Dreamwalk Blue

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER EIGHT

Summary: Grindelwald finally makes an appearance (of sorts), Tom learns something he'd rather not share, Albus takes a badly timed nap, Hayden impersonates an officer and things generally begin to fall apart.

CHAPTER EIGHT -- TWILIGHT TIME

They, asked me how I knew,

My true love was true,

I of course replied, something here inside,

Cannot be denied.

They, said some day you'll find,

All who love are blind,

When your heart's on fire, you must realize,

Smoke gets in your eyes.

(smoke gets in your eyes jerome kerns/otto harbach, 1933)

The summer died, and Metis began to dream in white.

Snow and smoke and clouds and cotton. She dreamt white sand and ginger blossoms, starlight and ice. She dreamt linen and afternoons, lace and lilies of the valley, poplin and face powder. She dreamt bone china and cream. She dreamt candlewax and writing paper. Silk and raw wool, starch and steam, pearls and their mothers. She dreamt poppies, their red faces crossed with white, and hard sap in white clay cups.

She dreamt, finally, of angels.

Not of cherubs, but of angels, tall and pale and terrible. With Old Testament wings and stern faces. She dreamt them in robes of white -- white, and every color of every rainbow that ever was. They wore crowns of flowers and silver cords and they did not see her.

Metis saw them. Stigmata and scars, pain where there should have been perfection. There was weeping and it turned the dream silver, then blue. She liked it better when it had been white. Because the blue was familiar, the scent before a rainstorm.

The dream was blue and the blue was cold. Metis shivered and wanted to wake up. The angels were gone, took with them their white wings and silver tears, left only the blue and a woman with a familiar voice. She held a cracked silver shield in one hand and willow switches in the other. The mark of Cain was on her and she was bound, irrevocably, held with heavy chains, to someone Metis could not see.

But she saw Metis, saw her, and spoke, "I think it's about time you and I had a talk. Don't you?"

***

From the outside it looked simply like another alley, narrow and dank, lined with grimy cobbled stones and slick puddles of rainwater. In fact, it was just like any other alley -- or it would have been, if not for the presence of a door. The door, set into the alley's north wall, was low and rounded, made of wood too bright, too rich to belong here in the slums of the city. Behind it, for those who were unlucky enough to find it, lay magic. Behind it lay dreams and power. Behind the door, dark, low-ceilinged chambers reeked of blood and opium. Bones and runes rattled against the bare floor, carelessly divining the secrets that lay hidden behind blue smoke.

A small, swarthy man picked his way through the main room, weaving among the reclining sleepers -- blank-eyed children who lay in tangles of lithe limbs against rich, wool rugs, who lay on low benches and tumbled over silk pillows. The magic they made behind those closed and rolling eyes hung as thick on the air as the smoke. At the center of the dreamers was the Master of them all. He reclined on a high-backed chair, lacquered in the colors of blood and dragons. His arms were splayed lazily, a glass pipe held carelessly in one long, pale hand. Behind his head, an oil lamp guttered and shied, lighting him from behind, painting a Renaissance halo of gold atop his head. He looked up as the other man approached.

"Master, the sentries at the city have sent word. The two British wizards have been there. They've found the keystones."

"Yes, I suppose they would have."

The man genuflected, bowing his head toward the fringed rugs scattered across the polished mahogany floor. "Shall I have the situation dealt with?"

"No, no. Let them go."

"But they have- They know..."

"And that is how it should be. I may have my own ends, but that does not mean I wish the other players to remain ignorant."

"But..."

"You do not understand, is that it? It is better that you do not." He leaned closer. "You must trust me. We shall turn the tide of time. The future will be ours, and the past will not need ever intrude upon us again. But there are rules. Rules that must be obeyed." He nodded, half to himself. "Let the Englishmen go. None of our number shall harm them."

"Yes. Of course."

"Now about that other matter?"

"The boy, Master? It is being taken care of as we speak."

***

Tom woke early, the first taste of grey winter on the air as he made his way across the empty lawn. He walked down past the gamekeeper's cottage just as the sun rose. The lawn was quiet and he was almost to the edge of the forest when he heard someone laughing.

A little girl in a black cloak sat on an old tree stump, watching him. She looked about twelve or thirteen, dark-haired and too pale. She closed her eyes when he stopped, facing her, and her thick, coarse eyelashes were dark against her white skin.

"What are you doing down here?" Tom asked sharply, startled into anger. "I'll have to-"

"Do you really think I'm one of them? Those silly, stupid children who have to do what you say?" The girl opened her heavy-lidded eyes and spoke in heavily accented English. Tom had heard the accent before, in a rose garden on New Year's Eve.

"What are you doing here?" he said, pulling out his wand.

"Now, there's not a need for that, is there?" She stood, smiling, and crossed over to him. When she stood close, she didn't even come up to his shoulder. "We warned you, you know. We warned you what would happen. You didn't listen to us, did you?"

"Who are you people?"

"Don't you know?" She seemed amused. "And here they thought you were dangerous."

I'll show you how dangerous I am, Tom thought, but bit the words back.

"You were warned for your own good." The girl smiled. "It was for her own good. But I think you knew that, didn't you? I think you know that, really, deep down. I knew you wouldn't listen."

That made Tom angry. The anger was familiar, calming, something he could hold on to. "How do you know anything about me?" he snapped. "I don't know who you people are, or what you're playing at..."

