Dreamwalk Blue

CHAPTER SIX -- THE PAINS OF SLEEP

There may be trouble ahead

But while there's music and moonlight

And love and romance

Let's face the music and dance

Soon, we'll be without the moon

Humming a different tune - and then...

There may be teardrops to shed

So while there's music and moonlight

And love and romance

Let's face the music and dance

(let's face the music and dance irving berlin, 1936)

Death was in the room when Tom awoke.

He could smell it in the metallic tang of blood that stained his clothing, could feel its cold caress in the gashes on his arms and back. It crouched in every shadow and sat invisibly on Tom's chest like an icy, leaden weight.

Tom burned and froze with poisonous fever in turns, unable to control the shuddering in his limbs until someone forced him to drink something thick and equally hot and cold. Then the tremors stopped and he fell into unconsciousness again.

But when he woke again -- maybe minutes, maybe hours later, Death was still waiting.

It smiled at Tom from the shadows, causing a shiver to pass through everyone in the room. A kind-faced, young woman leaned over Tom then and asked if he was feeling better.

"Where is she?" he croaked in a voice that sounded wholly unfamiliar. The woman exchanged an unreadable glance with a quiet, competent-looking man in the corner.

"Who, Tom?" she said, instead.

"Don't be feeble!" he snapped, suddenly angry. "You know perfectly well who I mean!"

"Now, don't upset yourself," said the man with a hint of warning in his voice. "You wait here quietly and we'll see what we can do."

Tom submitted immediately, sitting, cooperating, fearful lest they give him another sleeping draught. The man and woman left, speaking quietly to one another, fastening the door as they went. Tom lay back, knowing the meaning of their careful omissions, but not ready to accept the truth of it.

After an indeterminate amount of time, they came back to admit to him that she was dead, their voices hushed and placating.

"We're terribly sorry to have to tell you this, Tom. But it's better you know now..."

"She held on longer than any of us had any right to expect..."

"Do you want to see her, Tom? You don't have to, of course, but if you want..."

He'd jumped out of his bed at these words. Yes, he'd see her. Of course he would. Had they thought he'd say no?

The woman, likely a nurse of some sort, led him from the room, Tom padding softly behind her down the corridor, the torches guttering and shying in heavy bronze sconces on the walls, freezing stones beneath his bare feet.

Tom looked around him curiously. Was this St. Mungo's? It had to be. The stone was ancient. They passed rooms filled with books and equipment dating back to ancient times. And beneath the veneer of these civilized rooms, were the hints and echoes of a time when this place had been used to hurt as well as heal.

After an aching eternity of walking, they stopped outside an ominously closed door. The nurse turned to Tom.

"Would you like me to come in with you?"

"No," he replied firmly. "I want to be alone with her."

He pushed the door open, closing it decidedly behind him as he slipped through. In the eerie half-light Tom could make out a long, flat stone table surrounded by abandoned medical and magical devices.

Metis lay on the smooth, silver stone, her eyes closed, her lips blue in the dim. Her hair spilled over the sides on the table, and Tom was put in mind of a childhood fairy tale about a sleeping princess in a glass coffin. In that story, all the princess had needed was a kiss from her prince.

In real life, however, Death demanded a slightly dearer ransom.

Tom fumbled beneath his robes, hoping the mediwizards hadn't taken everything from him when they changed his clothes. His fingers closed around a smooth, metal token on a chain around his neck. It was still there. It had been his grandfather's, and one of the few things his mother had left him. It wasn't until he reached Hogwarts that he'd realized what a powerful magical item it was.

Tom hadn't used it often; the price for the power it summoned was too high. But this, now... He didn't feel he had any choice. He moved closer to the stone table, leaning over Metis' body. He stroked a hand over her still, pale face, and took a deep, steadying breath.

They'd left her for dead, but she was still there. Tom could feel her when he placed his hands against her body. She was still warm, just barely; her pulse stilled, but it wasn't too late. Those fools hadn't even tried to save her.

He would have to be careful. He'd heard of other attempts gone badly wrong. If Metis had been there even a moment too long, bringing her back, ripping her from that sleep could fracture her fragile mind. But he had to try. He had no other choice.

She was still in there, just below the surface. He could feel her, almost hear her if he strained. She wasn't ready yet. All he had to do was reach out his hand and pull her back.

He unclasped the chain from around his neck, winding it around one palm. With the other hand he groped around the table for something sharp. He found a long, thin blade, its silver polish stained dark with Metis' blood. Tom dropped to his knees in front of the table, using part of his concentration to hold the door shut, lest the nurse come looking for him. His eyes fixed on Metis' face, Tom hefted the knife, took a breath, and brought it down across the palm that held the chain. Stifling a gasp of pain, Tom gingerly took the blade in his now-bleeding hand and cut across the other palm. He grasped the talisman more tightly between his slashed palms, feeling the heavy chain bite into bloodied flesh, kneeling on the cold stones beside her bed like a penitent.

Once he did this, it was irreversible -- the blood pact bound them together with Death's power for all eternity, but Tom didn't care. He wondered idly in the back of his mind if Metis would.

She would not, he decided, if the alternative meant being separated forever. His mind was made up, then. He steeled his resolve and squeezed his palms together, trailing his own blood on the floor.

He reached up with one finger and smeared some of the congealed blood from the wound in Metis' arm, mixing it as best he could with his own on the stone floor, and began to draw. In the middle of a crimson circle, Tom mumbled under his breath. He could feel Death in this room now, in one of its many guises. Tom didn't care about any of that, he just wanted to make it let go of Metis.

