Dreamwalk Blue

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER FIVE

Summary: New Year's Eve, 1943 -- A posh New Year's Eve party, my very first author cameo, Tom learns that he has some very dangerous enemies and tragedy rings in the New Year.

CHAPTER FIVE -- MOOD INDIGO

You go to my head
And you linger like a haunting refrain
That I find spinning round in my brain
Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne
Oh, the thrill of the thought
That you might give a thought
To my plea casts a spell over me
Still I say to myself
Get a hold of yourself
Can't you see that it never can be?

(you go to my head armstrong/coots/gillespie 1957)

New Year's Eve, 1943

"June dear, do hurry up or you'll be late," Rhea Lisbon's voice carried down the corridor, bringing with it the memories of a dozen other holidays. Alone in her room, June could hear the sounds of laughter from the foyer downstairs as her parents prepared to leave.

"We'll see you at the Middletons' then, darling," her mother's voice floated up the stairs, mingled with the clack of shoes on marble. June leaned toward the door, listening to soft sounds of their departure -- the rustle of heavy cloaks and snick of a door sliding home.

June tugged a silver-backed brush through her hair, remembering Christmases and New Years past. One memory in particular stood out against the others. Mother calling from downstairs on Christmas Eve. A seven year old June tugging at her fussy robes and pin curls, scuffing her over-polished shoes as she skipped down to the parlor. The high-ceilinged room filled with laughing grown-ups, glasses in hand, and an enormous Christmas tree in the candlelit corner. A skinny, cowlicked Albus holding her chubby hand as the Yule Log was lit…

Damn. Why can't I stop thinking about him? She shook her head. The answer was simple: he was an integral part of her life, and always had been. The last week had provided some reprieve, the social engagements and distractions of the holidays had been enough to keep her mind off her personal life for the most part. The Dumbledores had come to dinner on Boxing Day. Albus had not joined them. The thought left June feeling slightly sick. He was sure to be at the Middletons' this evening; there would be no avoiding him any longer.

She faltered, lipstick halfway to her mouth, leaning against the vanity as though suddenly exhausted. How had things gotten so complicated? She loved him, there was no denying that, but she didn't trust herself to be with him. It couldn't work; it would be disastrous for them both. But this distance between them hurt her, and she knew it must be hurting him. Distractedly, June waved her wand over her hair, tucking pins into place.

She smoothed the sleeves on her well-cut, burgundy robes, and finished applying her lipstick. With one last glance in the mirror, she left the room.
She walked down the wide, curving stair, trailing a hand on the polished banister. Her parents' house, still gaily decorated for Christmas, seemed strangely empty this year. She paused, shaking off that feeling and arranging her features into a smile as she opened the door to the parlor.
Hayden slouched in a wide-armed, wing chair, engaged in a ferocious staring contest with his gin and tonic. His neglected cigarette had burned nearly to his knuckles and was threatening to leave a whopping great scorch mark across June's mother's hand-woven Oriental rug. June crossed the room, rescued the cigarette and tapped it into a marble ashtray.

"Hayden," she placed her hands on her hips, "what is wrong with you tonight? You're not getting maudlin on me, are you? If we end tonight with drunken, earnest promises to be better people in the coming year, I hold you ultimately responsible."

Hayden looked up at last, and grinned. "No chance. We'll never be better people, darling." He stood, catching her wrists and spreading their arms wide. "You look lovely." He released her, motioning in a circle. "Spin about so I can get a proper look."

She complied, smiling. "You don't look half-bad yourself. I can't remember the last time I saw you in proper robes."

Hayden brushed imaginary lint from the sleeves of his charcoal grey dress robes. "I know. Muggle clothing has thoroughly corrupted me, but I can still don wizard-wear for the right occasions." He grinned wickedly. "And I pull it off better than most, if I do say so."

"Oh, yes. You're irresistible." June laughed. "Not that you need any encouragement, of course."

Hayden crossed the room and scooped up their cloaks. He twirled June's around her shoulders and fastened the clasp beneath her chin, then flung on his own, twitching it rakishly over one shoulder and smiling winningly. "Well, my darling, shall we go? 1944 awaits us."

June slipped her arm through his. "Thank you, Hayden."

He raised an eyebrow. "What on earth for?"

She shrugged, resting a hand softly on the swell of his bicep. "Oh, the usual. Irritating me, making me laugh. Being an incredibly wonderful friend."

"Now who's maudlin?" With that, he tugged her into the entryway and out the massive front doors, where his superbly kept-up 1933 Bentley was gleaming impressively in the moonlight. Hayden held the door open for her, smiling lazily. "Well, at least, we're seeing the New Year in in style."

***

The orchestra was tuning up when they arrived, the squeaks, squawks and twangs echoing oddly off the vaulted ceiling and immaculate marble floor. Servants in crisply pressed jackets and aprons, loaded down with platters, bottles and bowls, hurried past, narrowly avoiding the guests who were quite simply not supposed to be there yet. A harried, pinch-faced sommelier was overseeing the construction of several champagne fountains in preparation for the stroke of midnight, while Mrs. Middleton herself clucked and fussed over the flowers presented for her inspection by a herringbone-clad manservant.

We're bloody early, Albus thought, and there was nothing he hated more. His companion for the evening, however, possessed a reputation for being almost fanatically punctual. Which was why they were standing in the lavish ballroom of Brantley and Edina Middleton's Hampshire estate at 7:45 when the party wasn't due to start until 8 o'clock. The chandeliers tinkled above them, mingling with the first strains of Strauss from the orchestra and the machine gun pop-popping of champagne being uncorked.

"Oh, Albus!" Edina cried, crossing the wide expanse of marble floor, their reflections shimmering dreamlike on the polished surface. "You are such a brave dear! Being the first to arrive."

