This is the cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

(from the hollow men t.s. eliot)

September came, and brought with it the vibrant, long-fingered sprays of autumn color that decorated the trees. Albus Dumbledore taught his sixth-year students to change tea-cozies into tabby cats and worked late into the night translating passages from Ravenclaw's book. Still unconvinced but willing to help him out, June promised to get him some files on the Albanian murders from the Ministry. He expected her to come out to the school within a fortnight and, toward the end of September, she did indeed come. June sauntered in just before the close of one of his lessons, leaned casually against the doorjamb and watched with a disconcerting half-smile on her face as he attempted to teach a class of fifth-years to turn pats of butter into butterflies. By the time they finished, the air was filled with colorfully patterned, fluttering wings. Several girls exclaimed in delight. Metis McGonagall attracted a half-dozen blue- and silver-patterned butterflies that settled in her black hair; a Mona Lisa smile played on her lips while her friends oo-ed and ah-ed over the picture she made.

"They are pretty, aren't they?" she said sedately, looking like a queen holding court. Metis reached out a hand and one of her courtiers fluttered down onto her outstretched finger. The butterfly twitched a friendly antenna at her. She looked down at it, the expression on her face changing just perceptibly, as though she'd remembered something unpleasant. She shook the butterfly off her finger and shooed the others from her hair.

"All right," Albus said good-naturedly, passing out butterfly nets. "Round them up and put them in the back. We'll give them to Professor Ivey for her greenhouses."

He looked up at June through the swarm of butterflies and swooping nets. The afternoon light slanting in from a corner window lit her burnished, blonde hair. She hugged the doorway, keeping clear of the laughing students and their nets. Once the insects were safely rounded up, the students snatched up their books and hurried out of the classroom.

"Hello, Metis," June said, stepping away from the door to allow the students to exit.

"Oh, hello again," Metis said politely as she passed.

"Who is she?" one of Metis' companions whispered a bit too loudly, grabbing Metis' arm. "How do you know her?"

The cluster of girls clogged the doorway, holding up the other students, watching with stifled giggles and whispers behind cupped hands as June greeted Albus with a sisterly kiss on his cheek. Metis finally pried her entourage away from the classroom and the question of their professor's mysterious, blonde visitor. The other students exited as well, casting more than a few backward glances.

"I seem to have caused quite a stir," June said conspiratorially. "Likely your students never imagined you were such a deft hand with the ladies."

Albus watched the retreating students' interest, knowing that by the time dinner was over half the school would know about 'Professor Dumbledore's girlfriend.' "I suppose I could do worse," he said, uncharacteristically. "I mean, you are rather dishy, as my students would say."

June rolled her eyes. "Next you'll be calling me a 'tomato.' Isn't that what the Yanks call their girls?"

"Yes, something like that." Albus nodded gravely. "But would you really like me to nickname you after a fruit? It is red, I suppose."

"Perfect for St. Valentine's," she agreed. "But I'd much prefer something more romantic. Like a beet." She considered for a moment. "Oh, hell. They're purple, aren't they?"

"Reddish-purple, and not fruit, either. I think we could pull it off, though. I could call you 'my little sugar-beet.'"

"Good lord, Albus. More of this and I'll feel compelled to flutter my eyelashes at you, and we both know what will happen then."

"No, really? What?" he said, gamely taking the bait.

"Why, you'll fall in love with me, of course. And there'll be nothing for it but to have a passle of obnoxious, red-haired children with a penchant for sherbet lemon and the ability to lie without remorse."

"I'm not sure which is worse, your social Darwinism or my hair."

"Don't forget the sweet-tooth. They'll be terribly fat, as well."

Albus smiled, feeling more relaxed than he had in days. "Well, better safe than sorry then."

"Quite," June smiled, leaning against a desk.

"To business. My office?" He indicated the way with an outstretched arm.

He offered her a chair in his cozy office, where a fire was roaring even though the weather remained quite warm for September.

"There's not much here, I'm afraid," June said, opening the files carefully. "If there's any real record of the investigation, it's likely with the Department of Mysteries."

Albus sat across from her as she began to read aloud.

"The victims, it seems, were Scoresby, his three English companions, and a score of local men -- good lord, I didn't realize there'd been so many. No wonder people were up in arms."

Albus shook his head. "Likely people were more upset by the four Englishmen than the twenty Albanians."

"The bodies were found… My god…" A picture fluttered out of the file, drifting to rest on his desk. June paled. "My god. Who could do something like that?"

Albus deftly picked up the fallen photo. "This is how they were found?"

"I assume so," said June, swallowing quickly. "It's the only photo of the scene at any rate."

Albus tapped a quill against the desk as he thought. "I've seen this before, June. It's a warning. I wonder that no one at the Ministry saw it for what it was."

"What do you mean? A warning?"

"Well, for one thing, Scoresby and his companions weren't killed where they were discovered. The murders happened elsewhere, and then they were moved. Yes, that makes sense…" He smoothed out the picture in front of them. "See here?" He indicated with one long finger. "The way the bodies are displayed in the field…the symbols written in the grass…" He looked up at June. "Does it say in the report whether those symbols were written in human blood?"

June flipped through a few crisp pieces of parchment. "No… no. I don't see anything about it here."

"Hmm. Someone has to know," he said, half to himself.

"You said you'd seen this before. Where on earth, Albus?"

Albus snatched up Ravenclaw's book from a table near his desk. "In here, for one."

He thumbed to a marked page, and ran his finger along the bottom of a crude illustration. "Slytherin."

