Dreamwalk Blue

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER FOUR

Chapter Four: A conversation with a snake (it's not who you expect), wizard window shopping and Albus' very first serving of Phoenix Flambé.

CHAPTER FOUR -- CRYING IN THE WILDERNESS

Behold, I send My messenger
And he will prepare the way before Me
For behold, the day is coming,
Burning like a oven
And the day which is coming
Shall burn them up,
That will leave them neither root nor branch
Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet
Before the coming of the great and dreadful day

(malachi 3:1,2; 4:1,5 from the new king james version)

I know… I'm dreaming.

Something was screaming in the desert, something desolate and violated in the blasted wastes. Something cowering in the rolling heat, crashed upon by glassy waves, like the blast from a furnace.

I am dreaming… Aren't I?

The sun burnt the sand. A fig tree withered, drying up and blowing away, its shadow dying a half-breath before it. Metis tried to breathe, but the air seared her lungs. The sand burned the soles of her feet, and black scorpions with jeweled, faceted hides chittered and scuttled around her ankles. A bird soared through the cloudless sky overhead, and Metis followed it. The bird, a mourning dove, led her to a stand of trees, where a swarm of insects hovered like a dust cloud.

There a wild-eyed man crouched by the bank of an anemic river, scorpions at his feet, locusts in his hair. "Think you that I shall be vanquished by a mere child?" he cried aloud. "It is written. But many things are written that are not so."

The madman raved on as Metis watched. His bloodshot eyes popped, rolling like a frightened horse's. He dragged a distracted hand through his unkempt hair and matted beard and said, "It will not come to pass. I won't let it," he said, then laughed aloud. "Fate may think it has me in its clutches, but I know better. I see all that is to come and have prepared myself."

"Girl." He reached out a hand to Metis, seeing her for the first time. "I know what you are. Take my hand and I will baptize you with blood."
Metis shrank back from him. What was this? Images swirled before her as if she stood in the midst of a sandstorm. Locusts and honey, a sticky, drizzling droning in the sandy desert. Paving the way? For what? For whom? She fought the urge to flee.

When her vision cleared again, the man stood in the midst of the insect swarm, batting ineffectually at the stinging creatures. Bees, Metis realized. Her stomach turned over. An animal shriek of pain split the air, immediately swallowed by the oppressive hush of the arid desert. She turned away, stumbled over her own feet in her sickened haste. The sand burned her palms as she caught herself, feeling as though the shifting sand would suck her under, swallow her whole.

I don't want to see these things anymore. I don't know what they mean and I don't want to… Tom? Wake me up! Tom!

She scrambled to her feet again and found herself face to face with a slender, jade green serpent. It coiled around the branch of one bowed, unhealthy tree, regarding her curiously, its tongue flicking to and fro, something familiar in the knowing expression on its face, as though it could see through her, into her, beyond her.

The snake broke her gaze and dropped carelessly, gracefully to the ground. It made its belly-crawling way over to the river at double-time. The snake curled its lithe body around the fallen man, who was helpless and bloated with a thousand bee stings. The snake swayed its diamond-shaped head prettily, as though delicately making up its mind. Then, as she watched, it distended its vicious jaws, the inside of its milky mouth glistening in the sun, and swallowed the man whole.

Sated and basking, the snake turned its limpid eyes on Metis. "There you are, my love," it hissed. "How long have you been watching me?"

"All my life," said Metis, although unsure why she did so. "Tell me," she asked suddenly, "are you you? Or are you the one that came before?"
"In this place," hissed the snake, "I am both. As are you. My other self sees in you the face of his dead lover, and wonders whether you share her gifts."

"I don't know what he means."

The snake slithered over to her, and suddenly they were seated together on the riverbank. The serpent curled familiarly around her waist, its blunted head in her lap.

"He is me and I am him, just as you are her and she is you. Can you not feel it? She sees out through your eyes." It twisted up and around Metis' torso, resting its head on her breast.

"And yet you say she is dead."

"We all are dead, or sleep, or suffer little deaths each minute. It matters not." The snake's tongue flickered as it spoke, displacing the air around it. Metis could feel the vibrations of disturbed air on the bare skin of her collarbone. "We didn't intend it this way -- and yet it could have been no other. The workings of destiny favor us this time. We loved you before we knew what you were."