The girl just laughed again, making Tom even more furious.

"My master bid you have this." She pressed a tiny book, black with gold-edged pages into his hands. Tom glanced at it -- it was very old.

"Your master?" he said at last. "You're only a child."

"So are you," she replied, apparently ignoring that he was a good four years older than she. "Do you think because we're children, that we aren't dangerous? That we can't do anything?" She leaned in close to him and whispered, "I've seen everything about you. I've seen you live and die and live again. What do you think about that, Tom Riddle? Am I such a worthless child now?"

Her words turned his blood to ice. Live and die and live again. Could she possibly know? And if she knew, who else did?

"Aren't you going to try and kill me?" he asked coolly, recovering some of his composure. "The last one tried to kill me."

"Did he? That is unfortunate," she said, and was gone.

Tom went back inside the castle, heading straight for the library. He found a secluded corner and sat there all morning. No one disturbed him. Not even Metis came looking for him. The book sat on his knee, unopened. He knew he ought to throw it away or check it for curses. No matter what, he knew he shouldn't keep it. No matter what, he knew he shouldn't open it.

After a while, though, he opened the book, the pages brittle under his fingers, and began to read.

***

In October, the Allies pushed the Germans out of Albania and Albus and Seward were finally able to come out of hiding. An Albania crawling with Allied soldiers, however, was almost as dangerous in its own way for two wizards as the Nazis had been.

"Who did you say you were again?" a harried American officer asked Seward for the fourth time that day.

"I've told you -- my name is Jack Seward..."

"And you're from British intelligence?"

"Yes."

"Both of you?" He looked pointedly at Dumbledore, who was clearly trying to remember which end of his gun was the dangerous one.

"Yeah, well. He's new," Seward snapped.

"I'll say."

"Look," Seward said, steering the American away from Dumbledore and speaking softly. "You're right. He isn't standard material. The guy's a professor, some genius-type... you know the kind. He's a specialist, of a very particular sort, and the less you ask about our mission, the better. Understand, old chap?"

The American officer, likely accustomed to four years of receiving similar answers to his questions, shrugged and didn't ask again.

Whether the Americans actually bought Seward's bluff was debatable. But a harried courier came through that morning with orders that the two men were to be shipped out on the next available troop transport headed in the general direction of England.

The army sent them to Italy.

Two weeks later they sat, backs up against the curve of a Quonset hut and feet resting on their duffels, at a desolate strip of dirt and rocks that the Americans insisted on calling an airfield.

"So," Seward began, "after all this, we're finally going home."

Dumbledore nodded agreement, looking tired.

"So, what are we going to do when we get back?" This was a question that had been plaguing Seward ever since they'd finished their search at Apollonia two months ago.

The lines on Dumbledore's face creased further with worry. "I haven't quite figured that out yet. Knowing what we know..."

"What do we know?" Seward asked. "I'm still a little fuzzy on that."

"We know what Scoresby found, for one thing."

"Do we?" Seward asked, a bit weakly.

"He found Slytherin's keystones -- those runes in Apollonia. The ones at the center were Light, Knowledge, Justice and Resurrection. Now, Scoresby and Dent thought that the keystones referred to four events that had to take place before the Heir of Slytherin could reveal himself. Now if I'm right, that's already happened-"

"If you're right," Seward said, unconvinced. "Do you think you know who it is then?"

Dumbledore frowned. "No. No, I don't think that I do." He paused a moment, then said, "If we can just figure out what those four events are, what person they all have in common..."

"And all we've got for clues are four words? They could mean anything!" Seward picked up a handful of pebbles and chucked them at the runway. He could hear the whine of an approaching plane and hoped against hope that, this time, it was their transport.

"It will be difficult. But I think we can do it. We've got more than just those words, remember. The other runes-"

"But you said you didn't know what those meant." Seward was getting annoyed. He was exhausted, dusty and thirsty. They'd been through the ringer and back, and it was starting to look as though it had all been for nothing.

"Well, I don't now, but I will. It will simply take some time."

Seward wished he could be as sure, but didn't say so. The plane he'd heard was circling back around, descending quickly toward the runway.

"For now, though," Dumbledore said seriously, as the plane touched down, "for now I think we have to keep this quiet."

***

Winter came, and Metis dreamt of mirrors.

She slept alone, in her own bed. Tom left her, and would not give her a reason, would not say why. He wouldn't even speak to her. He kept his distance from her; he had since November. He had left her on the Feast of All Saints and come back with a book, and when he'd returned he wouldn't even look at her. She was bereft without him. So she huddled in her bed, huddled beneath blue velvet and blue brocade, and dreamt of mirrors and reflections, of silver and green.

Sometimes the dreams didn't leave her during the day. It was as though she was in two worlds at once -- the world around her, the real one, where she could touch and feel and hear when her friends called her name. And the other-world, where the sky was green and mirrors were quicksilver and rain ran black.

Her friends were worried, she could see. They, of course, thought it was Tom. Perhaps they were right; Metis didn't know. They petted her and spoke softly to her and brought her sweets. They brushed her hair and told her that she was too good, too smart, too pretty for Tom Riddle. They told her she was better off without him, that he had no right to treat her this way.

They didn't know she was drowning without him.