"Terrified we'd miss out on something important, weren't we?" He smiled, taking Edina's hand.

"Oh, you're such a card. Always have been." She turned her attention to the young woman on Albus' arm. "Now you, dear, must come with me. I promised Brantley he'd have you all to himself before you're mobbed by everyone, and I mean to see that he does."

The two women hurried off to the drawing room, and Albus was alone. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his robes and tried not to slouch against the wall, for fear of upsetting any of the elaborate decorations. He was nearly ready to walk back outside and light up his pipe, when the Middleton's daughter, Ruth, came clattering into the ballroom, her face flushed, her jade green dress robes swaying with her movements. A group of laughing, young women followed at her heels.

"Oh!" She came to an abrupt stop, the other girls nearly crashing into her. "Oh, Professor!" she laughed, turning slightly pink and eliciting a ripple of giggles from her followers.

"Hello, Ruth," he said, nodding gravely. The girls giggled.

"Hello," Ruth replied. More giggles. "We, ah, didn't expect that anyone would be here yet."

"Well, we are rather early. Just pretend I'm not here."

The girls moved to the other side of the ballroom, making soft, squealing exclamations about the decorations, the flowers, the twinkling chandeliers. Every so often one of them would glance over at Albus and giggle. And, so, a sort of uneasy equilibrium was established between them.

After a bit, his companion slipped back inside the ballroom, making her way over to him with an apologetic look. In their chosen corner, the girls tore their attentions away from the centerpieces to gawk at the new arrival.

"Hello!" Ruth, grasping the hand of a round-faced blonde girl, breathed, "We're were so sorry you didn't win. We cheered for you!"

"I'm sure you don't remember," said the blonde, "but we met you last month at Rosemund Gadson's tea-"

"I remember," the older woman said, with a sidelong glance at Albus. "It's so nice to see you again." She disentangled herself from the girls, and glided over to him.

"I'm so sorry," she smiled against the curve of his ear. "I absolutely have to go have a look at Brantley's new broomstick. He's most insistent." Her breath tickled his skin as she laughed. "Will you be all right here by yourself?"

He turned and smiled down at her. "I'll be fine. I think I'll go have a quick smoke and get out of my students' hair, though. I seem to be making them uncomfortable."

"Maybe." She smiled, glancing over to the knot of young women, several of whom were casting appraising looks over the couple. "But not, perhaps, for the reason you think." She squeezed his hand, a casual promise that she'd be back to take care of him shortly, and ducked out of the ballroom again.

As soon as she had gone, Albus retreated to the relative safety of the front walk, tapping sweet tobacco into his pipe as he paced the flagged stones. A tiny blue flame flared at the end of his wand, casting odd shadows in the wintry moonlight. He was still standing there at 8:15, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe on the front walk and watching the comings and goings of the other guests. The windows of the huge house glowed golden in the dark, the orchestra playing loudly now. He supposed he should go in, but something kept him standing there, almost as if he were waiting to see someone. He pushed that thought abruptly from his head. But, truth be told, he did want to see June, and he knew she wouldn't come to him of her own accord. So was he standing out here in the cold hoping for a glimpse of her? He shook his head and leaned back against the rough stone of the wall.

When she did arrive it was, not surprisingly, fashionably late and on Hayden Fairborne's arm. Albus turned away as they glided up the steps and through the front doors. Resigned, and a bit disgusted with himself, he knocked the tobacco from his pipe and went inside himself. He crossed the foyer. Couples were shrugging out of heavy, finely-woven cloaks, the men shaking hands heartily and the women smiling courteously and pretending to remember one another's names.

While he'd been outside, the ballroom had filled with guests, the clatter of glasses and chatter of voices as loud as any air raid siren. Albus looked above their heads to the high, vaulted ceiling and heavy, crystal chandeliers, watching as winged sprites zoomed across an enchanted clock face, suspended high above the center of the crowd, ticking off the seconds until midnight. One sprite dipped close to him, sprinkling shimmery dust across his upturned face. He smiled at the pixie, who smiled back, blushing, before zooming away on her tiny wings, leaving a trail of gold and silver in her wake.

Albus felt other eyes on him, and turned to meet them. June was watching him over the shoulder of a well-dressed man, who was gesturing excitedly about something to Hayden Fairborne. Her dark eyes widened and she tore her gaze away quickly when she realized she'd been caught staring. He started toward her, suddenly desperate to speak with her, to settle this business. This is absurd. We can't even look at one another. But she'd been the one avoiding him; all he'd done was try to respect her wishes… Or had he? Had he just been using that as an excuse? Being angry with her seemed much easier than putting himself in a position to be hurt again. He faltered in his stride, unsure whether to keep going, and it proved his undoing.

"Albus!" A friendly hand caught him on the back, and turned to see John Knightley, an old friend of his father's. "How are you, boy? We haven't seen you in ages!"

"I'm fine, sir. Wonderful to see you again," he said distractedly, inching away to make his escape. Finished with their conversation, Hayden was leading June toward the bar, talking cheerfully over his shoulder and already balancing a drink in either hand.

"Isabella! Come here, dear. It's Albus, Cronus and Ariadne's youngest boy." A formidable-looking elderly woman in a lorgnette joined old Knightley, and proceeded to grill Albus on everything from the health of his mother, to his job, to why he hadn't settled down with a nice young woman yet.

"So lovely to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Knightley. Really lovely. You must come to dinner in Town sometime; my mother would love it. I really do have to dash though. I promised Edina the next dance," he lied, "and it wouldn't do at all to have our hostess cross with me." Finally free, he broke through a group of teenagers loitering by the champagne fountain, and scanned the crowd for June but she'd disappeared.