"What am I then?"

"Don't you know?" The snake seemed amused. It bared its curved fangs in what must have been a laugh. "I think you do know. You're only afraid. Don't be afraid, love. Nothing can hurt you so long as I love you."

"You always say that," Metis sighed. "It makes me fear for the day you stop."

"Stop? Never," it said silkily. "Do you really think that feelings so powerful could ever disappear?"

"No, no. You're right. But you could change, or I could change, or the whole world could change. And then where would we be?"

"Everything around us could turn to dust and ashes and we would live on. You know that. We aren't like others, my love. We weren't before, and we never will be. If only you'd seen that sooner, none of what has gone before or will come after would be necessary."

"I don't understand." Metis looked at the river, blinded momentarily by the reflection of harsh sun on the water.

"You will," said the snake. "This time, it will be different."

A pause lingered between them, heavy on the dry, crackling air.

"I would have you with me always," it said, suddenly.

And bit her.

***

Hart Bronski stared into the guttering flames of his low fire. He had begun to imagine that he saw shapes and shadows in the crackling flame. But that was impossible. His grip on his sanity remained as firm as it could be for a man who had seen and done the things he had.

And now they were coming for him.

It didn't come as much of a surprise. One got used to this sort of thing in his line of work. Still, he'd never thought he would meet his end this way. Other people maybe, but not him. Well, he'd made his choice, thrown in with the lesser of two evils. Now he was going to die for it. No, that wasn't fair - he would die no matter what choice was made. At least this way, he might be able to achieve a certain amount of peace.

Bullshit.

There was no peace to be had in this insanity, not for anyone. Muggle, wizard, civilian, soldier -- every last soul was touched, tormented by this filth, this diseased time they lived in. He stood abruptly and moved away from the fire, scattering fat, pecking hens as he crossed the small yard away from the tiny cottage.

Out of the way, chickens. Dead man walking.

Bronski swallowed an irrational laugh. He would not crack, would not meet his death a raving, pleading fool. Not like others he'd seen. If they kept to the course he expected them to take, they'd be here today. They would find him, burrowed in amongst these simple farmers, and wonder why after more than a month, he hadn't come to them of his own free will. He'd been living on borrowed time and knew it. So he sat on a decaying tree stump, and waited. The hours passed like water through his cupped hands. He couldn't hold them back; they slid past him, time like flowing liquid.

"Bronski? Is that you?" a voice was calling at the edge of the woods.

There was a moment when he almost ran. He could have tried to flee, but something in him rebelled, some fundamental part of him that was tired of running, exhausted with waiting. He couldn't delay the inevitable any longer.

"I'm here, sir!" he heard himself reply in a surprisingly steady voice.

"Ah, there you are, Hart." William Price emerged from the stand of trees, followed by a handful of witches and wizards, all with the grim bearing that marked agents of the Department of Mysteries. Clean up. Price was known for it. He mopped up the messes that other agents didn't dare touch.

"Hello, Will," Bronski said carefully. There was still a chance that they would only modify his memory. He wasn't counting on it, but, on the off chance, it wouldn't do to piss Price off.

"Why don't we go inside and have a little chat, Hart?" Price said.

"Thanks, but we can chat just fine right here."

"All right then," Price said. "If that's how you want it."

It was. In the weeks Bronski had spent imagining this moment, he'd picked the spot for this confrontation carefully. He'd grown to like these northern trees and cold-weather flowers and grasses. There was an empty bird's nest in the crook of an alder branch, just above Price's head, and the air smelled like dry leaves and impending snow. The agents fanned out around Bronski and Price, one of them took out a quill and nodded at Price.

"All right then," he said again. "We're ready. Go ahead with your report."

Bronski began with the routine information. His team, their orders, the progress of their investigation into Scoresby's murder. But when it came to their capture, their imprisonment in the catacombs, he choked. He could taste the spice and smoke and incense again, could smell Brona's fresh-spilt blood, hear Reve's cries of pain. It would swallow him. How could he tell? Who would even believe?

Pushing all that aside, he summoned every last shred of his pride, his professional demeanor, and looked Price evenly in the eye, "Sir, we were right. It was as we suspected."

"You got a good look at him then?"