She was drowning in quicksilver, in the other world that roared in her ears and shattered glass in her head. It took all her concentration to keep it from swallowing her whole. She needed Tom, she needed him or she would die. She saw him in the corridors, at meals. She tried not to see, tried not to know when he was near, but she couldn't help herself. It was as though she could feel his every breath, his every heartbeat even when he was this far from her. Even when he had cast her away.

She had been his for four years. Without him she didn't know herself, she didn't even recognize her own skin. He had gone, and he still wouldn't tell her why. Not that she would have asked him, not that she could have.

One Saturday when the dawn broke cold and clear, they went into town. Metis walked with her friends, their breath ghosting white. The trees above them stretched grey arms overhead, reaching for them. The sky was slate, the ground frosted silver and the road ran ahead of them like a ribbon of charcoal. There wasn't any green, not as far as she could see. Not in this world. The green had died with autumn, brought winter to her and only left shadow and mist.

Tom walked ahead, in the center of a group, head above the crowd as always. He walked on and didn't see her, didn't say a word.

And she was falling.

She fell onto leaves, grey and brown and smelling of decay. Hands clutched at her, pulled her upright, but all Metis could see was her dream. The mirrors shattered and left only the green and a man with a familiar face. He held a glowing ball of poisonous, swamp-gas flame in one hand and branches torn ragged from the Tree of Knowledge in the other. He was also bound -- green and silver-scaled serpents twined around arms, wrists, legs.

He saw her and he did not speak.

***

Before Italy, Albus had never ridden in a Muggle airplane. It did not turn out to be an experience he wanted to repeat.

The plane hit another bump and Albus grabbed hold tightly to a canvas strap hanging from the ceiling. Seward stood in the middle of the cabin, swaying almost drunkenly with each movement of the plane, trying for the hundredth time to get a straight answer from the Americans about where they were headed after landing in France.

"How in the bloody hell are we meant to get back to London?" Seward was shouting at a young officer. The kid looked about twenty and entirely out of his league. "It is imperative that we get back to report in!"

The officer seemed to shrink further down in his seat. "Our orders... look here, our orders were to get you to Paris. After that, you're on your own. Perhaps the British liaison in Paris will be able to..."

Albus stopped listening. He was beyond caring what happened, so long as he could find a place in Paris to lie down and have a decent sleep. He wouldn't say no to a shower and a hot meal either.

Seward flung himself down on the bench seat next to Dumbledore. "Well, this is just brilliant. Once we get to France, apparently, we're on our own. Our American friends here can't be arsed to put us in contact with anyone who might be able to help us."

"Well, how could they, really?" Albus asked reasonably. "Considering that there isn't much we can tell them about what we were doing in Albania."

Seward gave him a look that could have melted through the hull of the plane, crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes as the transport began to descend.

When they touched down, the young officer Seward had read out came over tentatively. "Uh, gentlemen?"

"Yeah, yeah," Seward said irritably, standing up and grabbing his pack.

"Um... here," the officer continued, offering a folded square of paper to Albus rather than Seward. "Here's contact information for the liaison office and the British consulate here in Paris. Everything's a little messed around right now, but they ought to know what to do with you."

Albus thanked the man and headed out the hatchway and down the ladder. Wearily, he focused on the back of Seward's head, careful not to lose sight of the other man as they were shuffled onto the airfield where a group of Muggle military officers and reporters waited. The concrete was slick with rain and rainbow spills of fuel, the whine of circling planes made him dizzy. He was bone-tired, bruised and half-deafened from days of flying in transport planes. He stumbled, dropping his duffel. He stopped to pick it up -- worried that he might not be able to stand back up again if he knelt down -- when there was a soft cry and suddenly one of the female war correspondents broke away from the others and was in his arms before he could recover.

Stunned, Albus tried to pull away. "Miss... er, I mean, Lieutenant?"

"Albus!" a familiar voice said against his shoulder. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you."

"June?"

She tipped her face up and smiled at him, looking overjoyed and a bit stunned. Albus gawked, trying to take in her Muggle uniform.

"What have you... why are you here?"

"Is that all you have to say to me?" she said, looking slightly giddy. "That makes for a fine homecoming," she said, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him hard. He was dimly aware of laughter from the other reporters and the click of a shutter.

"I should have known," a male voice said, then returned to taking pictures.

"Well," Albus said, when he'd caught his breath. "Well..."

"Yeah," said a passing officer, with a wink. "I know the feeling."

***

Seward had to admit it -- he was impressed.

Dumbledore's better half was long-legged and blonde, with an aristocratic face and a no-nonsense attitude. June Lisbon shook his hand in greeting and didn't even blink when Dumbledore mentioned which Ministry department Seward worked for. She remained unfazed as she and her partner, Parker, gave an abbreviated account of their trip to Paris, land mines, snipers and all.

The lady just plain had guts. Seward liked her immediately.

He noticed, though, that Dumbledore didn't tell her the whole truth about what they'd found in Albania. He wondered if this was because Parker was there, or perhaps because he didn't want her to know. Seward would have to ask him about it later. For now, they had more pressing problems. Like how to get to London.

"They said we ought to go see the Ministry liaison, didn't they?" Dumbledore suggested with the optimism of someone who'd had only limited contact with government bureaucracy.

"Only we can't go see the liaison, Professor, seeing as we don't actually work for the Ministry. Not that one anyway. We'll be lucky if we're only shot as spies!"