"Well, well, well… If it isn't my old friend, the professor," a cultured voice drawled lazily from behind him.

Albus turned around, startled, nearly knocking into a cocktail table as he did so. Hayden Fairborne stood before him, grinning casually and holding a glass of champagne in a careless hand. June was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello again, Hayden," Albus said, mustering a polite smile. Something about this man just irritated him, much to his chagrin. They stood in silence for a moment, each sizing the other up, and Albus was put in mind of a pair of wolves, circling, deciding whether to challenge for supremacy. The thought struck him as so absurd, that he nearly laughed aloud. What an unlikely pair of alpha males: the bookish professor and the foppish playboy.

"I trust you had a pleasant holiday," he said instead.

"Of course. But I always have a good time," Hayden replied, glibly. He made a show of scanning their immediate area and said, "So. Here alone, I see."

"Not quite," said a voice from behind them. Albus felt a small hand curl around his arm, and looked down into a pair of dark eyes. An attractive young woman gazed up at him, then smiled at Hayden. She was exceptionally pretty and Hayden clearly noticed. His entire manner changed.

"Sorry, Albus," she said, pushing a lock of bobbed, black hair from her face. "I got tied up talking to Castor Smith from the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

Hayden smiled winningly. "Aren't you going to introduce me, Professor old boy?"

"Yes, of course. Hayden Fairborne, this is Jee Hyung Lee."

She smiled and reached out her free hand to clasp Hayden's. "Please, call me Gaea. It's easier."

"Gaea Lee? The Quidditch player?"

Gaea smiled, tilting her chin up at Hayden. "Guilty as charged, Mr. Fairborne. I'm flattered you recognize me."

"I'd be an ass if I didn't," he grinned. "Star of England's team and all that. I hear any Cup hopes we have are due largely to you."

Gaea raised an eyebrow. "I think people give me too much credit."

"So," Hayden said, "how do you know the old professor here?" He favored Albus with a look that clearly gave his opinion of such an association.

"Oh, Albus and I are old friends. We met in Seoul several years ago while I was visiting with my grandparents."

"Indeed. Albus here seems to be rather rich, and fortunate, in old friends."

Gaea glanced between the two men and, coming to some sort of realization, pursed her lips. "Yes, well. I'm rather fortunate to know him as well."

"Tell me, Miss Lee," Hayden said, grabbing her hand again. "Would you do me the honor of the next dance?"

Gaea smiled. "Of course. You don't mind, Albus? I hate to abandon you again so soon."

"No, no. That's fine. Go right ahead." He smiled down at her. "Just don't let him make off with you."

She arched that penciled eyebrow again. "However do you mean that?"

Albus blushed, but before he could reply, she said, "Oh, don't be so scandalized. I've no intention of allowing anyone to make off with me tonight."

"I'm not sure whether I should be pleased to hear that or not."

"If you're ready then, Miss Lee?" Hayden said, tugging her toward the dance floor.

"I'll be with you in a moment." She favored Hayden with that trademark smile of hers, the smile full of promise and attention. She was awfully good at that.

She leaned in close to Albus. "Perhaps you should take this opportunity to have a word with that blonde you've been staring at all evening."
Albus started. "Gaea, I'm so sorry…"

She shook her head, then looked up at him, wearing an expression he'd never seen on her face. "I can't say I'm too happy about it. But this way I'll be the gracious one. That may serve me well in the future." She smiled slightly, then laid her hand on his wrist. "And if she breaks your heart… Well, you know where I'll be."

***

Metis stood against one of the tall, arched windows, very aware of Tom's hand on the small of her back. He stroked a soft, nervous rhythm on her skin through the thin fabric of her robes. She could sense how uncomfortable he was, but knew that no one else would notice. Outwardly he was charming and relaxed as always.

He'd resisted coming tonight, and only Metis' entreaties had changed his mind. Weeks before, he'd announced his intention to refuse Ruth's invitation, much to Metis' confusion. They'd argued softly and briefly about the matter, hidden behind a large bookshelf in a corner of the library.

"How can I, Metis?" Tom said, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. "I don't even understand why I've been invited."

"You've been invited because this is your world now. Ruth adores you." She smiled slightly. "Everyone adores you."

He didn't return the smile. "I wouldn't know how to act, or what to say." His eyes hardened. "You know how I grew up, where I come from."

"Tom, none of that matters anymore to anyone except you."

An unreasonable flash of fury crossed his face. "Of course it matters." He grabbed her by the shoulders. "It matters. You know exactly why it matters."

"Tom." She closed her eyes, half from the pain of his grip, half in pleasure at having his body pressed against hers. "You know that's not what I mean. You and I… we know who you are, why we shouldn't ever forget…"

"Who we are, Metis. Who we are," he whispered into her hair.

"Of course. We. Always we." She pressed closer to him, inhaling his scent. Tom had explained everything -- about his mother, about his destiny, about the things he'd done and the things he would have to do -- with his calm, quiet conviction, so that when she was with him it all made sense. She knew she should probably be frightened, knew in a secret part of her heart that this was dangerous, but then, she'd known that about Tom from the first. He frightened her, but not enough to shake her love for him. If anything, it made it stronger.

"I'm not going," he murmured, as she slipped her fingers under the collar of his shirt to caress the soft skin there.

"Please, Tom. Just think about it some more before you decide."

He had, and here they were. Why he'd changed his mind, she couldn't be sure. But she was pleased he had, not so much because she wanted to come, but because of what it meant for Tom. His hand moved from her back as he turned to speak with a slight, dark-haired boy, a Slytherin fifth-year whose name Metis couldn't remember.

"I'll be back in a minute," Tom whispered against her ear, and followed the other boy away from their group leaving Metis alone with Ruth, Orva and Cara.