"But, Albus!" June exclaimed, surprise coloring her features. "Salazar Slytherin wasn't a dark wizard. I mean, he may have been a tad over-ambitious. And, from all reports, his people skills could have used some attention… but evil? I hardly think so. Ask any wizard historian. They'll tell you the same."

"Perhaps. But Salazar Slytherin has been a source of controversy in the magical community for a century or two now. And, according to this book, Ravenclaw certainly seemed to have her doubts about him." He tugged the book closer to them. "All of the information we have about the Founders comes from before Slytherin left the school. We know he and Gryffindor were at odds and Slytherin left, but then what? A hundred years of silence."

June nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"I think that's what Scoresby was after in Albania. A text that would not only corroborate what we have here, but one that would fill in that gap and explain some of the seeming inconsistencies in Ravenclaw's writings. And then he's found murdered, in such a manner. This can't be a coincidence."

"You've lost me again. You say that these symbols," she tapped the picture, "were used by Salazar Slytherin? Over a thousand years ago?"

"Well, that's what some historians believe, at any rate. Most of your more traditional historians dismiss it as hearsay. If it were true a lot of the foundations of wizard society would be sorely shaken. But there are some new schools of thought, people who aren't afraid to explore those possibilities. There were, admittedly, a lot of groups claiming ties to one or other of the Founders in the years directly afterward. It's all apocrypha, and none of it can be truly substantiated." He paused. "According to several legends, the followers of Salazar Slytherin formed a cult after his death. They practiced rites very much like the ones that seem to have been performed on Scoresby and the others. I can't say for sure, I'd need more details."

"To what end?"

"Dreams, June. Dreams that foretell the future. Supposedly, Slytherin was intrigued by Ravenclaw's abilities. After he split with the other three, it's believed by some that he found ways to induce the same sort of dream state artificially. Unfortunately, the toll on the body and mind is very high. It's among the darkest kind of magic, bloody and vicious."

"But who? Surely people aren't practicing this sort of magic now."

He smiled wryly. "I think you'll find people are. But who did this… I'm not sure. But I think it's very important I find out."

***

"Well, this brings back a memory or two," June smiled, closing her eyes and tipping her face up to the ceiling of the Great Hall, painted in the reds and oranges of the last rays of the sun. "This place feels so young, there's electricity in the air. It's like I'm young again."

"June, we're hardly old ourselves." Albus smiled, but looked as though he'd rather still be upstairs poring over old books and Ministry parchments. June had nicely but firmly insisted that they come down for dinner. She'd been on the verge of feigning a hunger-induced fainting spell when he'd finally been convinced.

"Yes, but we're not young like that." She gestured at a table of laughing students as they passed. "It makes me feel a bit wistful."

"Regretting your misspent youth already?" he said, with a sidelong glance at her.

"Oh, make fun of me, will you?" She smiled, but the longing feeling remained. She swept her glance around the Hall again as they reached the staff table. Most of the other staff members were already seated at the high table, but Headmaster Dippet conjured an extra chair for June and gestured her to sit.

"Albus, you didn't tell us you were expecting guests," Dippet smiled. "Hello, June."

"Professor."

"Well, sir, I didn't realize it myself," Albus said graciously, taking a seat himself. "Just lucky, I guess."

"Flatterer," June muttered under her breath, sipping the elderflower wine Albus graciously poured her, then turning to engage the professors in polite conversation. They seemed delighted to have a new person among them.

I wonder it doesn't get dull, the same faces all the time. June glanced surreptitiously at Albus. He was younger than most of the other teachers. How did he get on here? It would have driven June mad. All these old bachelors and formidable spinsters. It seemed that to teach the young, one sacrificed a life outside of that. Still, Albus seemed happy, if perhaps a little lonely. Besides, she told herself, it's not as if he's going to stay here forever and wind up like old Dippet. Albus will find some smart, outlandish girl who will make his mother chuckle and his aunts faint, and give me a score of incorrigible godchildren.

Just then, the clipped voice of a radio news announcer intruded upon her thoughts, "On the Eastern Front, Soviet troops liberated the Russian city of Smolensk today after several days of heavy fighting…"

Startled, June looked around for the source of the voice.

"That's new," she observed, gesturing toward a sturdy-looking, second-hand, Muggle radio at the far end of the Hall. A group of teenagers were already huddled around it, their heads inclined unconsciously toward the sound.

"We got it so the Muggle-born students would have a way of hearing news of the war."

"We, Albus?" June severely doubted Armando Dippet had gone out of his way to commandeer a radio or take the time to fit it to work without electricity.

Albus looked sheepish. "All right. Me." He ducked his head. "So what? Someone else would have if I hadn't."

"No, they wouldn't have." June tilted her head to one side and smiled at him. "I know I've said it before, but you are too good." She looked back at the radio and shook her head. "I can't believe they let that go on during dinner, though. In our day, the teachers would have put a stop to that sort of unseemliness."

"It was a bit of a battle to get some of the other professors to come around," he said quietly. "But in the end we compromised -- the radio only gets played during dinner on Fridays."

Albus' plate had disappeared, and he was dawdling over the remnants of his wine, watching her with a kind of indecision in his face. June ignored it; it was probably just his pining for his books and papers again. Well, she wasn't going to stand for that. Scoresby, Slytherin and whomever else could wait.

"Are you quite finished?" She folded her napkin, and looked up with a wicked smile. "It's been so long since I was last up here. There's someplace I want to go. I think I'd like to recapture some of that misspent youth."