"Ah." Dumbledore seemed to consider that for a moment, in that distracted way of his. "I suppose something will come along then, won't it?"

Seward buried his face in his hands.

June stifled a laugh, while Parker stepped between them and held up a hand. "Hey -- Mr. and Mrs. Bickerson?"

"Come on, you two," June said, taking Dumbledore's arm. "We've got room at the hotel for you. Gil Wynant from the WWN can put you in touch with our Ministry Information Office here in Paris." She grinned. "Tomorrow. How about right now we get you some showers, then maybe dinner?"

"And a stiff drink," Seward agreed.

They headed back to the Hotel Scribe, the place overflowing with correspondents from just about everywhere. June deposited them all in Parker's room and breezed out with a wave to change for dinner.

"You chaps can fight over the shower." Parker dropped heavily into an armchair and poured himself a scotch.

"You go on ahead, Jack." Dumbledore looked about dead on his feet. He sank onto the bed and closed his eyes.

"All right. I won't be long."

Seward, showered and changed, left the others to get ready and went downstairs to the lobby trying not to think. A treacherous thing, his memory. All evening it had been trying to trick him into thinking, thinking about Hart and Heidi. Something about being here like this, with Dumbledore and his June, with a wise-cracking guy like Freddy Parker... it reminded him of things. Other times, better ones. About that time ten -- or was it twelve now? -- years ago in Prague. Heidi's first assignment and Seward had only been a year or two riper than green himself. Hart laughed at them both, took every chance he could to wind them up. Hart -- the big, tough guy, completely imperturbable, who'd always had an off-color joke to make Heidi roll her eyes and laugh. And at night when he didn't think anyone would notice, he'd written love letters to his girl back home. Heidi'd always said, when Hart was out of earshot, that she needed to find a guy like that.

Funny the way things worked out.

He walked outside, stood on the steps of the hotel. Across the way, a sign hung over a tiny café, proclaiming that it sold the best brioche in the city. Seward tried to concentrate on that, maybe he'd go get some in the morning and put that claim to the test.

"Smoke?" a voice asked at his elbow. June was standing on the step below him, looking up.

"Sure. Thanks." He took two from her and lit them both, handing one back.

"So, you and Dumbledore, eh?" Seward said offhandedly. "Funny, you don't seem like his type."

She inhaled and relaxed against the stone wall, the street lamp painting gold splashes of light across her black dress and coat.

"I'm not entirely sure I am."

"But you love him."

"He's rather loveable," she said, laughter in her voice. But Seward noticed she avoided answering the question.

"What is it?" she asked after a moment, and he realized he'd been staring. But the resemblance to Heidi really was there. Not in her appearance but her manner, it wasn't just his wishful imagination.

"Ah, it's nothing. You just... remind a bit of someone." He looked up at the café sign again. "At least, the way she used to be."

"What happened?"

"Same thing that happened to everyone." He gestured around at the street in front of them. "This, the war. The whole goddamned world going crazy."

June nodded sympathetically. "But someday, maybe, things will go back to the way they were before."

Seward snorted. "You don't believe that, and neither do I."

"No, I don't suppose I do." Then, "You're a good man, Jack. I can see why Albus admires you so much."

Seward didn't know how to respond to that. After a few moments he simply said, "Yeah, well. The Professor's not so bad himself most of the time."

"There you are!" Dumbledore called, making his way down the hotel's front steps with Freddy Parker trailing behind. Dumbledore looked more animated than Seward had seen the man in weeks. He turned and looked down at June. She was smiling at Dumbledore, an amused and familiar expression on her face. She loved the guy, all right, Seward thought, even if she wouldn't say it out loud.

"Let's go." Parker rubbed his hands together, a broad grin on his face. "I'm half-starved."

"Think about it," Seward said, clapping a hand on Dumbledore's shoulder as the four of them took to the street. "A meal at a table, with utensils and everything."

"Proper glasses and napkins, too." Dumbledore grinned back.

The sun was setting as they rounded the corner onto a wide avenue, and the city blazed into life before them. After the thick, absolute darknesses of nights in the Balkans, the lights took Seward's breath. He brought a hand up to shield his eyes and let out a low whistle.

Dumbledore stood in the street, looking vaguely dazzled. June grinned at him and took his hand. "Welcome to Paris."

***

The city was recovering from years of occupation and so Paris was still not the magnificent and elegant place June remembered from childhood, but it would only be a matter of time. The restaurants served what food and wine they could, the nightclubs served cocktails, and the GIs jitterbugged to Benny Goodman just like they had back home.

After dinner they went for drinks at a loud and smoky club called La Belle Aurore. Jack flirted with a gaggle of pretty, French girls while Freddy bought the drinks. June danced with half a dozen GIs before she could make her escape from the dance floor.

"Miss Lisbon!" someone cried, just as she untangled herself and headed back to the table. "Miss Lisbon, I can't believe it!"

"Sullivan?" she said. "Private Sullivan? It is you."

The young army driver who'd brought them into Paris in his jeep stumbled over.

"It's so good to see you! You're pretty as ever!" he said, favoring her with a slightly sloppy grin.

"It's good to see you too, Sullivan." She smiled at him. She really did like the kid, and was relieved to see him all right.

"I'd ask you to dance, but seeing as how you're an officer..."

"In name only," she grinned. "And I appreciate the offer."