He swallowed the tangle of emotions that lodged themselves inconveniently in his throat and said crisply, "Yes, sir. It was exactly who we thought it would be."

"And no one survived, save you?"

"No, sir. No one else. They were all killed by the- they were all killed."

"All except you. How did you manage that, Hart?" Price's tone was insinuating, but Bronski was past caring.

"There was a girl. She said- She let me go free. I don't know why. I didn't ask her to."

Price nodded, and the agent recording the interview folded his parchment and tucked the quill up a sleeve.

Bronski looked a bit defiantly across at Price. "So what do you plan to do about this? Surely the Ministry can't let this go unchecked. It's our responsibility. We created this m-" He broke off abruptly. The sharp tip of a wand poked against the soft cartilage behind his left ear. A pair of rough hands from behind shoved him to his knees.

"I am sorry, Bronski," Price said. "You've been a good soldier, but we've got our orders."

Bronski snorted. He hadn't expected anything else. He closed his eyes, determined to meet his death with dignity.

"You always were a respectable son of a bitch, weren't you?" Price said softly. "That's a good man."

The wand tip moved ever so slightly. "Avada Kedavra."

There was an explosion of green light behind Bronski's eyes, and the painless, nauseating sensation of something bursting in his chest. And then darkness.

***

In London, at the Department of Mysteries, Jack Seward received a package wrapped in brown paper and dirty twine. Under normal circumstances, he would report it immediately to Security in case the package contained a curse, a hex or other powerful dark magic. But Seward was fairly certain he knew where this particular package had come from. He locked his office door and put up several highly illegal wards to keep out any prying eyes.

He unknotted the twine, removed the heavy paper. Inside lay rolls of parchment neatly packed together and completely undamaged. On top of the ordered, tightly fastened rolls was another piece of parchment, open and face up, covered with Hart Bronski's familiar, cramped handwriting. The corner of the letter was stained dark brown with something that Seward hoped wasn't blood.

Jack-

I'm afraid you've been right about all of this. I've just had word that a group of our people have been spotted near here. I'm assuming it's Price and his bunch. Look, I hope you're wrong and they aren't here to kill me, but just in case, I've put together all my team's notes and everything we salvaged from Scoresby's place in this package. I've got to say, I can see why people don't want some of this stuff to see the light of day. I'm not sure it's going to do you much good to have it, but good luck.

And, listen, Jack, I just want you to know that you've been a hell of a friend. If for some reason I don't make it back, would you take all my personal stuff to my Mum's in Surrey? Would you mind going personally? I don't want her to find out by post. My Gringotts account should be transferred over to my sister and nephew. She's widowed and doesn't have much savings, and the kid's a hell of a Quidditch player who'll be needing a new broom. And tell Dora that I love her, and I'm sorry.

But then again, we may be worried for nothing and old Price's just here to take me back to a hero's welcome, ticker tape parade and all. If so, you owe me a pint at the Leaky Cauldron for making me worry and get all sentimental.

-Hart

Seward sat heavily in his straight-backed chair. Hart Bronski had been a friend of his since school, and if Price was involved there was very little chance of Hart coming back alive.

One more friend to grieve.

There had been far too many of them lately. This one, perhaps, he could do something about -- if, of course, he were willing to risk his career and possibly even his life for the truth. He hadn't been sure about that, had felt guilty for asking Bronski to do so, when Seward himself wasn't sure he could step up. He was sure now.

This isn't right. It won't stand. I can't let it. Seward laughed at that thought. The idea of a man in his line of work growing a conscience was, after all, rather funny.

He carefully began to unroll the parchment, looking for some clue, a starting place. At first the whole situation really looked hopeless. There was just too much here, and Seward was law enforcement, not an academic.

Hours later, though, after reading through Scoresby's notes, he found a lead. First thing the next morning he was going to pay a visit to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But first, he needed to find out everything he could about a man called Albus Dumbledore.

***

"Why do you suppose it is, June darling," Hayden said offhandedly, gazing around the crowded restaurant, "that people like us never seem to eat at home?"

"Perhaps because it's totally unglamorous to unseal a tin of something by oneself?"

"Too true. Who wants to see that?" He lit two cigarettes with his monogrammed lighter and handed one to June. "Besides, it's much more diverting to have some entertainment with a meal."