He struggled, like a mental tug of war, sweat sprouting on his brow, his bloodied fingers trembling, the talisman swaying back and forth with the effort. The visions behind his eyes grew green and distorted. He could taste blood in his mouth and imagined he could feel it mingling with the sweat on his face and neck. Tom felt as though he heard Metis' voice, could smell the scent of her hair free from the stench of blood, could feel her heartbeat. He focused on that...beat, beat, beat... until he could feel the steady rhythm in time with his own pumping heart. Tom imagined pushing his breath into Metis' body, he pushed and pushed in his mind until he could see her chest rising and falling in time with his own. The moment struggled and faltered like a fish on a line, teetering dangerously, and then something tore free. With a wrenching pop, Tom was flung backward from his knees. He looked up at the body on the bed in half-fearful anticipation.

Metis' eyes flew open, and she took a gasping breath, as though he'd pulled her from icy water.

Death laughed in its shadowed corner, with a promise that it would be seeing them both again, and slipped through a crack underneath the door.

Tom stumbled to his feet and toward Metis. She sat upright on the table, sending gleaming metal equipment clattering to the floor and looking around wildly. Tears tumbled down her cheeks and she choked on them as she tried to breathe. Tom caught her around the waist and held her to him.

He called for the nurse waiting just beyond the door, at the same moment tipping a nearby basin of water over his hands and the blood on the floor, eliminating any clue of the magic he'd done. He slipped the talisman back into his robes, and began to rub Metis' hands, trying to bring warmth back into her cold fingers. She struggled against him, trying to push him away.

"No, Tom," she sobbed. "Why?" She choked and shuddered again. "Why?"

The nurse flew into the room, skidding to halt at the sight of them, raw disbelief on her face. She turned and fled into the hall, calling wildly for one of the doctors.

The room filled with light and people then, all gasping and murmuring about miracles, but Tom ignored them. He held tightly to Metis' hand even after they began to examine her.

The color was returning to Metis' cheeks and lips, and her breathing steadied. The disorientation cleared from her eyes and she watched Tom intently from where she lay.

He leaned down and brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead. She grabbed hold of his neck, reaching up weakly to whisper, "How many more times do you intend to save me, Tom?"

Tom didn't answer. Even Death, it seemed, had its price. But Tom had no intention of ever paying the debt.

***

June, 1944

Summer had rapidly become Tom's favorite season. The school belonged to him alone, its halls quiet and cool, spending lazy afternoons by the lake. This was the second year in a row he'd been allowed to stay here and it was more than he could have hoped.

Today, Tom lay hidden among the rushes at the lake's edge, a book open face-down on his chest, one hand trailing in the water, the other tangled in Metis' cool hair.

"I'm glad you're here," he said softly. Metis sighed in agreement and moved closer to him on the soft, blue blanket.

"I like this," she murmured. "It's as though the whole castle belongs only to us."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" He smiled down at her. "Perhaps someday."

He levered himself up on one elbow and bent in to kiss her. He caught her lower lip between his sharp, even teeth, one hand stroking the side of her face, the other fiddling idly with the buttons of her blouse.

"You won't leave me, will you?" he murmured as the last button came free.

"No. Never. You wouldn't let me, would you?" She arched up into the touch of his hand on her bare stomach. Tom kissed her again, then pulled back looking down at her.

In the one place her skin hadn't been repaired, a thin scar remained where the knife had glanced off her ribs. The scar was very small, the lone reminder of her brush with death, the one imperfection on her otherwise smooth skin. Tom bent low and kissed along the faint, hairline mark, flicking his tongue over the puckered skin. Metis tangled her fingers in his hair. "Don't," she said, as though his touch hurt her. "I don't like to be reminded of it."

He lifted his head, resting one hand on her belly. "It reminds me how close I came to losing you. Let me remember, Metis. I need to remember how that felt."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't imagine how it was. Should anything ever take you from me, I'm certain I would die."

"I wanted to die. Left all alone, with you cold in my arms." He shivered. "Never again. I won't let that happen again."

He slid up her body and kissed her mouth. She wrapped her arms around him, as if to assure him that her flesh was still warm.

"But you saved me... again. You brought me back -- I still don't know how you did that, Tom." Metis opened her eyes to look up at him, cupping his face with one hand.

"Death is like anything else, Metis. There isn't anything that can't be overcome."

"And you think you know how?" The expression on her face was concerned now.

"Don't worry. I only have the idea of it now I see that it's really possible. But I'll be careful." He kissed her again, feeling her mouth relax under his and her whole body seem to open to him. She let him pull her arms wide and pin them to the ground.

A bird called out in the afternoon stillness, but the only other sounds were the gentle lapping of lake water against the shore and slight breeze rustling leaves in the forest. They were breathing together in time with the rippling water, and Tom felt that all was as it should be.

***

La Traviata had never been one of June's favorite operas. Violetta and Alfredo were too melodramatic for her taste, and his father a cardboard cut-out villain. But still, she admitted to herself, closing her eyes and leaning back against her heavy burgundy plush chair to listen to Sempre Libera, the music was beautiful.

In their darkened box, high above the melodramatics of the lovers on the stage, Albus reached over and almost shyly placed his hand over hers. June's eyes flew open at the small, unexpected touch, but she managed to quash the impulse to pull her hand away.

Turning her attention to Albus, though, brought a smile to her face. For their foray out into the Muggle world he'd been forced to trim his hair and beard, lest they be even more conspicuous than they were bound to be already.

"Sapped all your strength, Samson?" she'd teased when he'd come to collect her that evening.