"Is there anything you don't see drama in, Orva?" Cara asked acidly, looking pointedly at her.

"Well, I still say he's in the midst of an unhappy love affair. Just look at that expression!" Orva said a bit defensively.

Metis followed Ruth and Orva's gaze -- they were watching Professor Dumbledore, who in turn looked forlornly on as the blonde Metis had met at Lulu's danced past in the arms of a sharply-dressed man with grey-streaked black hair. The Minister of Magic, Metis realized abruptly. She blinked. She'd no idea Ruth's parents were that rich.

"He's here with Gaea Lee, you know," Orva said in an awed voice, still staring at their Transfiguration professor. "I mean, can you imagine? She's famous."

"He's not handsome really," Ruth observed, tilting her head to view the professor from a better angle. "But there is something…Why else would he be constantly surrounded by such elegant women?"

"Oh, aren't you just the limit," Cara sighed long-sufferingly. "You don't want something until you see that someone else does."

"In this case, several someones," Orva pointed out.

"Well," Ruth said, flipping a hand through her long, light brown hair. "How else is one supposed to know if something's worth having?"

Cara opened her mouth to say something, but a possible row was narrowly averted by the timely appearance of Denis Cathcart.

"Hullo, ladies," he smiled winningly. "I trust you're all enjoying the evening?" His words were greeted with dazzling smiles and batted eyelashes from the other girls. He toyed with the red carnation pinned rakishly to his white dress robes as he returned a grin.

Metis merely said politely, "Yes, quite. And you?"

"Smashing." He laid a hand on her arm. "But see here, I was wondering if I might borrow you for a moment."

Metis' gaze flicked to where Tom stood speaking quietly to several other boys. "I'm not sure-"

"Nonsense," Denis said quickly, tightening his grip on her arm and pulling her away from her friends.

"So," he said when they were out of earshot, "Tom tells me he's told you all about our little club. And what do you think?"

"I think Tom can do whatever he desires. I'd do anything for him, Denis." She held his gaze evenly.

"Would you?" He seemed pleased with her answer. "Would you indeed?" He smiled his Cheshire cat smile at her again and leaned in closer. "Absolutely anything?" He reached out and curled a loose lock of her hair around his fingers. "Well, that is interesting."

"Look," Metis said, feeling the color rise in her cheeks. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but it has to stop. I don't want any attention from you, or help, or advice. Do you understand me? So stop singling me out like this or I will tell Tom."

"What the hell is all this about?" Tom appeared at Denis' elbow, as if summoned by Metis' distress.

For his part, Denis seemed thoroughly unruffled. "I was just making sure Metis understood what we were about and all that. That's important, isn't it? If she's to join us?"

"You seem awfully concerned with her, Denis," Tom said dangerously.

"Nonsense," the older boy laughed. "In fact," he caught Metis by the arm. "Why don't you come dance with me, Metis? I'm sure Tom won't mind. Will you, Tom?"

"You're playing a very dangerous game," Tom said softly. "Don't think I don't know what this is about. You think she's my weakness." Tom grabbed hold of Metis' other arm, gripping so tightly that she blinked tears from her eyes. "You're wrong. She's my strength. You won't get what you're looking for this way."

"Really? And just what is that?"

"You think you can take my place, but you have no idea who you're dealing with. If you want to lead that band of fickle children, you're welcome to them. Because that's not where the power is. It's never been about that." He narrowed his eyes. "I know you're only doing this to get under my skin. It won't work." Tom took a step forward, invading Denis' space. "If I had any doubts about Metis' loyalty to me I'd simply kill you both and save myself the trouble. This isn't a game you want to be playing." And then, bizarrely, Tom began to laugh, turning his eyes on her. "Our ancestors are laughing at us, Metis. It is fitting irony, I think, that I should love you so."

She stared at him. He continued, "I know who and what we are. I think you do, too -- at least, you're beginning to. Although perhaps not the significance of it." He turned abruptly from her and said, "Go. Dance with him if it's so bloody important." He held Denis' gaze for a fraction of a second too long.

"But, Tom…" she began to protest.

"Do it," he said, still watching Denis. "Don't make me angry, my friend. You will regret it."

***

It was nearly midnight, and Albus still hadn't spoken to June. Just what was he doing, stalling like this? Stealing himself, he scanned the crowd for her again. She was across the room from him now, sipping champagne and nodding absently at something a fellow Ministry employee was saying. Gaea was still dancing with Hayden, for all intents and purposes enjoying herself immensely. For his part, Albus half-listened as an old school chum recounted an amusing anecdote to a group of their mutual friends.

The chandeliers dimmed at ten minutes to, and Albus detached himself from the group, making his apologies. He'd had two fingerbowls of champagne, just enough to give the scene a golden hue, to make the little dramas seem epic and wrap him up in the music. Somehow his progress across the room seemed to alternately slow and speed up time. At eight minutes to he was waylaid by another group of old friends. June stood by herself now, watching the face of the magical clock. At two minutes till, he nearly stumbled over Orva Dashwood and Ruth Middleton, who breathlessly demanded to know whether Gaea Lee was really as amazing as everyone said.

10… 9… The countdown started and he was still no closer to his destination. 7…6… Denis Cathcart, a sandy-haired, good-looking Slytherin, broke off dancing with Metis McGonagall at the fifth stroke, and bent in close to her face. 3…2… She said something Albus couldn't hear and tried to pull away, but the boy grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and kissed her hard as the room exploded into cheers.