"Entertainment, Hayden?" June folded her napkin in her lap, and turned curious eyes on him.

"Why, the people, of course. Look there," he indicated with a subtle hand. "The Malfoys are about to have it out again."

"How can you tell? Neither of them are saying a word."

"The calm before the storm, trust me." Hayden waved their waiter over and ordered second cocktails for them both. "Now, see. There, darling, she blows."

Indeed, Lucinda Malfoy chose that moment to politely, but stiffly, excuse herself from the table, leaving her husband glowering after her. June raised an eyebrow at Hayden, simultaneously impressed and amused. "Do you ever think of using your powers for good instead of evil, Hayden?"

"Shame on you, darling. Evil is much more fun, you should know that. Besides, where would you be without an outlandish sidekick?"

June solemnly acknowledged that this was true, as the waiter arrived with fresh drinks. As Hayden talked, she picked distractedly at the tablecloth, sipping idly at her drink.

Hayden launched into a fresh story about the Malfoys. "…chatted up some fresh, young thing at the Foundation benefit. I felt sure Lucinda was going to shove him in the…" He paused. "And then Adolf Hitler parachuted in and showed us all how to do the New Jersey Stomp… June? Are you even listening?"

"What?" She colored. "Oh, Hayden. I'm sorry. I wasn't listening."

"Obviously," he replied coolly, stealing a glance at her.

"I'm just a little distracted is all."

"Keep this up, darling, and I'll begin to think you've tired of my company." Hayden sulked, swishing a swizzle stick around his gin and tonic.

"Really, Hayden…" June trailed off, not knowing quite how to finish the sentence she'd begun.

"What is wrong with you?" Hayden looked impatient. "You've been all cow-eyed for over a month. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were pining over some chap."

"Why on earth would you say that?" June asked, a bit too sharply.

"Well," Hayden exclaimed, smiling unpleasantly. "That's it, isn't it? Oh hell, June. Don't go all womanly on me. That's the thing I like about you best."

"That I'm unwomanly?" She glared at him. "And just where did you get the reputation for being charming?"

"Now, now. You'll not throw me off the scent that easily. While, it is true that I like nothing better than talking about myself… unless it's, perhaps, thinking about myself or doing things for myself… you can't play that card on me now." He studied her, an unusual, curious light glowing in his gold-flecked hazel eyes. "Who is it then? At least you owe me the name of the fellow who's stolen my favorite playmate."

"You've plenty of playthings to keep you occupied," June returned dryly.

"Playthings, yes. But playmates are much rarer, and more valuable."

June bristled. The last thing she needed was Hayden's rubbish over this. She turned to him, and said, a bit more tartly than she'd planned, "It's not how you think it is. I'm not mooning over some man. Not like that. I'm just concerned, and the whole problem's begun to eat at me."

To her irritation, he only seemed amused. "Well, then. Why didn't you tell dear old Hayden all about it to begin with?"

"Forgive me, Hayden darling, when I say that you are about as sensitive as a troll when it comes to other people's romantic sensibilities."

He leaned forward, affecting a hurt expression. "I'm told I'm quite a sensitive lover."

"I am not talking about sex, Hayden," June said, a bit too loudly. The middle-aged couple at the next table looked scandalized. She lowered her voice. "I'm talking about emotions that go slightly deeper than, say, 'How'd you like to ride my broomstick?'"

"I'm still waiting, darling, to hear who Mr. Sensitive is."

"Oh, sod off." She ground her cigarette stub viciously into the ashtray.

"Oh, how very ladylike! Can I quote you on that, Miss Lisbon?" Hayden laughed. "June Lisbon, press advisor to the Minister of Magic, told the world at large today to 'sod off' in no uncertain terms. Sources close to Miss Lisbon cite 'trouble in the bedroom' as the cause of the disturbance."

"Yes, do sod off, Hayden. And further more…"

He grabbed her hand smoothly. "You can't stay mad at me. I know it for a fact."

"Really? How precisely do you figure that?"

"Because you've never been able to before." He leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk on his handsome face. "No woman can."

"And here I thought you liked me because I wasn't womanly."

"See!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "That was very nearly a smile, darling."