"Perhaps I should have let you cut it off in that case," he'd smiled in return, before assuring her that he could grow it back with the swish of a wand whenever he pleased.

He still looked slightly uncomfortable, a bit like a newly-shorn lamb, ill at ease and not entirely sure where to put his feet. He turned to her, as though reading her thoughts, and said quietly, "At least you look lovely, though." Which earned him a not entirely serious slap on the arm.

Once he'd turned back to the stage, flipping his gold opera glasses expertly with one agile wrist, June ran an appreciative eye over him. He looked completely unlike himself, it was true, but she thought the dinner jacket suited him nicely. Lord only knew if it was proper Muggle attire for the opera -- even June's knowledge of Muggle fashions didn't extend quite that far. But she thought they cut a rather dashing pair, nonetheless. She smoothed the pale gold and black damask of her own gown with appreciation.

During the interval, she waited while Albus sought out overpriced cocktails for them both. June lit a cigarette patiently, and watched the crowd ebb and flow around her in the high-ceilinged foyer. At least here there was no chance of running into anyone they knew. People were beginning to talk about them, and it made her very uncomfortable. June should have been used to that kind of attention, but somehow, this was different than the speculations about her relationship with Hayden. Perhaps, because in this case, she knew that the rumors were rooted in some kind of truth.

The evening slipped past, bringing the opera to its tragic conclusion -- Violetta wasted away with consumption and guilt, Alfredo admitted he still loved her, his father repented and no one was really very surprised. Afterward the crowd spilled out into Covent Garden, fumbling their well-dressed ways through the unlit square, a ritual that had become second nature after four years of blackouts.

Stumbling slightly through the darkness, Albus and June managed to hail a taxi, its headlamps all but covered with some sort of heavy, oiled paper.

"Where to?" the driver asked, and once again June marveled at the way the Muggles adapted to this war. With every trip she made into Muggle London, she got a feeling of mixed respect and discomfort. And though the tide of the war finally appeared to be turning in Britain's favor, June still felt uneasy.

Albus gave the driver an address near June's flat, as there was no way a Muggle taxi could get any closer to it. Albus was spending the better part of the summer at his mother's townhouse in Regents Park, but he insisted on seeing June home, despite her protests.

In the wide backseat of the taxi, June turned to him and said, with a rueful half-smile, "Really, Albus. You're being terribly Victorian about this. It's so far out of your way and..."

"Victorian?" he smiled back. "I think I'll take that as a compliment. My mother tried to bring me up as a gentleman -- it's good to see her efforts weren't completely wasted." He reached for her hand again, somehow finding it effortlessly in the dark. "I know I promised not to pressure you -- and I've tried not to..."

"Albus, really... I..." June tried to pull her hand away.

"There's no need to sound so panicked. I'm not about to propose marriage or anything so terrible as that," he said softly. "I just thought you might enjoy a trip to the country. I'm going to Abingdon to see my dear old Aunt Ada. But I didn't want you to think I was presenting you to the family or anything like that."

June couldn't stifle a laugh. "Yes, especially as your entire family has known me since I was four. Honestly, Albus. If I didn't know you better I'd say you were making fun of me."

"So does that mean you'll go?" She could hear the laughter in his voice, tinged with something like relief.

"Why not? A nice drive into the country would do me good."

"You want me to drive, do you?"

"It would be rather refreshing, don't you think? If you don't want to, I could always drive."

"Oh, no. It better be me -- more gentlemanly that way. Definitely more Victorian." The upholstery creaked as he leaned back against the seat, and June could feel the warm pressure of his shoulder against hers. "Well, that's settled then."

***

A few days later, Albus entered the eerily quiet halls of the British Museum, bypassing closed and empty exhibits for the North Library. Most of the art treasures and other important pieces had been secured in underground shelters, while only the Library remained open to the public.

Only a few scattered readers haunted the Library when Albus reached it. Making sure no one was watching, he moved along the shelves until he found the volume he desired. He slid his wand out from beneath his sleeve and tapped the Abbé Fausse-Maigre's The Higher Common Sense once smartly with the tip.

A section of the high bookcase shimmered, and very suddenly was no longer there. Albus slipped through into a cool, hidden corridor lit only by torches. The corridor opened into a wide, marble entryway, lit by an enormous gothic chandelier, with corridors off-shooting in different directions from the atrium. In the center of the entryway a large display held a piece of parchment inscribed with an enchanted map and the words "Welcome to the British Museum of Magical History." Albus looked down at the map, quickly locating a tiny figure with the words "You Are Here" blinking above its head.

Abandoning the map, Albus chose the rightmost corridor and headed off in the direction of the research staff offices. Once there, a courteous receptionist greeted him and directed him to the appropriate office.

With a promise that his host would be there shortly, Albus settled himself in Brendan Pendrell's cramped, untidy office, adjusting his spectacles for a closer look at a flawlessly rendered copy of one of Helga Hufflepuff's journals.

"What are you hoping to find, Albus?" Pendrell asked, entering the room a few moments later bearing a tea tray and a huge, toothy grin.

"Hello, Brendan," Albus said, standing to shake the other man's hand. "Wonderful to see you again."

"Likewise. You've been hiding yourself away lately." Pendrell took a seat behind his desk. "Sorry about the entrance, by the way -- it's a bloody nuisance having to come in the back way, but with the Muggle wing of the museum being closed there's little we can do about it." The main entrance to the Magical History Wing was through an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus that was currently residing safely beneath the Aldwych tube station. "So what can I do for you today?"

"I'm a step ahead of you," Albus replied, holding up the copy of Hufflepuff's journal. "You just happened to leave the exact item I needed lying about on your desk."