***

The low, sweet rhythm of the radio played a backbeat to the rumble of conversation in the Great Hall. Several of the teachers looked impossibly scandalized at the impropriety of it. At the high table, they pursed their lips as if to say, 'At least it's only once a week.'

Metis found she rather liked the company of the radio, with its soft music and soothing voices. It provided a welcome relief from the prattling conversation around her. She looked down the length of the Ravenclaw table. Funny, how she hardly knew these people. She lived with them, studied with them, played with them, and yet… Across from her and on her left, three other girls chatted easily. Metis feigned interest but her thoughts remained very far away. Anyone who knew Metis would have said that these girls were her closest friends, and after a manner it was true. The four of them were in the same house, the same year. They chatted about boys and dresses and what they would do once they left school. But they were passing friends; Metis had never developed any truly close attachments beyond Tom. Hearing her own name, Metis focused on the conversation.

Ruth Middleton picked disinterestedly at the remnants of her dinner. "And, of course, Tom and Metis. You mustn't forget our very own Hogwarts princess and handsome prince."

"What?" Metis asked.

"You are too melodramatic, Ruth!" said Orva Dashwood, a nervous, baby-faced blonde.

"You're a million miles away tonight, Metis," the other girl said, flipping her straight, brown hair over one shoulder.

"I'm sorry. What was that about Tom?"

"We were just planning a little holiday celebration. New Year's Eve, of course. You must say you'll come. I want to show the both of you off. Tom's our very own Prince Charming. The debs will eat him up with whipped cream and sugared violets."

"This prince? Does he ride in on a white charger, as well?" Cara Flaherty said archly.

"Oh, that's perfectly obscene. The things you say…"

"For once, Orva, I didn't intend a double meaning in that." Cara raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and here's His Highness now…" she trailed off.

Metis looked up to see Tom loping easily across the Hall toward her. He watched her intently as he walked, not seeming to see anyone else in the crowded room. The background faded away as he approached, like tunnel vision. Metis' whole world narrowed to him, and him alone.

"Metis?" Someone was shaking her shoulder.

"Honestly. See if I'm ever that stupid about some boy…"

"He is divine, though."

"Hush! That's her beau."

"Her what? Besides, she's not listening. Are you, Metis?"

Metis started, knocking over her goblet. "What? Oh, I'm sorry." She scrubbed uselessly at the stained tablecloth with her napkin, managing only to make the stain worse.

"Don't do that," a soft voice said at her ear. A strong, slender hand covered hers and the sopping napkin was plucked from her fingers.
She looked down at her hands, sticky with juice. Tom slid his fingers in between hers, linking their hands together, staining his own knuckles. He knelt on the stone floor beside her chair, his hands still tangled in hers. Time halted and they just sat there, neither speaking. His eyes were very close, and Metis felt no power on earth could ever make her look away from them. Was this how the prey felt when faced with the cobra, the snake king? Would she stay hypnotized like this until he struck? She imagined briefly how it must feel. The sharp, sweet, burning pain of his bite. The two locked in an unequal embrace, fangs sunk deep inside flesh. Dark poison flaring like fire in the blood, and then the mellow, drowsing fall into darkness.

He moved toward her abruptly, and she bit back a gasp. The strike, she thought.

He kissed her softly on her mouth. The bite.

She kissed him back. And now the poison. But what happens when the prey, the tiny, trembling bird, begins to like the venom? To seek out the serpent and dare him into biting?

He released her, standing up and motioning her to follow him. "Come on. We haven't much time. I'm expected somewhere tonight."

Metis rose and followed him, slipping silently, thoughtlessly, into step next to him without a word to her friends.

"Metis? Be sure to ask him about the holiday-" Ruth called after them. "Oh, hell. No use now, the world could end and they'd never notice."

Cara rolled her eyes as the couple moved out of earshot. "Everyone makes such a fuss over those two."

"Well, just look at them," Ruth said matter-of-factly. "There's not a girl at this school who doesn't wish, down in some dark, secret part of her soul, that she were Metis McGonagall."

"He's so handsome and so… so very." Orva leaned her elbows against the table. "And she's pretty and smart. What more do you need?"

"Don't misunderstand," Cara said carefully. "You know I like Metis. She's very sweet. But there's something so melodramatic about Tom Riddle. It gives me a headache."

"Are you sure you aren't just a tad jealous?" Ruth challenged, but without rancor.

"Come now." Cara slung a languid arm across Metis' abandoned chair. "I shouldn't ever want to be that owned by someone."

Orva flushed. "Oh, but it looks so luscious, to be so in love like that."

"You are hopeless. Things like that are never what they seem."

***

Outside the Great Hall, June swept up the main staircase, Albus tagging bewilderedly behind her. She led him up two more flights of stairs and through a corridor lined with portraits of the four Founders. There were many pictures of each, painted years after the Founders' deaths and differing wildly from one another in interpretation. They passed between a picture of Helga Hufflepuff depicted as a voluptuous, Titian-haired Venus and another of her as a slim, Victorian blonde, then into a side corridor. Albus followed at June's heels, nearly overtaking her with his long strides. She stopped in front of a large, old painting in a gilt frame. She turned and smiled triumphantly at him, then slid her wand from her long sleeve and tapped it against an oil-painting of Zhar-Ptitsa, the fiery bird of Russian legend, stealing golden apples from a lush, green garden.

"Paliuli," she whispered softly.

The portrait swung silently inward, revealing a hidden indoor garden. June pulled Albus silently inside and shut the door. The scent of ginger was on the air, and they strolled beneath silver trees. June reached up and caught a fan-shaped leaf as it drifted on the air, its tiny veins visible through translucent skin. The garden, perpetually the quiet, dark blue of summer twilight, seemed almost oppressively hushed after the noise of the Hall.