June made her way back to the table where Albus was waiting. He looked about ready to fall into his drink. They really ought to go back. She looked over at Jack and Freddy, still surrounded by girls. They'd be just fine.

"You haven't exactly been lonely while I was gone, have you?" Albus observed dryly as she sat down. "You seem to have made more than your share of friends." He looked pointedly in Sullivan's direction.

"Albus," June said patiently. "You're tired, you're a bit drunk, and you're seeing things that aren't there. These boys like to flirt, true. They're lonely and scared and far away from home. But that's it."

"That's what you think," he said, exhaustion and liquor making the words come out slowly and slightly unsteadily. "You don't see it. I don't think you want to see it. You're so beautiful, you... They'd be fools not to-"

"Albus," she said, cutting him off abruptly. "Take me home."

He blinked. "What-"

She leaned over, hooking one arm around his neck and kissing him once, very slowly. "Take me home."

He had their coats and was at the door before she finished saying goodnight to Freddy and Jack.

"Now, don't wait up for us or anything," Freddy called after her, grinning.

It was well past midnight and the streets were still crowded. When they reached the street corner, Albus pulled her close under the light of a street lamp and kissed her. He kissed her in the lobby of the hotel, in the lift and at her door. She fumbled with the handle and they lurched inside. Albus kicked the door shut with a bang, and they both began to laugh.

"Well, would you look at us?" June said, still grinning.

"I've missed you." Albus slid her coat from her shoulders.

"Obviously." She pulled away from him, leaving him to throw off his own coat and sit down on the bed. "Would you like a drink?"

"In a minute." He caught her hand and pulled her down next to him.

"Are you all right?" she asked, bringing one hand up to touch his face.

"Yes. I'm sorry about before, I was just-"

"Tired. Wrung out. Maybe a little angry with me." June smiled.

He started to protest, then shook his head. "Yes, maybe I've been a little angry with you."

She leaned in and kissed him again, softly this time. He broke the kiss, but held her there, one hand heavy on her neck.

"I just feel so much more than you do, I think. I was angry with you for that. I wanted you to feel the same way."

"I know. I've just needed time." She pulled back, letting one hand drop to his knee. He covered her hand with his. "Now, how about that drink?"

He nodded, leaning back against the huge mound of pillows on her bed. June grabbed a bottle of brandy from the dressing table and went into the bathroom to fetch two glasses.

"Were you planning on telling me about Albania?" she asked over her shoulder. He murmured something indistinct in response. It turned out there were no clean glasses, so she had to wash a pair out in the tiny bathroom sink.

"Albus, I was thinking maybe..." She broke off, leaving the brandy half-poured, and poked her head back into the too-quiet room. "Albus?" Soft snores greeted her from the direction of the bed. Shaking her head, she grabbed one tumbler of brandy and crossed over to sit beside him.

"You know," she said softly, toasting him with the glass. "In the last four months we've seen each other exactly twice, and both times you've fallen asleep on me. A girl could start to imagine things."

He responded by turning over in his sleep, flinging one arm across her legs. She scooted in a little closer, smoothing his hair with her free hand. "I suppose, though, it could be worse." She kicked off her shoes and leaned back against the headboard, sipping her drink until the last of the brandy disappeared and she began to doze off herself.

A sharp knock on the door jerked her awake. Albus was still deeply asleep beside her, oblivious to the noise. She disentangled herself, careful not to wake him, and padded over to open the door.

"Freddy!"

"Hey, Lisbon." Freddy ran a nervous hand through his short, spiky hair. "Not to interrupt or anything."

"Trust me, Freddy, there's nothing to interrupt."

"Sure. If that's how you want to play it..." He handed her a folded square of official letterhead. "Either way, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings."

She unfolded the letter, her eyes widening slightly as she read. "Tomorrow? They must be joking. All these months in Paris and... tomorrow?"

"Sorry, kid. It looks like we're all moving out. On the bright side, at least maybe it means we've got the Germans on the run. Besides, I hear Belgium is nice this time of year. We can take some pretty pictures, have a nice winter stroll through the mountains." Freddy jerked a thumb back toward his own room. "I'm gonna get packing. We won't take off till mid-morning, so you've got some time."

"All right, Freddy," she said, and shut the door as he left.

Turning back to the dimly lit room, she stood for a moment unsure what to do. Finally, she went over to the bathroom and changed into a pair of clean pajamas. Snapping off the light, she walked over to the bed, curling up behind Albus. He lay on his side, his hands tucked beneath his chin, his breathing even and steady. She'd let him sleep for a few more hours and wake him up to tell him before she left.

***

Something was very, very wrong with Tom, but Metis knew better than to speak it.

The wrongness crept in like a thief to steal and stayed to whisper in her ear. Lover-like, and she welcomed it because it filled the blackness. It filled the ice and wind-howled evenings, kept her company through the long winter middle-nights. She held it about her like a blanket, warm and soft and gilt brocade that matched the blue of her bed (of her eyes).

This night, a train whistle screamed through the evening dark. The last train out, the last train away from here. But Metis sat fireside wrapped in everything wrong, and warm and safe besides.

Tom wasn't so far from her yet. She could go to him and put her hands on his and try to make things right, if only he would let her. But she didn't. Instead she sat by candlelight picking hollyberries from the mantle garland and tossing them into the flame. They popped and sizzled, drops of blood that skittered and flirted with the fire. The fire danced with her in turn, beckoned and welcomed. She had a memory of other light, other fire, and wished she'd lost herself in it then.