"Really?" Pendrell looked intrigued. "This isn't about that impossible book of Scoresby and Dent's, is it?"

"I'm afraid it is. I think I'm rather close to something."

Pendrell laughed good-naturedly. "Albus, really... The finest minds in England determined that book to be nothing more than a hoax -- an extremely clever hoax, but a hoax nonetheless. How do you take your tea, anyway?"

"Just black, thanks." Albus returned the smile, and accepted a mismatched cup and saucer. "Well, that's where I differ from your opinion, Brendan. And I mean to find proof."

"Well, I'll do what I can to help, old man, but I hate to see you tilting at windmills." Pendrell sipped his tea in silence while Albus flipped through the journal, occasionally making notes.

"I say!" Pendrell said, suddenly. "Would you like a glimpse at the original? The exhibit is closed for the moment, but I'm sure I could sneak you in. The copies are well and good, but they don't include any of the artwork."

"If you don't mind at all..."

"Of course not! What good is a position of responsibility if one can't abuse it every once in awhile?"

Gulping down the remainder of their tea, Albus followed Pendrell out of his office and through the labyrinthine corridors. They ended in a marble-floored, circular room, which placards proudly declared held the exhibits on "Early British Magic -- Pre-Roman Paganism to the Early Christian Period."

Pendrell grinned, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling with the movement, and waved a hand around. "Well, old friend, here it is. My little fiefdom. I'm rather proud of the new pieces, I must say."

He stepped up to a display where several ancient, leather and brass-bound books seemed to revolve in midair. Easily disarming the wards, he reached in, pulled out one of the volumes, and handed it to Albus. As if of its own accord, the book fell open in Albus' hands, revealing a page with no written words, but instead a detailed sketch drawn by a talented hand. Albus' eyes widened.

From over his shoulder, Pendrell chuckled. "Gave the art history chaps a time of it with those." He laughed again. "Our Helga was a bit before her time. Look at the perspective..." He traced a finger along the illustration. "She could have single-handedly brought about the Renaissance if she'd wanted."

Albus stared down at the subjects of the drawing -- according to the note in the margin, a young Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw. They stood beside a lake that looked somehow familiar to Albus, their hands clasped over something between them, their eyes defiant, looking like a pair of rebel angels.

"These journals are the only surviving personal records we have of any of the Founders. Until Le Fanu stumbled across them in 1909, we were even more in the dark about the Founders than we are now." Pendrell picked a second book from the display. "Unfortunately, the journals begin in Hufflepuff's childhood, stop when she's in her late teens and don't start up again until nearly one hundred years after the Gryffindor-Slytherin Schism." Pendrell chuckled. "The old girl lived a nice, long life. We figure she was just nigh of two hundred when she finally passed on. But whether the journals for the missing years never existed or she destroyed them is anybody's guess.

"Now here's her first entry after she started back up again... Near as we can tell, both men were dead at this point." He gingerly opened the book to an appropriate page to illustrate. "Hufflepuff certainly refers to them as though they are, but that's pretty ambiguous evidence. It would be helpful if there were a reliable way of dating the journals, but that's another point of contention -- experts have dated them as being anywhere from eight-hundred to twelve-hundred years old."

"So the only thing we know conclusively is that we don't know anything conclusively?" Albus asked with a raised eyebrow and laughter in his voice.

Pendrell grinned back, running a hand through his sandy hair. "You said it." He shook his head. "I don't envy you this task, Albus. I can't think of a more controversial piece of wizarding history. Even if you do find anything conclusive, you're going to have a hell of a time getting anyone to listen." He carefully put the book he was holding back in the display. "I'm not sure I subscribe to any of the theories about what exactly happened during those missing years -- but one thing I am sure of is that it had to be something pretty disastrous. Otherwise, the pieces of the puzzle won't fit, you know?"

Albus smiled at his old friend. "Do you have any theories of your own?"

"Oh, not really. Nothing publishable at any rate," Pendrell threw him a sidelong glance. "But I do know that I don't buy the sanitized version we teach in our schools."

"Good lord, Brendan! You haven't joined the camp that thinks the falling out was over some woman, have you?" Albus asked, laughing.

"I'm not so far gone as that. But there is some validity to that argument... Don't make that face, old man. Hear me out... As I was saying, that argument has some validity as an additional factor. I wouldn't go so far as to say that was the cause of it all, but a rivalry between the two men may have exacerbated the situation, or even have been the seed that germinated it all, so to speak."

"Then the question remains, who was the lady? And what did she have to say about it all?"

Pendrell clapped Albus on the shoulder. "That we may never know. But let me show you something else..." He led Albus over to a second display, similar to the first, but slightly disorderly. "Excuse the mess, we're reorganizing these -- Here, we have texts written, we believe, by all four -- mainly academic stuff -- from before the Schism. Essays on the nature of magic and the like. Nothing like what you're looking for, but you're more than welcome to take copies. There may be some clue we've all missed."

Pendrell summoned a research assistant, giving the young woman a list of copied texts to pull for Albus, and then led them back to his office.

"Those will be waiting for you at the desk on your way out. I sincerely hope they help." Pendrell sat and poured second cups of tea for them both. "Now let's have a look at this infamous book of yours."