"Remember this place?"

Albus looked around. Magical paper lanterns hovered along the tracks of a stone path that wound through the trees into a tranquil rock garden. Glowing fireflies hovered just out of reach above a small pond.

"Yes. I used to come here to think. I haven't been here in years, though."

A thought seemed suddenly to occur to him. "How did you know about this? Only prefects were supposed to know how to get in h-"

June smirked. "Really, Albus. Do you think there weren't more than a few prefects ready and willing to show me this place?"

"They invited you up here to show you the aquariums, is that it?"

"The fish tanks, the etchings, the submarine races. Take your pick. Boys aren't very inventive."

"And how often did you accept?"

She smiled. Albus the protector, everybody's big brother. "Don't worry yourself about that. It was ages ago, anyway."

She started down the path, Albus at her heels again. He caught up to her as she prepared to cross a stone bridge over the pond.
"Shall we?" He offered her his arm, and they strolled onto the bridge.

About halfway across, June released his arm and leaned against the wide railing, looking down into the clear pool. Carp moved through the still water, pink waterlilies floating above them. She had a sudden urge to trail her fingers through the water, to lay on the bank and be lulled to sleep by the cicadas. She turned back to face Albus, closing her eyes and leaning back.

"Oh, it's so lovely in here. I'd forgotten." After a moment, she felt his gaze lingering on her, and opened her eyes.

"All better now?" he asked, with a half-smile. "Feeling more in tune with your lost youth?"

"Now don't make fun of me," she said, closing her eyes again. "Perhaps you feel perpetually sixteen surrounded by all these children, but I've begun to feel my age and it's dreadful."

"Ah, yes. All of twenty-five -- you're an absolute crone. And there's nothing for it like visiting a spot where clumsy, sweaty-palmed teenage boys tried to-"

"Finish that sentence, Albus, and I swear I shall tell the Daily Prophet about Aberforth's mania for goats." She glared at him, half-heartedly. He stood across from her, looking amused, the fireflies lighting his face in the twilight.

He shrugged, scattering the fireflies. "I was only trying to point out that those were probably not the high points of adolescence to try and recapture."

"And what was? Nearly drowning with you?"

"Now that's not at all fair. And, besides, I'm not the one who was nearly drowned. Although," he said with a wicked gleam in his eye, "if you're really desperate to relive the past, we've got this pond. It's not very deep, but we could pretend it's Southend and I'll dunk you under a few times. What do you say, June?"

"I'm serious, Albus…"

"Or," he said, an odd expression suddenly altering his face, "you could imagine I was one of your prefects. You never came here with me, after all."

June looked up abruptly, surprised. There was something in his tone, beneath the words, that wasn't at all amused. She tensed involuntarily as he stepped close to her, placing his hand over hers. He took a breath, as if deciding whether to speak. "See here, June… I've been doing a lot of thinking lately," he said softly. His expression went very earnest, all joking put aside.

"Thinking? About what?" she asked, somehow afraid she already knew.

"Well, about us as a matter of fact… That sounded terribly cliché, didn't it?"

"Did it?" She fought the urge to take a step back, out of his personal space.

He hesitated a moment. "It's just that, I've been thinking about us for a long while actually. About whether we could…" Catching sight of the look on her face, he added hurriedly, "Look, if I'm wrong about this, tell me. But just promise me you'll give it some thought. It does make sense, you and I."

She looked up at him -- so unsure and expectant. For a half-second he was the gangly, uncertain child she had grown up loving. Loving, yes. But in love? Something squelched in her chest and she fought the sudden urge to flee. Instead, she just looked up at him saying nothing. He watched her in return, as though unsure of what her silence meant. He had to bend his head to look her in the eye; it was easy to forget how much taller he was until she was up close like this.

Suddenly bold, he leaned in to kiss her, but she stopped him with a firm hand. "Albus, don't."

He stepped back, studying her again. He sighed, looking resigned, disappointment in his eyes. "I'm sorry, June. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

"Maybe not." She avoided looking at him. "We should go."

She walked toward the entrance without looking back, very aware of his presence behind her the whole way.

***

"Get out."

Tom flung open the door to the Slytherin sixth-year boys' dormitory. "Get out," he repeated, gesturing toward the common room.

His dorm-mates complied, but not without a sulky glare or two.

"You're angry," Metis said, her hand at his elbow.

"A bit." His face dark and closed, he pushed her through the doorway into the now-empty room. "But it will pass."

"Have I done something?" She allowed him to steer her toward the bed, the velvet hangings pushed to the side, the green duvet wrinkling beneath her weight.

"Oh, not you," he sighed heavily. "Sometimes the world seems so full I feel my head will split." He knelt penitently on the floor before her and laid his head in her lap. She stroked a soft, cautious hand through his dark hair, massaging his temple, blood pounding hot and insistent against her fingers just beneath his pale skin.

"Then forget the world," she said quietly. "For the moment at least, there is only us."

He sat up, looking curiously into her face, studying her. "You're dangerous," he said at last. "Sometimes when you say those things I want to believe them. I want to forget everything and just be with you. But," he laughed wryly, "you wouldn't love me if I simply was. Whether you know it or not, you love the part of me that seeks, that yearns and strives. The part of me that craves power, the part that will never be satisfied. Now what, lover, does that say about us?"

"I don't care. It wouldn't change anything if I did." She leaned down and caught his face in her hands. "Call me that again."