She wanted fire, so of course what called to her then was ice. Ice from below her window, pale and reflecting the surface of the moon, slick beneath the winter stars. She dreamt of ice, crystals and snowflakes. She dreamt of coffins made of glass and the blue-lipped virgins who slept inside. She dreamt of sleep and death and mid-winter and never woke to a kiss.

The train's whistle cried again, even though it should have been too far to hear it, and she went to the window. A shadow danced across the lake, shivered in and out in the cold light. Part of her knew what it was, but she held the knowing captive, silenced it, grabbed her heavy cloak and went down to look.

The winter had been mild, almost Christmas and there had been no snow. The lake froze half-heartedly, the surface deceptively smooth. Metis stood beside it and looked for shadows.

One found her instead.

"Everyone ends up here sooner or later," Tom said, and she jumped to face him. He stood close to the lake, watching her with a curious expression on his face. "I thought you'd have tried to come to me before this," he said mildly, and stepped out onto the ice.

"What are you- Tom!"

"Does that frighten you? I can't imagine it would. I won't fall through, you know. Do you really think I could?" He slid graceful across the ice, his slick-soled shoes scraping crystals and sparks as he went. He put his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky, clear and picked with stars. Cold and hard and beautiful, like his face when he looked at her.

"Come here," he said, still watching the stars. Metis simply stood on the bank and stared at him.

"Won't you?" He reached for her, hands pale as death under the moon. "I think you will. I don't think you know to be afraid."

"I know more than you think," she replied, and then wondered why she'd said that.

"Do you?" He was laughing at her, just a little. "Do you know, Metis? How could you, when all you've ever done is hide from knowing? That's why I tried to let you go. I tried, but I can't." He clenched his hands into fists. "You may know something, you may feel that something is coming, but do you know what? Do you know why? Of course not. And the fault of it is all yours."

He continued his spin, his slide, perfectly balanced with easy grace, never taking his eyes from her. Metis wisely kept silent and let him have his say.

"I would make the world burn for you," he murmured. "I would make the world burn and walk through the fire of it for you. And the fault of that is mine."

She was moving toward him before she even realized what she was doing. "Tom."

He looked up as she reached him, as she put a soft hand on his forearm. "I thought this was meant, I thought it was so perfect. I thought it was my right, I thought you were. But I was wrong. I've been very wrong." He looked up at the sky again, then down into her face. "Will you love me always? Will you offer me your heart with a smile? I wonder."

"You should know better by now," she said softly.

"Oh, but now is different than before, and that's why I ask the question."

"The only one who could make me stop loving you is you, Tom," she replied, realizing how true the words were as she spoke them. "That power is all yours."

"I suppose it is, isn't it? I wonder how I would do it."

The ice creaked beneath her feet, the warning of falling into darkness and cold, of falling down and down. Metis found it didn't worry her anymore. She was already falling and had been for as long she could remember. But, for form's sake, she said, "We'll fall through if we stay here."

"Walk with me then. Dance." He pulled her close. She gasped at his touch: he burned like a thousand fevers, his eyes wild and too dark, too wide. "If we keep moving nothing can touch us. We'll be too fast. Won't we, love?"

"Tom..."

"Stay with me." She looked back toward the castle, but he caught her face, turned her back to him. "No. Don't look there. Don't look anywhere." He caught her wrists, spun her on the black ice, his breath gusting in the night air. "Stay with me, stay with me. And if we fall... then we fall."

***

The Huertgen Forest reminded June of nothing so much as an old-fashioned Christmas snowglobe. She'd had one as a child, complete with towering pine trees and a sugar-frosting of snow that settled on the eaves of a tiny gingerbread cottage. Tiny carolers no bigger than thimbles sang "O Tannenbaum" when she shook their glass home.

The Huertgen Forest was exactly like that long-ago toy - but dashed and broken, the evergreens felled by tanks, the gingerbread cottages smoldering husks in scarlet-splashed snow. The music, however, was the same. She'd gone out to the line the night before, she and several other of the correspondents trying to bring some Christmas cheer to the foot-weary soldiers. Leaning on their rifles, the troops of the American First Army grinned and chatted like the battlements were nothing any more or less than a USO Club back home. The night had been oddly quiet down at that end of the line, until at midnight they could hear singing on the not-quite-snowy night air.

O Tannenbaum,

O Tannenbaum,

Wie treu sind deine Blatter!

Du grunst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,

Nein, auch im Winter, wenn est schneit.

O Tannenbaum,

O Tannenbaum,

Wie treu sind deine Blatter!

The German voices were so young and sweet it sent a chill through June that had nothing to do with the icy weather.

And so it was Christmas Eve. The American line had broken eight days ago and the Germans had them on the run, back through Belgium, or back to Normandy if the Germans had their way.

The day dawned crisp and clear, but the mood in the camp remained tense. No one had said anything official, but it looked as though the Americans were planning to make a stand here. June and Freddy fully expected to be sent packing at any moment, back well behind the line to the evacuation hospital or somewhere else "safe." As though there were such a place on the Continent.

"Good morning, partner," Freddy beamed, striding across the encampment to where she sat with a portable typewriter whose keys were jammed together from the cold. "Or should I say 'Merry Christmas'?" He grinned at her, expelling a smoky breath onto his hands, pink under his fingerless gloves.