"Hayden, you're a haughty, self-indulgent prig…"

"And you love me…"

"And I love you, but I'm not telling you about this." She began to signal around for the check. Hayden tossed back the rest of his drink and let her, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes and feigning a feline sleepiness while clearly attempting to allow his prey to relax into thinking she'd won.

He scribbled his signature across the check when it came, putting the meal on account. Normally June would have argued the point, but tonight she let him pay out of pique. He retrieved their coats from the cloak check girl and helped June politely into hers. It wasn't until they were walking arm-in-arm through the crisp, sparking winter night that he brought the subject up again. They passed Lulu's, tiny dots of moisture in the air crystallizing and sparkling like diamonds beneath the street lamps. Hat in hand, Hayden stopped in front of Amesbury's storefront display window, already decked out for Christmas. Sugar plum fairies danced behind the glass, twirling around wooden nutcrackers that turned into handsome princes with the right spell; while sword-bearing mice jousted in a miniature enchanted forest filled with dancing snowflakes.

The fairy light reflected on his aristocratic face, turning his dark hair into a gold halo from behind when he turned to look at her. "Tell me, June, or I swear I shall commit seppuku with one of those mouse swords." He indicated the display window with a casual hand.

"Good luck acquiring one. The store appears closed." She smiled at him in the half-light.

"Then I'll be forced to use whatever is at hand." He tugged his ivory cashmere scarf tight around his neck like a noose, and looked at her pitifully. "I'm not fooling, darling. I shall do something rash."

Snow was beginning to fall in soft, large flakes around them, the scent of cold mingling with wet wool as the flakes melted on Hayden's charcoal grey overcoat.

"Honestly, Hayden, why on earth does it matter to you?"

"Sheer bloody-mindedness?" He grinned lopsidedly. "Or perhaps, darling, this is my clumsy and inappropriate way of showing I care."

That gave her pause.

Smiling wickedly, he added, "Or it's just a ploy to find out blackmail-worthy secrets. One can never have too many of those." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Fine. You won't tell me. Then I'll guess. Now who would you be protecting from me?" Realization dawned across his face. "Oh, no! Not old Mr. Professor!"

She turned away from the shop window, the world plunging into shadow again, and headed up the street.

"June! Darling?" Hayden tagged after her. "Oh, not him, anyone but him."

He caught up to her at the corner, quietly threading her arm through his again. He looked down apologetically once, opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. So they walked on in silence, the falling snow swallowing up their tracks as they went.

***

She was dreaming again. But it wasn't one of those dreams.

Metis felt lately all she did was sleep and dream. The cold and snow outside, the crackling fires and long afternoons lulled her, tempted her into sleep. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, drowsiness tugged at her, never caring where she was, what she was doing. Except when she was with Tom. Tom was like black coffee, like electricity, like breath in her lungs.

Her conscious self knew that she was in the common room, by the fire. Her mind's eye could see her book, face down on the rug, could see the thick, soft wool blanket she'd wrapped herself in. She was aware of the heat from the fire on her face and the murmur of other voices at the edges of the room. But her subconscious replayed scenes from the book she'd been reading before falling asleep. Ladies in silks and satins, standing in a long line, curtsied properly to their dance partners as an orchestra struck up a popular tune. Metis found herself curtsying as well, only to discover that she didn't know the steps. The music flowed around her as she tried to mimic the other dancers. She stumbled, her partner catching her arm. She looked up into his face, a bit afraid of what she might find there.

Tom looked down at her, candlelight flickering behind him, casting odd shadows on his familiar mouth. "Just follow. I won't let you fall."

And the dream began to change. With a sickening familiarity, the voices in the common room began to recede. She could no longer sense the fire's heat or feel the wool blanket beneath her fingers. She was lost again, lost in the cold vacuum between her dreams, where light was darkness, where pictures had voices, and screams were symphonies.

Wake up. Wake up, she chanted to herself.

A hand, warm and solid, rested on her chest, fingers stroking her collarbone. She reached up and grabbed hold of it, letting its reality pull her out of the dream completely. She opened her eyes to see Tom watching her curiously, her hands wrapped tight around his slender wrist.

"How did you get in here?" she asked, disoriented.

"Do you think anything could ever keep me from you?" His voice was soft, strangely curious, as though the idea of a barrier between them was completely foreign to him.