Albus waded between kissing couples and revelers flourishing their glittering wands like sparklers. His teacher's instinct caused him to wonder briefly whether he should intervene on Metis' behalf. But before he could decide, someone knocked into him sending him stumbling against a pair of drunken wizards singing Auld Lang Syne off-key and at the top of their lungs. He looked up to see Tom Riddle, long strides carrying him through the crowd, heading toward the corner where Metis stood arguing with Denis. Her pretty face was flushed and her eyes glassy, filled with tears of anger or maybe fear. Her head jerked up as Tom reached them, and she closed her eyes, resolved it seemed to whatever consequences awaited them. Tom leaned in, said something to Denis that made the other boy laugh sharply, and then, dragging Metis behind him, headed out the French doors at the end of the ballroom.

Denis watched them go with an unreadable expression on his face, then turned and stalked off in the opposite direction.

June stood in a corner, a half-filled coupe listing to one side in her grasp, the champagne just barely licking the lip of the glass and threatening to spill over the side. She leaned against the wall, watching the celebration distractedly, red and gold sparks falling across her hair and shoulders. A breathless Hayden appeared from the shadows and whispered something that made her laugh, before kissing her chastely on the lips and dashing back out into the fray. Once there, he scooped Gaea into a flamboyant dip and kissed her elaborately on the mouth to the applause of many spectators. And then, somehow, slipping through that mass of jubilant bodies, Albus found himself standing before June. She looked up, surprise on her face.

"Albus. I didn't expect…" she began.

"See here, I think we need to talk," he said at the same moment. "Please." He extended a hand to her.

"All right," she replied and slipped her hand into his.

***

The French doors opened onto a wide veranda overlooking the Middletons' walled garden. June tried not to take this as an omen, another garden scene was the very last thing she needed. She'd been dreading this confrontation since September, since that evening in the prefects' garden. She'd played this moment over a hundred times in her head, looking for just the right thing to say. But now that she was here, looking into Albus' uncertain blue eyes, she found that everything she'd planned sounded hollow and insincere.

"Albus, I'm sorry," June found herself saying, moved by some strange emotion she didn't quite understand. She shivered almost uncontrollably in the frigid night air, the thin material of her dress robes doing little to keep out the cold.

"What are you sorry for?" he asked, the latticed French doors casting shadows across his chest and shoulders. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"Haven't I? I hurt you, I know that."

"Yes, well. I hurt you as well. So I should be apologizing."

"Well, I wasn't about to take full responsibility," she replied with the first hints of a smile.

"Weren't you?" He smiled, then sobered abruptly. "Well, we're speaking again. That's a start. But the question still remains…"

"What to do now?" June sighed. "I don't know what to tell you."

"You never answered my question. That would be a good place to start. Do you think we could ever…? Do you think you could ever feel…"

"I do love you, Albus. I…" She put a hand on his arm. "I do."

"I never doubted that." He smiled ruefully. "But I want more than your simple affection. It's taken me a long time to admit that truth to myself." He looked at her evenly. "I'm not sure I can be your friend anymore. Not just your friend. The way I feel, it's just too much for that."

He was voicing her worst fear, what she'd suspected for months now. "Albus, no. I can't…" She stopped, turning away from him, feeling ridiculously melodramatic as she did so.

"You can't what, June?"

She shook her head.

"You can't return my feelings? Can't see me anymore? Say it already, damn it."

"I can't lose you," she said flatly. "Do you have any idea what you're threatening me with? 'Love me or else.' How can that be fair?" She rounded on him. "Do you want the truth? The truth is that I don't know how I feel, or what I want. I just don't. And it would be so easy just to give in to you, to give you what you're asking for, so easy. But it wouldn't be fair, to you or to me."

The idea of losing him terrified her, and that's what this came down to. One way or another after tonight she would lose Albus, her friend, forever. She felt her last shreds of control slipping, knew she was on the verge of saying things to him that she'd never imagined putting into words. She closed her eyes, struggling to keep her emotions in check.

"June, look at me." His voice was soft, too soft. It made her feel weak, as though she was a child who needed speaking to gently. "Look at me," he repeated. "I'm not trying to hurt you, to threaten you. I just can't live like this anymore."

"Then this is my only choice, isn't it? If it comes down to an all or nothing decision…" She gazed up at him, feeling beaten. "There's only one thing I can do, isn't there?"

He watched her curiously, uncertainty and hope in his expression, as she moved closer to him. "You know what I'm going to say, don't you? You know that I couldn't stand here and let you walk away." She moved still closer, laying her hands softly on his arms. "If this is how it has to be, you win." His arms went around her and he bent his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "I've loved you since we were children, Albus," June continued. "It's not exactly what you want, but it's all I have to offer…"

She shuddered to a halt, the words failing her. Albus' mouth was inches from hers and he said, "Don't say anything you'll regret, June."

"Albus," she whispered, closing her eyes and clutching at his arms. She could feel his breath on her face, and tilted her head back to allow him to kiss her, but he pulled away, taking a step back from her.

"All I wanted was to know if there was a chance, a chance that you could feel something for me," he said, shaking his head. "Now I see that there is." He put a hand to her face. "I would never force you into anything. You do believe that, don't you?"

A bitter laugh forced itself from her throat. "Oh, Albus. You have no idea. Never force me? Everything about you forces me. Your every conviction, your certainty, your honor, your everything -- it forces me. Forces me to love you, and to be terrified of you and to never be sure of you." He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him with a hand. "I love you, but I don't know if I can be in love with you. Not the way you want. Is that enough for you?"

He paused, looking as though a million different things were on his tongue, but he didn't dare say any of them. Finally, instead, he said softly, "Will you think me a weak man if I say it is?"

June reached for him again, taking his hand in hers. "Just give me some time. Let me be with you without expectations, without this distance between us. You say you can't be my friend, but I'm asking you to try. I can't let you go, but I'm not sure of anything more." She looked up at him, fear and confusion and affection tangled together in her gut. For a moment she was afraid he wouldn't answer at all. He simply looked down at her with those unknowable blue eyes.