June took a sip of gritty, black coffee from a tin mug. "What are you so happy about, Freddy?"

"You and I, Lisbon, get to stay for the big dance."

"Really? Both of us? They aren't going to send the little woman back to the safety of a five-star hotel in Spa?"

Freddy sobered briefly. "Nah. Germans bombed Spa last night. Not much left of that five-star hotel to go back to."

They sat in silence for a moment. There had been a lot of correspondents at that hotel along with the soldiers. June could only hope most of them had gotten out in time.

Freddy squeezed her shoulder briefly. "I'm sure it's fine, kid. Anyway, I thought I'd take some pictures of the troops today -- Christmas in the trenches and all that. Did you want to talk to some of them, maybe get some nice, fuzzy holiday quotes?"

June smiled in spite of herself. "You know, Freddy, I can't even tell when you're being cynical anymore."

Freddy shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah. Me either." He snapped the case shut over her typewriter. "Come on. Get your gear. Let's move."

Armed with notepad and pen (a contraption June was still not entirely comfortable with), she made the rounds of the troops. The Americans tended to be more talkative, so they sought them out first.

Rounding a corner, June almost stumbled over a tiny knot of American GIs, warming themselves around a large jar filled with blue fire. Catching sight of her, one of them cursed, motioning frantically to another young man who appeared to be stirring the blue flames with a slender stick.

"Can it! We've got company!"

The GI's scrambled, blocking the fire from view. June laughed and dug inside her field coat for her own wand.

Holding it up, she said, "It's all right, for heaven's sake."

"Well, what do you know," the first American grinned. "Come on over then and share our fire."

One of the Americans up-ended a bucket for June to sit on, pulling it close to the blue flames.

"You fellows about ready to head back to the States?" she asked conversationally.

"Home?" one of the GIs snorted. "Nobody's going home. We've got a long haul yet in this fight, and anyone who tells you different is either stupid or the brass."

"Or both!" another laughed, slapping his knee at his own joke.

"All right then," June grinned. "Who fancies sending a message to the folks back home?

***

"Nice work, kid," Freddy said, lounging against an abandoned jeep and thumbing through June's notes. "We might actually make a reporter out of you yet."

June grinned at him. "Praise from Sir Hubert and all that."

"Yeah, yeah." He waved her off, but couldn't hide a pleased smile.

The sun was bright in the afternoon sky, doing nothing to melt the ice on the ground. The camp remained relatively quiet, save the occasional companies returning from patrol. One of these came into view around a bend in the road, and the guards stood up slightly straighter at attention. Freddy watched disinterestedly, talking all the while about the photos he'd taken that morning. A cloud crossed the sun briefly, the shadows on the frozen ground shivering in and out. A guard called out to the sergeant at the head of the company in the road.

"So anyway," Freddy continued as the soldiers filed past. "I figure we can get these on the wire in time for the evening edition if Smythe gets back with the-" He stopped, sitting up poker-straight on the jeep's hood as a scuffle broke out somewhere down the line.

"It's the goddamned Krauts!" someone behind them yelled, too late. One of the newly-arrived soldiers pulled a grenade and tossed it into the crowded yard. The scene exploded in a hail of shrapnel and frozen mud, and June felt herself flung backward into something solid and metal.

She rolled over to find Freddy picking himself up into a careful crouch on the ground. She tried to follow suit, only to discover that she couldn't get up.

"Aw, shit, Lisbon," June heard Freddy gasp through the haze of pain that obscured her vision. "No, you don't. You have not gone and got yourself shot after all this time."

"I'm- I'm all right, Freddy," she managed, levering herself up on one elbow and only just managing not to be sick. "It's just shrapnel, I think. It doesn't look too bad."

The ground next to them exploded with the impact of a sniper's bullet and Freddy hit the dirt. "Medic!" June heard him yell through a mouthful of mud.

An American medic was at their side almost immediately, digging ampules of morphine and a clean bandage from his pack. Behind him, June could see wounded and dead lying exposed near the center of the blast. Close to them lay one of the boys she'd interviewed earlier that day. A handsome, eighteen year old kid from... where? San Francisco, maybe? And he needed help far more than she did.

The medic was on his knees beside her, uncapping the morphine. June tried to push him away. "No. It's not that bad. Help them..." She waved helplessly toward the fallen American GIs. "Please..."

"She's right," June heard Freddy say softly to the medic. "Give me the bandages and you get going."

The medic hesitated for a moment before handing a few supplies over. "All right. But you take care of her. If one of these little ladies even gets a hangnail, we're all in for it."

"Right-o," Freddy said, gripping the American's shoulder in brotherly salute. The medic scampered off, crawling over to the soldiers.

She gasped in pain as Freddy jabbed the morphine into her outstretched arm. The burning pinch was followed almost immediately by a rush of warm numbness, like sliding into a hot bath. It was the warmest she'd been since they left Paris.

She was peripherally aware of Freddy bandaging her as best he could, ducking the German sniper fire that spat from the trees. Out in the open, the two of them were pitifully exposed, and it was sheer miracle that neither was hit. Bandages in place, Freddy flung her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, crouching low, and ran full-out for cover.

He laid her down between two jeeps, and pulled his sidearm, watching the trees for fire. She watched as he targeted one area in particular and fired three shots in quick succession.