Obligingly, Albus hefted the book onto the desk between them and opened it to the last passage he'd translated. "I know you don't believe this book is worth the paper it's printed on, Brendan, but I really think I'm onto something. This is what I'm trying to run down -- I've just finished translating these late passages. Ravenclaw-" Here Pendrell looked skeptical. "If it truly was Ravenclaw," Albus amended. "But here she writes about Slytherin's heir in detail. And what I'm trying to get to the bottom of is this passage where she talks about the four Keystones -- four events that have to take place before the Heir of Slytherin shows hims-" Abruptly he stopped. "You don't buy a word of this, do you?"

The other man shrugged. "Albus, you've got to admit, it sounds like something out of a penny dreadful. Ancient prophecies, hidden artifacts and a "chosen" one -- really. Just add in a decrepit, old manor house with a mad aunt locked in the attic and you'd find yourself on the Times' bestseller list."

"The fact remains that there are too many unanswered questions about the Founders to ignore this. This book was dismissed far too quickly by people unwilling to face the possible truths about the foundations we've based modern wizarding society on."

"Albus, I'm not debating that point. I know as well as anyone what a tinderbox the Slytherin question is -- anything that sheds light on it should not be ignored. But conversely, one shouldn't necessarily accept something wholesale because it seems to shed light on the question."

Albus laughed, raising his hands in concession. "Pax. We'll agree to disagree. I've needed a good academic wrangle, and you are a worthy opponent."

"Well, I'll leave you to your intrigues and cryptic prophecies, and you can leave me to my ancient papers and deadly dull fundraisers. But," he chuckled, "if you find a cursed ruby that was once the eye of some vengeful Eastern idol, I want a percentage of the spoils."

"That's quite enough of that..." Albus began, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

But Pendrell was on a roll. "Or, perhaps, you'll be waylaid by the idol's cult, determined to return their god's eye to its sacred resting place, or get shanghaied by a Chinese opium merchant, or..."

"Does the Academy know about your pleasure reading habits? I'm surprised they allow that sort of thing at the Historian's Club."

Pendrell waved a dismissive hand. "I just hide my Muggle paperbacks inside a thick copy of Bagshot's Magi-Historical Compendium and no one's ever the wiser."

"Anyway, Brendan, I'm off for the weekend. Thanks for your help."

"I only hope it does some good," the other man replied. "Where are you headed to, anyway?"

"Oh, just out to the country," Albus said, casually.

Pendrell grinned again. "With that delicious blonde of yours, no doubt. I don't know how you do it." He shook his head. "Well, if you are going to be in the country, I'd suggest avoiding any foggy, midnight strolls. And mind you don't sleepwalk!"

"Really, Brendan..." Albus shook his head helplessly, gathering up his books and papers and moving to leave.

"And stay off the moors!" Pendrell laughed, and showed Albus to the door.

***

'I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings,' Tom quoted to himself as he waited. As a child, he'd taught himself to read on cheap detective thrillers and pulpy paperbacks, filching them from the sale bins of shabby bookstops and reading them by the light of a stub of waxy candle beneath his covers. The scene before him now could well have been from one of those stories.

The mid-summer moon was full and silver-white, casting its reflected light on the purple highlands. Clouds like ripped and torn cotton wool rippled across the night sky, occasionally blocking the moonlight and turning the moor to pitch.

Somewhere a wolf howled in the distance. And still Tom waited.

After a few more minutes, someone else appeared on the moor. "Well, you picked a hell of a place for a meeting," said Denis Cathcart, sauntering over to where Tom stood, flanked by a pair of heavy, stone pillars.

"Hello, Denis," Tom said carefully. "I'd begun to think you weren't coming."

"So what is this all about, Tom?" Denis asked, insolently casual as always.

"I just thought we needed to clear a few things up between us," Tom replied, as the other boy joined him between the pillars.

"Oh, come on. You can't still be angry about New Year's. That was simply ages ago -- and, anyway, I proved my point."

"What point was that, Denis?" Tom asked softly.

"Metis has too strong a hold over you. You know it, and that's why it bothered you so much. If you're really serious about being a leader, you needed to see that-" Denis cut off abruptly as Tom caught hold of his wrist with one long-fingered hand.

"That's not why, and we both know it. You crave power for yourself -- not a bad thing, necessarily. If you weren't hungry, you'd be useless to me. But you gamble too much, Denis. You're reckless, and worse than that, you're stupid. You spend your power and charm needlessly, betting on losing propositions as easily as winning ones. I can't allow that, not when it threatens to compromise me and all that I've worked to achieve." Tom reached out and, almost effortlessly, caught Denis' other wrist in an iron grip. "Did you really think that I would let you get away with all that?"

The moment hung between them, silent except for the stirring of the wind, and faint animal cries in the distance.

The older boy met Tom's gaze defiantly. "You want a fight, Tom? Once and for all to decide who's really in charge here?" He grinned insolently. "I'm more than happy to oblige you. I think you underestimate me."

"No," Tom said, evenly. "I don't want a fight." Abruptly, Tom produced his wand, seemingly from nowhere. He twirled it once between his slender fingers, before thin cords burst from the tip, snaking around Denis' wrists and ankles, tying firm knots and leaving him bound by the arms between the two pillars. He hung there for a moment in shock; his arms stretched grotesquely, the shoulders nearly dislocated. Tom stepped back, admiring his handy work, cocking his head to listen to the howling of the wolves, now closer and more frequent.

"Wait?! What the bloody hell? This isn't funny!" Denis cried, realizing abruptly what was making those sounds.

"I'm told," Tom continued carelessly, "that they used to stake traitors out on this spot and leave them for the wolves -- not ordinary wolves, of course."

Denis cursed viciously, and pulled at the restraints.