"Just like you, there's only one answer I can give. And you already know what it is, don't you?" His expression softened. "I can't walk away from you either." He stepped close to her again, wrapping his arms around her. She could smell his expensive pipe tobacco and the scent of old books and indigo ink that had been a part of him since she could remember. He tilted her face up toward him with a steady hand and placed a soft kiss on her cheek, just brushing the corner of her mouth with his lips. June closed her eyes, fighting the conflicting urges to flee from him and to kiss him back.

In the uncomfortably silent moment that followed, a sudden, piercing scream split the air, and they jumped apart guiltily.

"What was that?" June asked.

"I'm not sure," Albus replied, looking out over the veranda. "It sounded like it came from the garden, though." He glanced back at her. "Stay here. I'm going to go and see." The scream repeated, and Albus ran toward the sound, leaving June standing dumbfounded for a moment before she chased after him.

***

From the garden, Tom could just make out the gaily-dressed figures in the ballroom. Tchaikovsky's Waltz String Serenade floated on the night air, punctuated by tinkling female laughter and the clink of glasses meeting. Tom found himself much more at ease standing outside looking in on the scene than he'd been in the midst of it. This would have been his life if not for his father, this glitter, this ease, this world of cultured voices and polite corruption. It should have made him angry. It did, deep down, but it was an alien kind of anger. He couldn't touch it. It lived in him, but was so far removed somehow. Like internal combustion for his soul, it burned deep within, fueling everything he did, but never touching him.
He remembered a time when he was young -- before an escape from the prison of his Muggle life had been shown to him -- the burning inside him had needed an outlet. He'd nicked matches from the local shops, his preternatural stealth always ensuring he wouldn't be caught, and had lit them one after another. He let them burn to his fingers before dropping them to floor, hoping perversely that one would catch someday. The flickering flames hypnotized him, focused him, and he felt the burning anger flare and gutter and extinguish with the tiny fire, being drawn slowly out of him one match at a time. It kept him sane at a time when squalor and terror and pain lived in every shadow, at the very edges of his small life.

He'd escaped, and there was no need for fire anymore. His internal furnace burned low now, sustaining him, but never out of control. He had other outlets now.

Beside him, Metis watched his expression carefully, her blue eyes wide with what could only be fear. He stopped, dropping her hand and turning her toward him. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry," she began. "I know you must be angry with me."

"And why should I be angry?" Tom asked, a tiny part of him gratified to see her shift uncomfortably under his gaze. He stepped closer, invading her space, trapping her with his body, his presence. "Well? Tell me, lover. Did you enjoy his kiss? Is that why I should be angry? Would you rather I sent you back to him?"

"Tom, no. I didn't mean-"

"Well, then. I've no reason to be angry, do I?" He reached up to touch her hair. It was pinned up in thick, ebony coils; he hated it that way. Something in him wanted to tug out all those lithe silver pins and tangle himself in her. He wanted her hair wild and tousled, the way it looked when she was in his bed.

He pulled at one long loop of metal, feeling her hair slide like wet silk between his long fingers. Metis reached up and caught his hand. "Don't."

"Don't? Why? Will I ruin you?" He placed a kiss against her neck, smiling into the curve of her jaw. "I think it might be a little late for that."

"Tom…" She trailed off as his mouth covered hers.

He kissed her softly, but insistently, as if to reassure himself that she belonged to him, and only him. He could taste champagne on her mouth, feel her pulse pounding in time with his. She shifted uncomfortably against him, away from him, breaking his kiss and turning her head.

"We should go back. People will be wondering where we are." She began to move in the direction of the house, but he stopped her with one strong hand.

"Let them wonder." He breathed, pulling her back against him. "Do you really care what those people think of us, Metis? They're so small, their world is so small."

"But…"

"Stop," he said, pushing her against the back of a stone bench. "I want you here with me. Now. That's all that should matter to either of us."

"Oh, Tom. You're too… sometimes I fear that you'll swallow me up. I don't even know myself when I'm with you." She trembled beneath his touch, and he caught her mouth with his again.

He maneuvered them around to the front of the low bench. It was carved of some heavy stone, pale as the surface of the moon. Tom pushed Metis onto the seat, bracing his hands on either side of her. She lay beneath him, passive now, lust and fear in her dark eyes, her breasts rising and falling rapidly against his slender chest. He could feel her every movement through the crisp, pressed fabric of his clothing. He bent and kissed her, nothing hasty or hurried about it this time. He opened his eyes and watched her as they kissed, her black hair spilled on the stone beneath her, the tiny blue veins crisscrossing her eyelids, the way her dark lashes brushed against her skin. It wasn't enough. Never enough. He needed her warmth, her breath and the pulse, pulse, pulse of her blood beneath her skin. So close but separate. He needed her from within to give him heat, to give him life. He would gladly devour her if he thought it would make them one, if he thought her warmth would heat the icy places he could never touch inside himself. He broke off the kiss, fumbling almost desperately with the barriers of clothing between them.

"Tom, wait." Metis raised her head from its stone pillow, as if waking from a deep dream. "Wait." She sat up, spilling him off her. "Not here. Anyone could just walk by."

Uncharacteristically, he gave in. He could have forced the issue. Indeed, he'd done so before, when need and anguish had overpowered him. But this time he felt strangely drained: too tired to fight her, however pleasant the result. They walked back through the moonlit garden paths, aware suddenly that they were very alone. Even the other young lovers had abandoned the garden in favor of the house. The cool, clear night took on an oppressive hush, of held breath, of turning tides, of waiting for something. Something just beyond the flagged stones and trellised climbing roses shut, sleeping and silent in the grey winter.