She lost a few minutes of consciousness, and when she came to Freddy was gone from her side. She still lay behind the front wheel of an abandoned jeep, only now several soldiers had taken cover there as well.

"Hey, there, gorgeous," one of them said, looking down at her. "This isn't the way I usually like to have a first date, but things as they are, it's better than nothing, right?"

June tried to form her lips into a smile, but only managed what felt like a pained grimace.

"Yeah, I know," the soldier said grimly, ducking as sniper fire sparked against the far door of the jeep. His profile shimmered and wavered behind the blurry waves that rolled across her vision.

"Merry fucking Christmas," someone close to her growled, and the snick of rifle being aimed was the last thing she heard before everything went dark.

***

The world returned as a series of fuzzy sensations. The first thing June became truly aware of was the steady background drumming of the ack-ack guns, peppered with an occasional, distant explosion.

"Finally decided to come back from the land of morphine, have we?" said a blur at her bedside.

"Hayden?" she asked, shaking her head as though that would clear the fog.

"Hullo, darling," he grinned insolently at her, leaning back in his chair. "You know, if you wanted my attention there were slightly less painful ways to go about getting it."

"What on- Hayden?" she repeated, dumbly, trying to take in her surroundings. "Where am I?"

"The Ninth Armored Field Hospital, if that means anything to you. It's all rather Greek to me."

The room still seemed to be swimming slightly and she couldn't quite feel her toes or the tip of her nose. "Did you... did you say something about morphine?"

"Yes," Hayden grinned. "And rather a lot of it. You're going to have a couple of nasty scars, June darling. Though," he lowered his voice, "we can have that easily put to rights once we get you home."

"Home?" she blinked, keeping her eyes open with an effort. "Nobody's going home, Hayden. We've a long haul yet in this fight." She paused, taking a breath, collecting the shards of fractured memory from the day before. "I remember... the Germans snuck in... Where's Freddy? Is he all right?"

"You're better off than you have any right to be, thanks to your friend Parker."

"Is he all right?"

"Just fine. He patched you up nicely, both the traditional way and the, well, not so traditional. You're a sight better than most of these nice folks." He gestured around the makeshift ward.

"How long have I been here?"

"Full of questions, aren't we? If only you could hear yourself," Hayden said, amused. "Well, you've not quite missed the roast goose and figgy pudding." He smiled. "But it was a near thing. Then again, I doubt you'll want the dried turkey and tinned cranberries these Americans pass off as a Christmas feast."

She'd been unconscious for a little over a day then. She settled back against the pillow, trying not to wonder what that amount of time could have meant for the First Army. Only a day surely, but in battle... Only a day... A thought occurred to her abruptly.

"Hayden, how on earth did you get here?"

"Well..." He had the grace to look sheepish. "I may have pulled a string or two."

She sat up, even though the world swung sickeningly with the movement, and looked at him. He was dressed in the drab grey-green of a British officer, but the material of the uniform was rumpled and creased, suggesting that he'd slept in it. The Pegasus Flash of an airborne trooper was hastily sewn onto one sleeve, but his other insignia proclaimed him an infantryman and his helmet was on backward.

"I'm not even going to ask who you had to bribe, or sleep with, or promise not to sleep with, to get here."

Hayden laughed and clapped his hands. "Oh, that's my darling girl! My little tartar. I'm so pleased you aren't dead."

"And I'm pleased to see you," she said, feeling emotion well up inside her, though that might have been the morphine. "It's been rather tough out here, you know," she heard herself say before she could stop the words. "I've missed you."

"Well," Hayden seemed slightly taken aback. "You know I've missed you like hell, but once you're feeling better I'll deny to the death that I ever admitted it." He paused for a moment. "It gave me quite a turn when we got that owl, I will say. I thought your mother would faint quite dead away. Your loving family insisted I run right out here and rescue you."

"And Albus?"

"Oh... well. I suppose I rather forgot to tell him."

"You didn't tell him!" she exclaimed, struggling to sit up again, but Hayden put out a restraining hand.

"I'm sorry, darling. That was an awful ass of me, wasn't it? Old Professor McGoodyTrousers is probably delirious with worry. I'll owl him directly."

"Hayden!" she protested weakly.

"I know, I know, dear girl," he said softly, catching one of her hands up in his. His hands were very warm; some of the numbness in her fingertips seemed to melt beneath their heat.

"Ah, awake I see," an efficient-looking nurse stopped beside June's bed and began fiddling with her IV. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," June replied. "I'm fine."

The nurse favored them with what may have been a wry smile. "Enjoy it while you can. I imagine you won't be nearly so comfortable once this wears off." She poked a slender needle into the IV tube, and almost immediately June began to feel drowsy.

"Hayden?"

"Don't you worry about a thing, darling. I'll be right here till you wake up."

"You'll tell Albus, won't you?"

"On my honor as a gentleman."

"A lot of good that does me," she muttered.

He chuckled softly, letting go of her hand. "Nevertheless, I do promise." He paused. "Now go to sleep like a good girl."

She settled back against the scratchy pillow, closing her eyes, the morphine like hot brandy in her blood, dragging her down into sleep...

"Hayden?"

"Yes, June?"

"Fix your uniform," she heard herself mumble, as the world began to fade into cloud-soft greyness, "before you're shot as a spy."

Hayden chuckled, leaning forward so that his breath was soft against her ear.

"Merry Christmas, darling."