"Oh, they'll hold. I made sure of that." Tom leaned in close. "You must understand that I am deadly serious about this. You played a very stupid game and lost. That has consequences." He relieved the other boy of his wand, tossing it to the ground, just out of reach. "You can't get away, Denis, those ropes aren't the only things holding you here. It was rather stupid of you -- going out by yourself on the night of the full moon. Don't you agree?"

"You will not get away with this, Tom. Someone will know."

"How? Did you tell anyone where you were going? Who you were going to meet?" Tom smiled crookedly. "I didn't think so."

Denis turned and peered into the night, his face white with terror, trying to see how close the werewolves actually were. "Tom, please..."

Tom moved forward, leaning in to speak in the other boy's ear. "Have you learned your lesson, then?"

"Yes! Damn it all! Let me go!"

Tom stepped back, studying Denis for a long minute, indecision on his face. Finally, he said, "I think not. You always were a wretched pupil, Denis. Somehow I don't think even this would educate you."

Tom glanced up at the moon, smiling as a cloud drifted free and spilled cold, white light on the darkened ground. He moved away from the stone pillars, leaving Denis shouting after him and pulling uselessly on the enchanted ropes.

"I'll see you in hell for this, Tom!" Denis all but shrieked.

"I very seriously doubt that," Tom replied over his shoulder, and Disapparated.

***

The morning they were to leave for Abingdon dawned bright and breezy, which June took as a good omen. She allowed Albus to settle her in the Daimler, while he chivalrously struggled with her bags, stubbornly refusing to use magic to make them fit in the boot. Muggle cars whizzed past, screaming around Piccadilly Circus and onto Regent St. without, it appeared to June, regard for anyone's safety.

It took all of her will not to get out of the passenger's seat and help him. "Albus, you're making me feel useless!" she complained, craning her head around to watch him cram in the last of the bags and slam the lid.

"There. That's done at least." He slid into the driver's seat and smiled at her.

She reached out an unthinking hand toward his hair, but stopped herself in time. "Still short, I see. I would have thought you'd grow it back immediately."

"Yes, well, I thought I'd leave it for awhile and give my mother a thrill."

The engine started with a groan of protest, but was soon thrumming with a steady rhythm. They left London behind quickly, the road opening to green fields on either side, red-bricked, small towns dotting the way as they went.

"Is this your mother's car?" June asked, the wind whipping her dark blonde hair from underneath her pale scarf. "I'd no idea it did more than fly."

"Don't you like it?"

"Oh, no! I love it!" she said, raising her voice to be heard above the motor.

"Good. If we keep this pace up we'll be at dear Auntie's in time for tea. I think you'll like Abingdon -- it's terribly quaint. And if you're very good perhaps I'll take you on the river."

"Oh? Do you promise? It's been ages since I did anything so lazy."

He inclined his head toward her, watching the road and tapping the wheel with long fingers. "Summer always leaves me at loose ends -- I feel too lazy."

"Hmm. Perhaps you shouldn't have become a schoolmaster, then." She smiled. "Summer hols come with the territory."

"Well, I loved them when I was in school." He paused thoughtfully. "It's good to get out of London, though," he said, carelessly. "I can only stomach it for short intervals..."

"Yes, I suppose it is good to get out," June said, his words dredging up the feeling of unrest that had plagued her earlier that morning.

"What is it?" Concerned tinged his voice, and he tried to watch her from the corner of his eye while simultaneously watching the road.

June looked up from where she had the Times neatly folded on her lap as well as the Prophet. "Have you seen this today?" she asked, holding up the Times.

'First V-1 Hits London!' the headline screamed in block capitals. The picture beneath showed a ruined railway bridge.

"No, I hadn't," Albus said softly, taking the paper from her with one hand. "When did this happen?"

"Last night apparently. It always surprises me -- I feel so removed from it all and yet live in the midst of it." She paused, chewing on her lower lip. "This... It... complicates things. For the Ministry, that is."

"How so?" Albus asked, shifting the car into a lower gear.

"I'm sure you know we're involved in the war -- only at the very highest levels, of course. And even I don't know the particulars, but this will impact things. After Normandy I really thought we were looking at an end to it all, but it appears I was wrong. I'm very much afraid -- if it does go on much longer I think we will become involved directly, and what that will mean..."

"Not necessarily. Bombing London again may be a last-ditch for Hitler."

"Perhaps." June was silent for a long moment, but looked up feeling Albus watching her.

"You know, you can talk to me about it." He grinned ruefully. "Well, I know you can't talk about it, but, er, you can to me... That made no sense whatever, did it?"

She smiled in spite of herself. "It made perfect sense. And, thank you." She reached over and placed her hand on his where it rested on the gearshift.

Abruptly, Albus pulled the car over to the side of the road and, a bit awkwardly, put on the brake.

"What? What is it? Is something wrong?" June half-turned in her seat, peering down at the tires and running board.

"No," Albus leaned over and pushed her gently back down into her seat. "I just couldn't let the moment pass." With both hands still on her shoulders, holding her in place, he leaned in and kissed her softly.

Firmly silencing the voice in her head that insisted this was a very bad idea, June leaned in closer and kissed him back. It was a short, soft kiss, barely begun before it was over, but Albus leaned back in the driver's seat looking very pleased.

"Well, that's a step in the right direction at any rate."

***

Never one to break a promise, by Sunday afternoon Albus had them out on the river. Duly supplied with tea and other provisions from Aunt Ada's kitchen, June and Albus set out from Abingdon Lock.

"Do you prefer up river or down?" Albus grinned, hefting the oars in shirt-sleeved arms and wrinkling his already-sunburned nose.