The room lay in thick silence, save for the crackling of the fire, and they were alone. She must have slept longer than she'd realized.

"You're really here then? This isn't a dream?" She flung her arms around him, she could hear the pounding of his heart in his chest, feel the heat coming off his skin.

"Of course I'm not a dream," he said softly. "Why should you think that?"

"I've been afraid to tell you," she said, her words muffled against the crisp cotton of his shirt. "I fear I'm going mad."

"Come here." He pulled her to her feet, unwrapping the blanket gently from her shoulders and smoothing her tangled hair. He led her away from the fire and to a low sofa, scattered with abandoned books and papers. The other Ravenclaws had likely gone down to dinner. "What could possibly frighten you, Metis? Haven't I always told you how safe you are with me?"

"Oh, but, Tom…The things I see." She shut her eyes tight, tears threatening to spill through her lashes. "The things I see. I don't understand them, but I- I think they're real."

He regarded her curiously, surprised but almost… pleased. "Have you always had these dreams, Metis?"

"Yes, but now I have them so much more often." She hesitated. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"

He kissed her warmly. "No. If I'm right, there's nothing wrong with you at all." He looked at her again with that expression of pleasant surprise. "If I'm right," he said again wonderingly, almost to himself. "How perfect. I didn't intend it this way -- but here you are."

"Tom?" Metis said. "What do you mean?"

"Don't worry. I'll tell you. But I must be sure first." He cupped her face with a gentle hand. "There are things I've been afraid to tell you as well… About myself, about my family. Well, my mother, really."

"Tom, you should know I don't care about any of that. It's you I care about."

"But that's just it, Metis. It all has to do with me -- who I am now, who I'll become. I've wanted to tell you everything, but first I needed to know I could trust you."

Metis closed her eyes. "This again? How can you doubt my love for you, my loyalty to you? You could do anything, say anything, become anything and I wouldn't leave you. I couldn't leave you. It would kill me."

He caught her face in both of his hands. "Oh Metis, how I hoped…" He kissed her, pushing the books and papers from between them. An inkbottle tipped over, spilling scarlet ink over his hand. Heedless, he caught her face again, leaving a smear of crimson at the corner of her mouth.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Tell me then, Tom. I want to know." She closed her eyes as he dragged his long fingers through her hair. "Tell me everything. No more secrets. Keeping secrets from you is impossible for me. It hurts."

"All right, Metis." He rested his chin on top of her head, his arms so tight around her she could feel the pulse at his wrists. "I'll tell you all you want to know. But hear this first, once you know these things, there is no going back. You have to be sure I'm what you want, for always. Once you know me, really, I can't ever let you go."

"Why should I ever want to be let go of?"

He looked down at her, tipping her face up toward him. "People abandon the one they thought to love. It's true. It happens all the time. If you ever did that to me, I couldn't forgive it. Do you know what I mean by that? Do you understand?"

"I think I do."

"I will die loving you, Metis. Will you die loving me?"

"Yes, of course. But you already knew that."

Some indefinable emotion flared behind his dark eyes. "I suppose I did, didn't I?" he breathed, and kissed her again.

***

Jack Seward hadn't been to Hogwarts in years. The castle loomed like a hulking, grey beast, its halls filled with pushed-aside memories of youth, memories that had lain undisturbed for years. Seward liked it that way. Now, faced with the school again, he suddenly felt- well, he didn't know what he felt, and that was more disturbing than anything.

He'd been to see Dora the night before. She'd taken the news about Hart with surprising calm. Better almost than Seward himself. Her engagement ring had caught the lamplight while she made the two of them coffee, and it had taken all of his strength not to walk over and embrace her, to tell her to stop being so damn brave and rational.

Seward reached the massive doors and knocked briefly, only to be immediately ushered inside by a rumpled, youngish professor, who acknowledged that, yes, they had received his owl and then led him up to the headmaster's office.

"Ed Halley, by the way," the young professor said.

"Jack Seward. Nice to meet you, Professor."

Halley didn't look to be much older than the sixth and seventh years he taught. He had that same nervous, bookish air that Seward associated with prefects and Head Boys from his own school days. Halley handed Seward deftly over to the headmaster, who plied him with tea and biscuits while Halley fetched Dumbledore from his morning class.