"What?" he asked, but she could see in his eyes that he knew very well. He just wanted to hear her ask.

"Lover. Call me your lover." As she spoke, a strange, hungry light flickered in his dark eyes. "Name me 'lover,'" she continued, "and I won't need my other name. Who would call it? Not you, and so I wouldn't answer."

"Pretty words, Metis." He sat up on his knees, resting his elbows on her thighs, his hands at her waist. "Very pretty." He angled up to kiss her mouth, but stopped short. "Now say 'please.'"

They had played this game before, and Metis knew where it would lead. "Please, Tom."

"Hmm. That's nice." He kissed her sweetly, his hands skimming the hem of her crisp, wool skirt.

"Do you love me?" he whispered.

"Always."

"What would you do for me?"

"Anything."

"Prove it…"

***

Metis woke suddenly, wondering what time it was. She rolled over to look for the tiny gold, wind-up clock Tom habitually kept beside his bed. She found it, realized it wasn't nearly so late as she'd thought, and settled back against the cool sheets. Tom lay on his belly, unconsciously embracing a pillow in his long arms. His dark hair curled damply against his temples. He looked much as he must have as a very small boy, drowsy and gawky, sweetly oblivious in slumber.

"Tom?" She rested her head against the curve of his back, feeling the movement of his shoulder blades beneath his skin, still slightly damp with sweat.

"Yes?" he mumbled drowsily.

"Can't I go with you tonight?"

"No."

He rolled over toward the far side of the bed, away from her touch. Metis sat up and turned her eyes on him. "You don't want me there? Or perhaps you simply don't trust me?"

"I trust you."

"But not with this."

"The time will come, Metis, when you will know everything about me, when we won't be able to tell anymore where you end and I begin. Can't you feel that? I can. We're almost there." He placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. "Feel that." He placed his own hand on her breastbone. "They beat in time with one another, Metis. Nothing will ever change that."

He slid his hand up to her neck, caressing the hollow of her throat with his thumb. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

"You must trust me right now. You first have to trust to earn mine."

"But-"

"Don't, Metis. Don't force this."

She opened her eyes. A shadow had fallen across his face. He watched her warily, his long-fingered hand still around her neck. She was, she realized, completely in his power. All he would have to do was tighten his grip, squeeze the breath out of her. She knew she wouldn't fight him. He leaned in and she could feel his fingers tense.

Make up your mind, lover. I won't wait forever.

The moment passed, and his fingers slipped from her skin reluctantly. "Get dressed. I've got to go soon."

***

In a dark forest far to the cold North, a hunted man had at last escaped his pursuers. He hadn't slept or eaten in days. He was dirty, cold and hollow, thoroughly desolated by the things he had been witness to. And when he finally allowed himself to stop and rest, hiding like a burrowing creature in a dark cave filled with dry, dead leaves, an owl swooped out of the sky and delivered his newspaper.

He laughed aloud at the irony of it.

Some things in life remained constant whatever else happened. It was this knowledge, beacons of normalcy in a world gone suddenly insane, that kept him from madness. He crumpled the edge of the paper with a dirty hand, scanning the headlines for news of home.

"Spokespeople for Minister Bulfinch maintained that the Ministry has 'its top men' attending to the situation," the lead story proclaimed with the disbelieving, insinuating air that journalists perfected over time.

Hart Bronski laughed grimly. He was one of those top men. They'd attended to the situation, all right. He thought of the final, frantic report he'd sent to his superiors seventy-two hours before, "Found source. Team dead. Only survivor. Awaiting instructions."

When the reply had come, finding him thrashing through the underbrush of this godforsaken forest, it was not from the higher-ups but from Seward himself, "Hart- Get the hell out of there. Now. Don't wait for orders. You're expendable."

And he'd run.

He'd run until he'd convinced himself that no one, friend or foe, was on his tail. He'd run until he found himself here, seemingly safe for the moment. At last he could regroup, decide what was to be done. He carried with him information that could spark the tinderbox of the wizarding world. He would, he realized, have to decide where his loyalties lay, not that he had much faith in either option. But there was time enough for that. First, he needed sleep. Only his jangled nerves wouldn't comply. Instead he sat up, flipping mindlessly through the paper, trying not to think, until his body reached its limit. It took hours, until at last his wired senses began to dull. But when he finally attempted sleep, he realized what a horrifically bad idea it was.

He'd barely drifted when the images he'd been holding back for days had come to him with an almost physical violence, an onslaught of sights, sounds and smells crashing into him like blunt force.

Blood, stone and burning sugar. The rattle of polished bones and the syrupy scent of white-crossed poppies. A hundred chanting voices mingled with cries of pain.

Shit. Shit. They knew we were coming.

Blood, slick and steaming, all over the gunmetal grey stones. Sticky hands, tracing runes in the crimson pool, like finger-painting children.

What do you see there? In my blood?

Sweet cinnamon, cloves and something else, something heady and dark, like burial spice.

We're never going to make it out of here.

The tall, hooded man with his hands on Brona's belly.

We can see it in you. Don't be frightened of what's to come. Won't you help us?

If she'd been scared, she didn't let them see. The knife was silver, like a sickle. Like a reaper's scythe.

The time is near, is it not?

A wide-eyed waif pale in the dark, an apparition in her white robes, sat at his shackled feet chewing oakapples and seeing impossible visions.

Do you dream? What does the future tell you? Does it say to you that you will live through this? That's what the dreams have told me.

The feel of her small, cold hand in his. Then stumbling into the light, oppressive after so long in the dark, in the dank, dripping catacombs.