June laughed. "I've never seen you look so silly." She glanced over his Muggle clothes, which were mildly mismatched and rather out of date.

"Well," he said pulling hard on the oars, "not all of us come prepared for every eventuality." He raised an eyebrow at June, who was looking very comfortable and Muggle-like in a white linen lawn dress.

"I, at least, knew we couldn't go driving around on Muggle roadways clad in magician's robes -- people would think we were mad!"

"We are a bit mad," he smiled in return. "Mind the tiller lines, won't you?" He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "This is somehow harder than I remembered it."

"I take it we're going down river then?"

Albus grinned, looking for all the world like a little boy with a new toy. "I'll take you to see Runnymede, if you like. Or we could flip around, head back up river and see the fabulous Norman church at Iffley."

"Runnymede. Definitely. Better for picnicking."

"As my lady commands." And down the river they went.

They rowed on in comfortable silence for awhile until Albus shipped the oars, breathing heavily, and announced, "I fear I won't last until Runnymede without my tea. Did you have your heart set on picnicking on the downfall of King John?"

June laughed and unearthed the picnic hamper, pointing out a pleasant spot where they could put in. "I never imagined we'd actually make Runnymede anyway. It's much too far."

"You're probably right," Albus agreed, carefully securing them near a bank of willow trees. "But it was a romantic destination."

"Next time," June said, immediately regretting the promise of commitment inherent in a 'next time.' Albus didn't seem to notice.

After a superb tea, Albus produced a thick, leather-bound book while June lit a cigarette.

"Are you still studying that?" she asked, inhaling and tossing her match away.

"Yes, still." A shadow crossed his face. "I've translated nearly all the final entries, but I'm still no closer to understanding what they mean."

"Or what it has to do with your friend Scoresby?"

Albus nodded grimly. "If I could only find a connection -- the key is there. I can feel it. I just can't seem to put my finger on it, you know."

June nodded, and allowed him to return to reading. Meanwhile, she finished her cigarette and leaned her arms on the side of the boat, watching a pair of dragonflies bob and wheel through a field of wild flowers just beyond their willow trees. June listened to the quiet lapping of water against the sides of the boat, and amused herself by seeing how many different flowers she could identify. Queen Anne's lace, buttercups, purple asters, and wild roses...

June looked up from her contemplation of the flowers and found Albus on the threshold of sleep. The book seemed ready to drop from his hand, his eyes half-closed in the afternoon sun, his head pillowed back against the hamper. Watching him, June experienced the most curious sensation of proprietorship. This is mine for the taking, if I choose, she thought. How curious that I've never thought of it quite like that before.

The shore was close enough that she could smell the black earth where the river cut the bank away, exposing the willows' roots. The yellow sun shone warm on her head as she sat up and balanced her elbow on her knee, resting her chin on her hand, and tried to resist the urge to nap herself.

"'How wonderful is Death,'" she quoted softly to herself. "'Death and his brother Sleep...'" Moved by some impulse, she slid carefully forward, reaching out a hand to brush aside a lock of Albus' auburn hair. Her fingers just grazed his temple when she snatched her hand back cradling it as though she'd been burned.

"For heaven's sake! Don't fall asleep!" she said suddenly.

Albus jumped guiltily, then opened one eye to look at her. "Why ever not?"

"Oh, no reason," she blushed, feeling a bit silly.

He sat up, regarding her with a pleased half-smile on his face, before looking back down at his book. "You know," he mused aloud. "Just before I drifted off, I was sure I'd found something important. It may just have been a dream, of course..." He trailed off, tracing his finger down the page.

"Good lord!" he exclaimed, jumping up and nearly upsetting the boat. It rocked wildly between the poles and June had to hold fast to the sides.

"What is it?"

"I wasn't dreaming! I've had a breakthrough." Albus grabbed hold of her hands and pulled her to her feet. "I don't believe no one else has considered it before, but it's right here." He grabbed up a handful of scribbled notes. "Hufflepuff's later journal entries mention them as well. I've been such an ass!"

June looked at him uncomprehendingly. Still holding the crumpled papers, he grasped June by the shoulders. "Don't you see? This is the only other place to have mentioned Slytherin's prophecies, so if Ravenclaw's book is just a modern hoax it couldn't possibly mention them. Because Hufflepuff's journals weren't discovered by historians until ten years after this book was supposedly found." The boat rocked dangerously again. "This must be what Scoresby was after -- if I can find Slytherin's texts... it will be the missing piece to the puzzle. Like the Rosetta stone..."

"Albus, are you sure?" June asked carefully.

"No, of course not. But it does make sense. I have to know for sure." He stopped, breathless, peering intently down into her face. "Things are falling into place, June. Everything is looking up," he said, and kissed her.

It was a swift, unthinking kiss, one of casual ownership. Before June could react, Albus was speaking again. "We've got to get back. I hate to cut our weekend short, but I have to get back to London and get to work on this."

June merely nodded numbly, and sat back down, a bit bewildered by what exactly he thought he'd found. She watched as he rowed, wishing she could share his enthusiasm. Something about this disquieted her. She had the idea that they were on the edge of something very dangerous indeed, and she couldn't be sure whether it was their changing relationship or this business with Scoresby that truly had her worried.

***

"Hello, Jack. You're working awfully late."

Jack Seward looked up from the scattered papers on his desk to see a silhouette in the half-open door to his office. It was late, and he hadn't expected anyone else to be left in the building.

"Burning the midnight oil. You know how it is." He laid his quill aside. "What's keeping you here, Heidi?"