"So," said the headmaster, in what he likely assumed was a casual manner. "What does the Ministry want with our Albus? He's not in any trouble, is he?"

"I can promise you, Professor Dippet, that's he's not in any trouble." Not yet, Seward thought, wryly. Though I'll do my damnedest to drag him there before the day is through, won't I?

"Ah, Albus. There you are," Dippet said, standing up as the door opened. "This is Jack Seward, from the Department of Mysteries."

At that, Dumbledore raised an eyebrow just perceptibly. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Seward. I'm Albus Dumbledore. I understand you wanted to see me."

"Yes, Professor. Might we talk in your office?"

With a sidelong glance at Dippet and Halley, Dumbledore replied, "Of course. This way."

The two men walked in slightly uncomfortable silence down the long, familiar corridors. Every so often, Seward would catch a glimpse of something he recognized, jogging some silly memory. He shook his head, trying to collect his thoughts. He couldn't be distracted by the past today, he needed all of his focus in the here and now.

"Here we are," Dumbledore said, opening a heavy oak door.

"Can I get you some tea?" he asked once they were inside. Dumbledore motioned to a chair in front of his desk before taking a seat himself.

Seward shook his head. "Let's dispense with all that. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you here. I know you were working with Lee Scoresby on that translation project of his. I also know that it got him killed." Seward looked at the other man evenly. "What do you have to say about that?"

Dumbledore appeared unfazed. "Surely you can't be suggesting that I was involved somehow."

"No. I am, however, suggesting that you know more about this than you're letting on."

"Well," the professor returned mildly, "no one has yet asked me anything about Scoresby, or his project. No one from your department has shown the least interest in what I might or might not know until yourself, Mr. Seward."

"Fair enough," Seward replied. "You're aware there was an investigation, though?"

"I'd heard rumors."

Seward shifted in his chair. "Then have you heard this one? The team we sent to Albania never made it back. I have reason to believe they're all dead."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, and the tension in the room shifted ever so slightly. "And why tell me this? I can't imagine that's information that the Ministry wants made public."

"Oh, you won't be telling anyone," Seward returned, with the casual, practiced air of a hardened veteran. Intimidating people came easily after all these years, though deep down he suspected Albus Dumbledore was not a man to be strong-armed. "And I'm telling you because I believe you're our best hope for getting to the bottom of this mess. You're the only one left alive who's familiar with Scoresby's work and what he was looking for in Albania." He paused. "So what I need to know is will you work with me on this?"

"On what? You still haven't told me what you hope to accomplish."

"I should think that would be obvious. I want to find out who murdered Scoresby, and who murdered our investigative team."

"So all you really need from me is information on Scoresby's work?"

Seward sat back, measuring the other man. "There is something else, but I need to be sure we have an understanding before I go any further."

In turn, Dumbledore seemed to be sizing Seward up. After a few moments he nodded. "I'll do my best to help you with any information I can on Scoresby's work and plans. Until I know more, I can't promise any further than that."

Seward nodded. He was taking an enormous risk here; one that he couldn't be sure would pay out. But he'd come this far already, and wasn't about to turn back now. He dug into his satchel and tossed all of Scoresby's Albanian notes onto Dumbledore's desk. "This is what I need you for. These were recovered from Scoresby's residence in Albania. I can't make head nor tail of them." Dumbledore was already flipping interestedly through the mass of papers.

"All of this," Seward indicated the parchment with a sweep of his hand. "All of this is completely off the record. Do you understand? If either of us were to be caught with these documents the consequences would be dreadful."

The young professor studied Seward briefly, an inscrutable expression on his face. "Why are you doing this?" Dumbledore asked at last.
"Because the man who led that team was a friend of mine, and I'd hate to see the people who killed him get away with it," Seward said, mostly truthfully.

"I see," Dumbledore nodded. "I can understand that. I'll do everything in my power to help you."

***

Albus didn't trust that Seward was telling him the whole truth, but at this stage it didn't matter. He couldn't pass up the opportunity for access to Scoresby's research. Besides, he'd held back quite a bit of information from Seward himself. Seward had taken his leave abruptly, and Albus spent the rest of the morning rifling Scoresby's notes and pacing his office, deep in thought. He was doing just that when his ponderings were unceremoniously interrupted by a hacking, wheezing cough from the corner of the room.