Roll away the stone. I'm alive. Or am I?

Jolting awake, Bronski lit his wand and flung on his cloak. He wasn't safe. He couldn't stop, not even for a moment. He picked up his battered pack, stepped out into the night and began to run again.

***

June sat at her desk, shredding a stray piece of parchment into tiny squares. All around her, the business of the Ministry ticked by like some ponderous machine. None of the cogs ever truly aware what the other pieces were doing, or even where the mechanism was headed. She swept the shredded pieces into the rubbish bin beside her desk, and distractedly began to sort the papers on her desk into neat stacks. She ought to have been glad to be back, safely back in London and away from Albus and Hogwarts. On Saturday, after their ill-fated conversation in the garden, she'd lolled around in shops all day, while Albus locked himself away in the library. Killing time. Restless, with some indefinable itch. She bought a dozen enchanted miniatures on a whim, then returned them immediately. When she'd met Albus for dinner at the pub, she showed him the one surviving purchase of her distracted day: a hand-carved wizard chess set. Albus suggested an after-dinner match, and smiled far too broadly. As if to say, 'See, everything's perfectly normal.' Only it wasn't.

She fled back to London the next day, and bullied Hayden into taking her out for an outrageously expensive dinner. He'd taken great pleasure in getting her soused and spinning her around the dance floor. Rather than making her forget, or feel better, it just earned her a wicked hangover. How stupid she'd been. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. When she opened them again, she was looking into the affable face of Milton Bulfinch.

"Sir!" She started. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Obviously," the Minister of Magic replied gently. "June, are you all right?"

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"Good, because I can't have my star player on the sidelines, can I?" He sat casually on the edge of her desk. "See here, June, I know things are a bit sticky right now. We all feel it."

He patted her shoulder in an uncharacteristically paternal gesture. "Don't let this get to you. We'll pull through all this unpleasantness all right. You just keep making sure the people's morale stays up, and don't fret yourself."

June gaped at him. "Sir, I don't really-"

"June," he smiled, "take an early lunch. And don't come back if you don't feel like it. You deserve an afternoon off."

"But, sir!"

"I mean it, Lisbon," he warned, smiling. He got up and headed for the door. "You'd better not be here when I get back."

Dazed, June looked around for a minute. Then grabbed her bag and left.

The restaurant she sought refuge in was aggressively art deco, glass and light, in varying shades of pink and gold. It was one of those upper-crusty, martini lunch places filled with tinkling chandeliers, tinkling glasses and tinkling piano music. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the square, the Ministry building dominating the skyline with dark, Gothic stone.

June waved off the hostess and headed straight for the bar. Long and curving, the bar itself took up the whole center of the restaurant, with tables radiating out from it in concentric circles to the dizzying windows at the edge. Most of the tables were empty. The only ones currently occupied were the farthest from the bar, nestled right up against the glass, affording the diners a spectacular view. June ignored them, threading her way to the nearest barstool.

She had thought she knew Albus better than she knew herself. They'd practically been in the cradle together. Their mothers had plunked them onto the same baby blanket on summer afternoons by the river. They'd taken baths together for heaven's sake. She should have seen it long before this. June sat down hard on a salmon plush barstool. A bartender scurried immediately over, likely sensing a life story and a large tip by the look on her face.

"What can I get you, miss?"

"A Manhattan." June fumbled in her bag to no avail. She looked up. "And a pack of smokes."

The bartender pushed a slender, rectangular box across the polished surface of the bar. June deftly extracted a cigarette and the bartender offered her a light.

'Thanks," she said, inhaling and leaning her forehead against the back of her hand.

The bartender fiddled with bottles, shaker and cracked ice behind the bar. Then slid an Old-fashioned glass carelessly toward her, plunked two cherries into the bourbon, vermouth and bitters and slapped down an engraved cocktail napkin. June slugged back the drink a bit more enthusiastically than even she'd intended. The liquor burned pleasantly in her empty stomach.

"Whoa, there," the bartender said. "It's not even noon."

She impaled the hapless man with a look.

He held up his hands in truce. "Hey, just looking out for you. Don't want you soused before lunch time, reflects badly on me in any case."
June smoked on in silence.

The bartender tried another tack. "So now, tell me." He smiled winningly, his teeth very white against his tanned skin. "What's got a pretty girl like you all upset anyway? Your old man? If I've heard one story, I've heard them all-"

"See here," June said firmly. "I'm not going to be one of those pathetic souls who ends up spilling the tawdry details of their life to some anonymous berk with a bowtie and muddler." She paused. "No offense intended, of course."

The bartender just smiled. "Miss, if I didn't have a thick skin, I'd have been out of this place years ago." He flipped a bottle of vodka out of its cradle and began to pour. "Besides, I haven't got a muddler -- it cracked yesterday. Split right in two, can you imagine? I have got a jigger, though."

"Lucky thing. How ever would you, er, jig? Though I don't suppose you can very well muddle anything."

"Not a thing. Though some things don't need much more muddling, if you take my meaning, miss." The bartender started mixing her another Manhattan before she even thought to ask.

"Yes, and it was ever so subtle." She stamped out her cigarette, staring distractedly out the window.

"Miss?"

She turned back to the bar. The bartender served up her second drink, deftly removing her empty glass.

"Now, miss," the bartender began again, "I understand your wanting to keep your own counsel, but you're obviously in a bad way. Perhaps if I guessed what the matter was?"

"Knock yourself out." June lit a second cigarette to keep the second drink company. "Do they intend for that piano music to drive people mad?"