The figure detached itself from the doorjamb and sauntered into his office, the light from his desk lamp revealing a petite brunette in her late twenties. She had the sort of face no one would ever suspect -- a kind of guileless innocence that made her appear younger than she actually was. It also made her invaluable to the Department of Mysteries and to William Price.

"I thought it might be a good chance for us to talk," she replied, taking a seat on the side of his desk. "People are worried about you, Jack."

"Really? Why on earth?"

"You haven't been the same recently. I'm not the only one who's noticed."

"And people are worried about me?" Seward narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure it's not me that has your boss worried?"

"Jack, we're old friends. Be reasonable..."

"Really, Heidi?" Seward narrowed his eyes at the younger woman. "Knowing what I know about how you people operate, you expect me to believe that Price has nothing to do with you being here? Trying to determine how much I know? Hoping, maybe, that I'll confide in you? So you can go running back to them with information?"

"Believe whatever you like," she retorted, her aura of cordial familiarity abruptly evaporating. "But since you brought it up, know this: You may think you're being clever about this private crusade of yours but people know what you're trying to do. I'd hate to see you hurt, so give it up now."

Seward laughed. "There was a time when I would have believed that you actually cared what happened to me." He stood up behind his desk, leaning forward, resting his palms on his abandoned paperwork, to face her across it. "Now I know better than to believe anything that comes out of your mouth."

Heidi blinked, shrinking back from his angry words. Probably just part of the act, Seward decided grimly.

"You don't know what you're playing with here." She shook her head, worry lining her face grey in the dim light from the single lamp. "I mean it. This is me talking -- not the department, not Price. Me - your friend."

Seward straightened back up, folding his arms across his chest and looking her evenly in the eye. "Thanks for the advice. I'll certainly keep it in mind." Heidi sighed and slid off the desk. Moved by some impulse, Seward came out from behind his desk. "Just tell me this," he said, catching her arm as she reached the door. "Were you there? In Albania? With Hart?"

She looked away. Seward shook her arm viciously. "Damn it, Heidi! He was a friend! To us both. How can you justify that? Doesn't anyone have any sense of loyalty anymore?"

"You can't always make the easy decision, Jack," she said in a flat voice, still refusing to meet his gaze. "Sometimes we have to do the thing that's right for the majority, no matter how personally painful."

"That's unmitigated bullshit and you know it. Or do you know it anymore? Has Price filled your head so full of rationalizations that you don't even know right from wrong?"

"You know as well as anyone what dangerous times we live in. We have to..."

"No! We do not have to kill our friends, our colleagues, to keep the Ministry's reputation clean -- war or not. I won't believe that."

"I did the right thing, Jack. We did the right thing. I have to believe that. If I don't keep believing it I can't do my job." She placed a soft hand over the one that gripped her arm. "It isn't the way I would have things, but it's the way things are."

"There will come a day," he said softly, looking into her brown eyes and wishing he could believe what he saw there, "when that mantra will lose its meaning. And then you will be just like me. I only hope that no one else has to die the way Hart did before you come to that realization."

"Be careful," she said. "If it were anyone but me you were saying these things to-" Her words were cut off as the door opened suddenly, narrowly missing the pair of them.

"Oh! I am sorry. I didn't expect..." Albus Dumbledore stood in the doorway, looking halfway between apologetic and guilty.

"An appointment so late, Jack?" Heidi asked coolly. Her eyes flicked over Dumbledore, something like recognition in her expression, and Seward inwardly cursed himself for a fool. He'd been so caught up that he'd forgotten Dumbledore was due to arrive any moment. Sloppy, he was getting sloppy. Maybe Price was right, and operatives who went soft deserved to be put down like lame horses.

It was too late to do anything about that now. "Goodnight, Heidi," Seward said firmly, pushing her roughly out the door and locking it behind her.

"Problems?" Dumbledore asked mildly.

"No," Seward replied a bit more forcefully than he'd intended. Regaining control, he said, "So what's this you said about Scoresby? You've found something we can use?"

"Yes, I think I have," Dumbledore replied, as both men took seats on either side of the desk. "After all these months, looking through Scoresby's notes, I've had the idea that I was missing something fundamental, something he was basing his work in Albania on. But I'd no idea what it was, or why he'd gone to that particular part of the world. I think I know, now, what that was."

"Really?" Seward raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair.

"In the book Scoresby sent to me, Ravenclaw talks about four 'Keystones' -- four events that will take place before Slytherin's heir makes himself known -- but she doesn't go into what they are. What she does say though is that Slytherin himself wrote about them in detail. Now, Scoresby went looking for a companion text in Albania and I'm willing to bet money it was these 'Keystones' of Slytherin's." Dumbledore paused for breath, excitement flushing his cheeks. "But there wasn't anything of the sort in the notes your people found among Scoresby's things. Which means one of two things -- either he didn't find what he was looking for or he hid his findings."

"Which would mean they're still in Albania, somewhere. Is that it?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I may have to do some more looking before I feel completely sure about this, but it just feels so right. What else could the missing piece be?"

Seward leaned forward, studying the other man. "Researching in books is all well and good, Albus, but it'll only get us so far. Eventually we're going to have to go there. And I'd prefer sooner than later."

"I agree -- we need to see for ourselves whether any of Slytherin's writings still exist. And for that we need to go to Albania."

At those words something fundamental stirred in Seward, the same something that had led him to a life as an Unspeakable, a craving for adventure and a reckless attraction to danger. He'd thought that part of him had died along with Hart, but apparently he'd been wrong.

He smiled crookedly at Dumbledore, reveling in the familiar adrenaline rushing through his blood. "When do we leave?"

***