"Tom," Metis began, looking up at him, dark hair framing her too-pale face, her eyes fearful again. "I don't think we should…"

She was cut off by a heavily accented voice from the dark just beyond them. "You cannot be allowed," it said, cold conviction and commitment beneath every syllable. Before they had time to react, a flash of silver arced through the air. Metis cried out, stumbling and falling heavily against Tom, as a man detached himself from the shadows of the garden.

He pointed evenly at Tom. "You cannot be allowed," he repeated, gesturing with his right hand. Silver flashed again in the moonlight and Tom realized that the man was holding a knife -- a silver knife, shaped like a crescent moon, and covered with blood. Tom caught his breath, realization dawning, and looked down at Metis. She clutched at his arm with her free hand. Her other hand held her side, blood black as tar in the dark seeping through her fingers. She looked into his eyes, and for a moment time stopped, leaving both of them rooted to the spot. Then the man lunged forward again.

The knife caught Metis a second time. She gasped, stumbling backward, her body still blocking Tom's. He reacted this time, shoving her behind him, and reaching for his wand. "Don't touch her again."

"She is not important, boy," the man said evenly, looking at Tom, through him, in a way that made his blood turn to ice. "You are the one who must be stopped. If the girl must die to destroy you, so be it."

"I could kill you before you took another step," Tom replied coldly. This insolent man who would take that which was Tom's own, as though it meant nothing, would die. Had to die. No one who defied him would live. He was Slytherin's heir, he was the future of magic, and any who thought differently were chaff that begged to be burned to make the field bear fruit. Tom smiled slowly at this thought. How poetic, almost like scripture. My scripture. My words as holy law.

"Defy this," he said aloud and cast a shaft of green energy at the other man who, very suddenly, was no longer there.

"You're arrogant, boy," the heavy slurring voice hissed up against his ear. "You may be powerful, terrible, someday but you're not there yet."

Before Tom could even take a breath, the man slashed the vicious, curved blade across Tom's ribs, moving with quick artful strokes. Opening his veins, parting his skin so quickly and surely there was no pain, no time to cry out. The blade burned like ice where it touched, bleeding him of magic, of power, as it spilled blood from his wounds. Slashing there, hot blood sticking the rough cloth of his shirt to his curved bones. And there, across the line of his cheekbone. And again there, cold fingers down his back, caressing his spine from tip to base like terrible lover's fingers. The man was a shadow, a phantom whisper of movement before he struck, the wicked whistling of sharp, slick metal through the air Tom's only warning. Metis lay huddled at his feet, a tangle of white limbs and black hair in the moonlight. She didn't move, didn't respond, even when he called her name. And then, just as he'd resolved to give in to the swirl of black and green at the edges of his vision, salvation.

The man cursed and jerked away, something causing him to drop his knife. Tom was aware of a figure at the edges of the path, burning with a crimson aura and shouting words in a language so old even Tom hadn't conquered them yet. Tom thudded to his knees, the hard, cold stones pricking and punishing his the flats of his hands. He stared at them distractedly, aware of the purple blood blossoming beneath the crisscrossed skin, and the fire-ice of his wounds. The side of his face burned and he brushed a hand over his cheek.

"Tom?" a familiar voice was saying. A hand lighted softly on his shoulder. "Can you understand me, Tom?"

Running footsteps, then. And another shadow-figure entering the clearing.

"Albus! Oh, my god."

"June, help me. He's hurt."

Dumbledore, then. Dumbledore and his leggy Ministry blonde. Of course. Just the sorts to come running to the rescue. Tom laughed irrationally, the sound bubbling up from his stomach and dribbling past his lips. A pair of soft hands replaced Dumbledore's on Tom's shoulders. The scent of vanilla and anise filled his senses, and he felt long, manicured fingers steadying his neck.

"Tom? Are you all right? Please answer." A pause. "Albus, what the hell happened out here?"

"I don't know." Dumbledore's voice sounded uncharacteristically strained, as he bent over the shadow-man's fallen form a few feet away. "I-" He faltered, then scrambled to his feet, rushing toward the shadow of a large rosebush. "June, go get help now."

"What? Albus, what is it?" She broke off, then gasped softly, and tried to pull Tom in the other direction. Then he saw what June and Dumbledore did: Metis, half-hidden by the treacherous shadows, lying in a slick pool, like black glass, like crude oil. Blood, the same color as her hair in the half-light, thick on the flagged stones and clinging to her pale, blue-tinged skin.

Tom flung June's hands off his back and lunged toward Metis, sending June sprawling hard on the garden path.

"Tom, don't." Dumbledore put out a restraining arm. Tom stumbled into it, slipping and falling to the ground next to Metis. As he looked into her pale face, the world tilted on its side. He put a frigid, shaking hand to his temple, feeling the blackness threatening the edges of his vision again, and decided not to fight it.

***

"Go, June. Now." Albus said, looking from Tom to June, sitting white-faced on the cold ground. "Just go and get someone. I'll do what I can for them."

Shakily she nodded, and set off running down the path, her wine red dress robes uncomfortably like the color of blood. Albus tore his gaze from her retreating form and forced himself to look at the scene around him. Tom clutched at Metis, ignoring his own wounds, blood flowing through his fingers as he tried uselessly to push life back into her.

"Don't do this," the boy was whispering incoherently. "You know better than this. This is not how it happens. We both know that, damn it."

Albus tried to pull Tom gently away. "Come on," he said softly, hoping he could get through. "You're not helping her like this. Come on…"

But Tom refused to give way. He cradled her in his arms, both of them blood-soaked, Metis' face very white against Tom's dark robes. Her eyes were closed and her lips bloodless. Albus feared very much that she was already beyond hope. Tom began to shake, trembling so violently that he seemed likely to be seized by a fit.