"I don't even hear it anymore, miss." He leaned against the bar, all toothy smile and slicked back, wavy hair. "Now, let's see. Boyfriend, I'll wager." He tapped a swizzle stick thoughtfully against an empty glass.

June sipped her drink and said nothing.

"Hmmm. You're a tough one." He cocked his head to one side, considering. "Does he love you too much or not enough? Both can be a bad show."

June raised an eyebrow at him and turned to stare out the window again. What was really bothering her, once she admitted it to herself, was that she had encouraged this. Was this some self-destructive bent of hers? Seduce him, draw him in. Never let any one else have him even if you don't want him… The idea that she could be so manipulative, so sordid, repulsed her. But she'd known her power over Albus since they were children, hadn't she? She'd cultivated him, made him, kept him in reserve. All the while knowing she could never- Could she? She'd kept him at a distance for so long. Distance. Maybe that was what she needed. Some breathing space, some time to digest this. Better not to do anything hasty. Her friendship with Albus was one of the few constants in her life. She hadn't appreciated before how much it meant to her. Now, faced with the prospect of losing it, she realized the idea terrified her.

She turned back to the bar. "Tell me," she said, slowly, "are you married?"

The bartender grinned. "'Fraid not. It's the right lady or no lady for me."

"And she hasn't come around yet, is that it?"

"As a matter of fact, she has. But she's having none of it at the moment," he said, his cheeriness faltering for a second.

June ground her cigarette into the rose quartz ashtray. "So tell me, which would hurt you less: a clean, immediate decision, even if it wasn't the answer you wanted, or some cautious time spent considering the matter, even though that would leave the pair of you in limbo for an uncomfortably long while?"

"I think that depends on the man, miss. Ask yourself first what he would want. Then, more importantly, figure out what you want." So saying, he tossed her a grin and a casual salute, and loped off to serve a new arrival at the bar.

June, deciding to take the rest of the afternoon off, paid her tab and stood up. She started toward the exit, then stopped, considering. After a moment, she went back and left the bartender a very large tip.

***

Tom sat with his back against the standing stones, his long legs folded into a meditative position, on the cold ground. The wide, gently rolling plain was lit by an autumn moon making it nearly as light as day. He pondered as he sat, his mind beautifully, incredibly clear. The stone circle where he waited had once been used for powerful and ancient magic. Soon it would be again. He indulged in a smile at the thought. A cool breeze stirred the grasses on the surrounding hills, swaying them gently. He could hear everything, from the tiniest animal sound to the death rattle of dry leaves falling to the ground. He could sense the turning of the earth, and the harmonies of the stars and planets. If he listened closely enough, the earth would whisper tales of the past and foretell shadows of the future.

Tom remained perfectly still. He could be incredibly patient. He'd had to be, had to be in order to survive -- and survive he had. Soon the day was coming when he would never have to bow to the world's wishes again. The whole of creation would bow to him. It was written, it was unalterable. It made him serene with the knowledge of his own power. He had not always possessed this knowledge. He shuddered to think of the times before. So often he'd despaired, a powerless child without friends, or parents, or protectors. Once he'd been told what he was, he'd vowed from then on to protect himself. He needed no one to do it for him anymore. Not only did he have his magic, he had power. Unimaginable power, so much so that his teachers hadn't known quite what to do with him. And then the dreams had started. The dreams guided him, showed him his forgotten past, his future destiny. It was more than he could ever have hoped.

Had he doubted at all, the last year had been enough to forever quell those doubts. He accomplished the impossible, and proved himself worthy of his birthright. The Chamber had been, however briefly, his, and the creature obeyed his every command. Never before had he felt such exhilaration, such freedom. He never even stopped to consider whether he should follow this path. It simply was his, without question. What else was to be done with this power of his? What did others matter when faced with the movements of fate? He did not kill for love of killing; the people who had died had unfortunately been required to. They had been sacrificed to a higher purpose and that was fitting. He had not been afraid to kill, and he felt no remorse, simply a calm justification. He'd done what was needed. It was who he was and he did not question it.

He felt magic in the air then, crackling like static electricity, and opened his eyes in time to see three figures Apparate in. Tom remained sitting, savoring the aftertaste of the magic; it tingled on his skin, pleasure/pain skittering up his nerves. The remnants of it on the air tasted addictive, bitter, like black coffee and cigarettes.

"My lord?" the first boy said as they approached.

"Hullo, my friends," Tom replied, still not moving. "You're late."

"I apologize," the same boy said. "We were very nearly caught."

"Well, then." Tom slowly unfolded his long limbs. "I suppose we'd best start."

The others nodded enthusiastically and followed him further into the center of the stone circle. They were too eager. Often Tom thought that to them this was simply a lark. If they'd not chosen to follow him they would have occupied their time with some other frivolity. But then, this was only the beginning.

"Don't you intend to wait for Denis?"

"He'll be here before we start," Tom said lazily.

"But how do you…"

With a soft pop a fifth person arrived in the circle.

"Hello, Tom," Denis Cathcart said. He nodded briefly to the others. Cathcart was older than the other boys, a tall, sandy-haired boy in his final year of school. Here was someone who understood Tom, who took what they were doing seriously. That made him an important ally. He was also much more powerful that the others. That made him dangerous.

"Ah, Tom," Denis observed, looking around as though confused. "Where's Metis? I thought she was to join us tonight."

"I told you she would come when the time was right," Tom said a bit coldly, wondering what game Denis was playing this time. "I don't recall saying when that would be."