"Oh, poor old fellow." Albus crossed over to where the scarlet phoenix slumped on its perch, looking for all the world like it had a walloping hangover. The bird regarded him with a teary eye and thrust its head up underneath Albus' cupped palm. He stroked the phoenix's balding head, making sympathetic noises until, without warning, the bird squawked and burst spectacularly into flame.

Albus yelped and jumped back. He'd known what to expect, of course, but he'd assumed there would be some sort of sign before the old bird went up like so much dry straw. Sucking on one burnt finger, he backed away toward his desk while the raging fireball burned itself down to a pile of silver ash. After a heartbeat, a tiny dun-colored beak poked its way out of the ash, followed by an egg-shaped head and beady silver eyes.

"Welcome back to the world, old boy," Albus smiled, leaning down and scooping up the newly reborn phoenix. It piped a half-hearted musical note at him before collapsing back against his palms, its tiny, naked chest heaving with exertion.

"I know, old fellow. That can't have been pleasant for you."

The phoenix fixed him with a disapproving gaze.

"Now what's this? You can't be cross with me. That's the first time I've ever seen a phoenix reborn. Did I make some faux pas, old thing?"

The bird pecked him weakly on the flat of his hand.

"This is very curious, indeed. I'm sorry you're put out with me. I haven't the slightest clue what's to be done."

"He wants you to name him," said an amused voice from the door.

"Name him?" Albus' head snapped up. "Oh hello, Brione. Whatever do you mean, name him?"

Brione Ivey, the Herbology professor leaned against his half-open door, arms crossed. "Just what I said. You haven't had him long, have you?"

"No. Just a few months."

She smiled at him as she would a sweet, but slow pupil. "Well, he's a phoenix. This is his first Burning since you became his master. So he needs a new name." She crossed the room, closing the door softly behind her. She tossed her dark hair over one shoulder as she walked, dark but with a perfect streak of silver through the middle, giving her an air of wisdom even though she was only a handful of years older than Albus himself.

They laid the little phoenix gently down on Albus' desk. He could have sworn the bird looked gratefully at Brione, and his suspicions were confirmed when the phoenix nibbled affectionately on her fingers.

"It appears you've made a complete conquest of the little fellow," Albus observed.

"Hmm. I should always be so lucky." She stroked the phoenix underneath its beak; it closed its eyes. If it could have sighed in contentment, Albus believed it would have.

"So, Albus," Brione said, clearly enjoying herself. "What shall you call him?"

"Oh… well… I'm completely unprepared." He shrugged. "I've no earthly idea."

She looked at him, laughter in her eyes. "Come now. There must be something. An old school chum to immortalize? A favorite name for a son? Something."

"I could name him after my father, I suppose."

"What was your father's name?"

"Cronus," Albus replied.

Brione arched a thin eyebrow, then looked down at the bird. "Somehow, I think not."

"Well, then. I don't know. Ask him."

"Oh, now. It doesn't work that way. You've got to pick the name."

Albus cast around the room, hoping desperately for something to jog his balky imagination. A potted plant -- no. A bust of Beethoven -- close, but no. A globe, an hourglass… His eyes fell on the calendar. November 5.

"Guy Fawkes."

"What?"

"It's Guy Fawkes Day. That's what I'll name him after."

Brione looked at him in disbelief. "Let me get this straight. You are going to name your phoenix, a majestic bird, millennia old, after Guy Fawkes. After a Muggle madman who tried to blow up both James I and Parliament."

"Yes, I believe I will. Why not?"

"Other than the obvious?"

"After all," Albus grinned, "Fawkes, gunpowder -- fire, phoenix." He looked down at the phoenix. "Is that all right with you, old boy? Fawkes?"

"Suit yourself," Brione smiled indulgently, tapping Fawkes gently on the beak. "I came to fetch you for lunch, you know," she said, returning her attention to Albus. "I know you'd rather be up here buried in dusty books, but the tiny slice of maternal instinct in me won't allow you to go without a proper meal."

"You? Have maternal instincts for something other than Mandrakes? I refuse to believe it."

Brione sighed heavily. "Lunch, Albus. Now." She turned as they moved to leave. "Goodbye, Fawkes."

***