"Tom, let me help her," Albus said more forcefully. He yanked the boy away, harder than he'd intended, leaving Tom in a limp, shuddering tangle of limbs on the walk. Albus leaned close to Metis, trying to do what he could to slow the bleeding, knowing full well that his amateurish efforts could be for nothing.

"Kopil."

Albus' head jerked up at the sound. In the shadows, Tom and Metis' attacker regained consciousness and was staring at Albus with poisonous hatred.

"Ju kopil." The man spat the curse again, attempting to lever himself up on one arm, only to discover he was bound tightly.

Albus looked back down at Metis. She was still breathing, barely, the shallow movements of her chest making his own ache as he watched. The bleeding had slowed to nearly nothing, whether from his spells or the fact that she had nothing left to bleed he wasn't sure. Either way, there was nothing more he could do. He stood, crossing over to Tom, rolling him over onto his back, taking his pulse, trying to keep him still. The boy was clearly in shock, his pulse thready, his breathing erratic, but his wounds were minor in comparison.

"You," the man hissed from his shadow. "You interfered. Have you any idea what you've done?" He reached out and gripped Albus' arm hard, searching for something in his gaze. "Perhaps you do. Or you're about to." A strangely calm expression passed over the man's face. "Be it on your head then," he said, with a sense of finality. With some difficulty, he placed his other hand over his chest, mumbling an alien incantation. His grip on Albus' wrist shuddered, convulsed and went slack. He was dead.

Albus jerked away, the man's hand falling to the ground as he did. He sat down hard on the path, looking from Metis' crumpled form to the uneven rise and fall of Tom's chest to the too-still shadow of the dead man, and wondered what to do now.

"Albus!" a faint voice carried down through the darkened garden paths to him. June came running followed by a stream of people from the house. "Albus."

He stood as she skidded to a halt beside him, grabbing hold of him to steady herself, her face pale and drawn. "They're coming. Help is coming." Indeed, on the heels of their panicked hosts came a squad of mediwizards and MLE officers. "They Apparated right over." She looked down at Metis. "Oh, I hope we aren't too late."

"Not yet," he said softly, "though I can't imagine what they can do for her."

"Oh, damn," he heard one of the officers say. "We've got three down. I thought you said there were only two?"

Albus turned to them wearily. "The boy's all right, just in shock. And the man who did this… He's dead. Killed himself with a curse, I don't know what it was."

June turned to him in shock, tightening her grip on his arm, but didn't ask any further questions.

"Come on, Albus, June," Brantley Middleton said, white-faced. "Let's get out of the way so these gentlemen can do their jobs. Slowly Albus nodded and let June lead him back through the garden and up to the house, now ablaze with lights from every window. He looked down at their hands, fingers entwined as they walked, then up to her face, white and worried in the light from the open French doors.

An overwhelming urge to say everything he hadn't been able to earlier that evening swept over him. "June, I-"

"June! Darling!" Hayden pushed his way through the knot of people on the terrace, running nimbly down the steps toward them. "Good lord, June. They're saying people are dead… Bloody hell." He grabbed her by the shoulders, looking down into her face. "Are you quite all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just fine…" June allowed Hayden to pull her away and draw her aside from the crowd.

Left alone, Albus spotted Gaea's pale, concerned face among the spectators. She moved to his side and put a hand on his arm. "Albus? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I just can't understand…" He shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Come on." She tugged at his arm. "Come inside. You need a drink."

Numbed, he looked around for June, but she'd disappeared with Hayden. Gaea pushed him gently but firmly in the direction of the house. "Come on, Albus. Please. You've done everything you could. Let me take care of you. All right?"

As they crossed the threshold, he noticed the blood on his hands. Was it Tom's? Metis'? Or a thousand others'? What a strange thought to have. But something in the way that man looked at him… Albus shook his head again. No. He couldn't afford those thoughts. The ravings of a madman, of a murderer. Gaea still had hold of him, guiding him into the quiet of the Middleton's library. He sat heavily in an overstuffed leather chair by the fire, holding his bloodied hands away from him.

"Here." Gaea wiped them clean with a swish of her wand. She waved it over his robes as well; wiping away blood soaking his chest and sleeves that he hadn't even noticed was there. "They're going to want to talk to you, Albus. They're already talking to Miss Lisbon. But I thought you should have a moment first." She knelt beside the chair, pressing a glass of warm brandy into his hands. "Albus? Are you all right? This isn't like you. I know it must have been terrible but…"

He turned to look at her. "I know. It's just something about this… It feels wrong. Do you know what I mean, Gaea? It feels like I've done something irreparable, and I don't know whether I acted for good or ill."

Gaea looked up at him, still on her knees by the fire, shock coloring her expression. "Albus, they said you saved that boy's life. I can't believe…"

He took her hand in his, and stared into the flickering orange flames behind the scorched grate of the ancient fireplace.

"I understand," she said, at last. "That man, the one who… You're wondering whether he had to die. Oh, Albus." She flung her arms around his waist. "Don't do this to yourself. There isn't anyone as good, as fair as you are. I'm sure you did everything you could."

He stroked a hand over her hair, unable to shake the feeling that he'd been wrong. That he'd set something in motion tonight and was powerless to stop it, to stay its course. He wasn't sure how long they sat that way in front of the fire, before a knock came at the door.

"Albus… Oh, I'm sorry." June stood in the doorway, framed by bright yellow light from the hallway, contrasting sharply with the honey-gold reflection of the fire. Gaea released him and stood up, Albus got to his feet himself.

They- The MLE, they want to speak with you now." She smiled at him a bit shakily. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, June. I'm fine. I'll be fine." We'll all be fine, he thought, but without much conviction.

***