"And yet you yourself have insisted that she's important. Have you told her nothing of our plans?"

Tom narrowed his eyes. He'd wrestled with this problem all summer. Metis would surely join him in anything if he asked, but he'd been reluctant to bring her here, reluctant to tell her everything. His feelings for her were an anomaly in his otherwise clear-cut life. Metis, brilliant herself, almost his equal in power, was the only girl he could ever truly be with. She was wholly his creature, a perfect companion made in his own image: driven, charming and magnetic. She understood him, filled in his empty spaces and complimented his own power. She was entirely his, and he would never love another.

She would do anything he asked of her. And yet…

"She's not ready yet," he said at last. "The time will come soon, but I will not rush it. She's too important." He gave Denis a look that said, inarguably, that the matter was closed.

"Shall we begin, then?" Denis carried with him a bulky parcel, which he placed next to the wide, stone table in the center of the clearing. It was a basket, crudely fashioned from rowan switches and lacquered with flammable pitch. Something whimpered and squealed pitifully inside, flashes of frightened eyes just visible between the wicker lattices. A simple silver cup sat on the table already, its contents the color of claret in the bright moonlight.

"Is this part of it really necessary?" asked one of the other boys, eyeing the basket warily.

"All appeals require an offering," Denis replied. "Perhaps, William, you'd rather we sacrificed you?"

"Oh, very funny," William said, irritably.

"I wasn't joking," the older boy replied coldly.

"Could you possibly be more trite?" Tom muttered impatiently. "Honestly, Denis, enough of your melodramatics. You don't want to scare them so they're useless." They fanned out to form a loose circle around the stone table, Tom at the head, in line with the principal stone. He flourished his wand, an arc of green sparks falling onto the ruined stone, settling in deep-grooved carvings and illuminating runes hidden to the average eye.

Denis placed the basket on the stone flat, stepped back and picked up the cup. "My lord," he said to Tom, handing him the cup. A note of defiance colored Denis' voice, gone as quickly as it had appeared. But Tom noticed.

Tom began to speak, mumbling an ancient incantation in a forgotten tongue, invoking the power of Taranis, the fire-elemental. The ancients believed him a god, but in truth he was simply an opportunistic magical creature that lent his power of fire in return for sacrifices. Once Tom learned to control him, he would be a powerful ally.

Tom looked up, the others speaking along with him, adding their focus to his own. He flung the contents of the silver cup onto the wicker basket and, extending his wand, cried out, "Incendio." An otherworldly shriek went up as the basket took flame, acrid, black smoke swirling up into the night air. If the ritual worked, Taranis would appear, conjured by their sacrifice. Tom's vision began to cloud, green shadows danced before his eyes, and he wondered if this was supposed to happen. Then, nothing.

Damn. It didn't work. Now we'll have to wait until…

But suddenly darkness dropped over his vision. He couldn't see. He stumbled, his center of balance abruptly gone, his arms outstretched to catch himself if he fell. His mouth tasted of copper. He had the sense of people around him, but couldn't see them. A murmuring of voices like night wind in the trees blew past him and he could feel the reassuring firmness of a floor beneath his feet. The air was cool and damp on his skin, incense or candles burning sweetly, warming the chilled air slightly.

Is this he, Master? Is this the boy?

An unseen hand passed over his face.

He's young to have such power.

Tom inhaled the heavy, perfumed air and choked. Stifling, searing heat filled his lungs. After a moment's panic, he felt drowsy, as if he could sleep here on his feet. Like drowning, he thought abstractly. Another voice snapped him awake again. An accented voice, an English voice, he realized. Then he knew, without knowing how he knew, that the others had been speaking another language. A language he understood, but not in the thoughtless way he heard snakes. This was something else entirely.

Let him go.

There was a shuffling of crisp material, like dead leaves.

But, Master, now we have him here…

There's nothing to be done with him now, like this. But at last we have a face. We will deal with him, correctly, in time…

Tom stumbled backward, reeling as though from a physical blow. He toppled to the ground, striking his head painfully on a sharp rock. He could breathe again. Rolling onto his back, he opened his eyes and found himself looking up into the familiar autumn sky.

"Tom? Are you all right?" The voices still seemed far away.

Lying there in the cool, green grass, sticky blood trickling from his temple, Tom swallowed a laugh. A wave of giddiness washed over him and he clutched at the sharp blades of grass to keep from being swept away by it. He closed his eyes again as his friends helped him from the ground. He barely noticed as they limped from the clearing and Apparated back to Hogsmeade. His head was full of swirling notions and half-formed ideas as they picked their quiet way up to the castle.

When they reached the entrance to their dungeon, Metis was waiting. She'd curled up beneath a blanket in the shadow of a large, black marble statue, motionless as a shadow herself. She stood as they approached. Denis caught her arm and led her into the common room, the others supporting Tom behind them. The room passed in a nauseating blur of green and silver as they hurried him into the dormitory.

Metis stood in the doorway, backlit from the outer room, Denis' hand still at her wrist. Even through the sick haze, Tom snarled at Denis to let go of her. Metis snatched her wrist out his grip, and came obediently to Tom.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, twining an arm around his waist and lowering him onto the bed. "Tom, you're hurt."

He laughed softly. "So I am."

She shut the hangings around them, dismissing the other boys. "Let me fix this." She reached for him.

"No." He caught her wrist, tugging her down to lie beside him. "The things I've dreamed tonight, Metis, you would not believe." He pulled her closer. "Such dreams," he said again, and fell headlong into sleep with his hands tangled in her dark hair.

***