Dreamwalk Blue

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER NINE

Summary: The further adventures of the Ministry of Magic's Most Unwanted, smoking in the girls' room, and Albus and June, sitting in a tree.

CHAPTER NINE -- NOIR

Ohh, no one is near
I may cry oh, oh, oh but no one can hear
Mama may scold me 'cause she told me it was naughty
But then, please do it again, just do it again

(from do it again)

A slushy March rain had been drizzling onto the London pavement all day. Jack Seward, alone in his dreary basement office, couldn't see the rain, but he could hear it, spattering against sewer grates and cascading down gutters. The office was warm, though, and Seward snapped on another lamp in a futile attempt to chase the persistent grey shadows from the corners of the room.

In the months he'd been gone, the office remained largely untouched -- as far as he could tell. That didn't really mean anything, of course. Seward himself knew a hundred different ways to search a room without disturbing so much as a dust bunny. He'd taken the precaution of removing anything controversial before he'd left, and nothing else appeared to be missing. What he was looking for then, as he began dismantling his wall clock, was anything that had been added. He pried the backing off the small, metal clock, ignoring its slight groan of protest, and began to probe around inside.

A soft footstep from the doorway froze his hands above the tiny brass workings. Seward straightened up slightly at the noise. "I wondered how long it would be before you decided to pay me a visit."

"Did you?"

He turned slowly to face his visitor. "Hello, Heidi. Sorry to see me back safely?"

The expression on her face flickered slightly, but her step didn't falter. She strode into his office and calmly took the only chair. "Now why would you say something like that?"

"Don't fuck me around. I know your agenda, remember?"

"Jack…" She paused, looking at her hands, folded in her lap. "Jack, don't. I'm not your enemy."

He leaned back against his desk, watching her carefully. She'd changed her hair since he'd seen her last, he realized irrelevantly. It was shorter, pinned into curls around the frame of her face, falling slightly over one eye like some noir femme fatale. She must have been hitting the cinema on the sly.

"What do you want?"

She crossed her legs and leaned against the arm of the chair, propping her chin on one hand. "To say hello, of course. How was the Continent? Ghastly, I expect, things being what they are."

"I don't know. Paris was pretty nice. Thought of you while I was there, as a matter of fact."

"Did you?" She smiled and for a half-second things were right again, the way they used to be.

But he couldn't allow himself to be fooled by the past, by the person she used to be. So, instead, he said, "Oh, sure. We stayed in this hotel, reminded me of Prague. You remember Prague, don't you?"

She remembered all right, he could tell. Her back went very straight and she wouldn't quite meet his eye. "I thought we agreed not to talk about Prague."

"I was thinking about that place," he continued, ignoring her. "That little shop, you remember the one-"

"Jack," she said abruptly, cutting him off, "what were you doing in Paris?"

"Don't you already know? You ought to. Your boss was there himself."

She looked up, surprised. "Price was there? He didn't-"

"What's this? Are you out of the loop?" Seward said unkindly. He leaned down to her. "Maybe you'd best start watching your back. We all know how Price can be with agents who fall out of favor."

"Stop that," she whispered. Or maybe he just imagined it, because in the next moment she stood, looking cool as ever and said, "Your friend Dumbledore was returned safely back to the welcoming arms of Hogwarts in December." She paused, watching him carefully. "What on earth did they keep you doing for three months?"

Seward grimaced. "I doubt you want to know."

"I'm always interested in you, Jack."

"I'll just bet you are. Maybe you ought to ask your boss. I suspect it was his doing, after all."

"You can't blame everything on him, you know, Jack."

"Why not?" Seward asked. "He certainly wants people to think he runs the universe."

"Don't make Will angry. You make light of it, but he is powerful-"

"Oh, it's Will now, is it?" He backed her up a step and leaned in. "I suppose I ought to have known you'd do anything to get ahead."

She took a step back, putting the chair between them. "Believe whatever you want. You will anyway." Her expression went very serious. "But can't you see that I'm trying to protect you?"

He laughed bitterly. "You're protecting me? The way you protected Hart?"

"That's not fair. You don't understand. You weren't there. You don't know what was at stake."

She tried to walk away, but he blocked her path with an outstretched arm. "But I do, Heidi. I do understand. Better, I think, than you do."

"I'm just trying to do what's right! That's all I've ever tried to do. Why do you keep punishing me for that?"

"Aren't you the good little soldier? Just following orders."

"Jack-"

"Get out, Heidi." He pushed away from her, and walked over to the desk. "I don't need your help, or your protection. Not that it's worth much."

She was silent for a long moment, and Seward sat back down at his desk and resumed poking at the workings of the clock.

Finally, she said, "So that's how things are between us, then?"

"That's how they are," he replied, refusing to meet her eyes again.

"Fine." She turned back and arched an eyebrow at him as she breezed out. "Problem with your clock?"

"No, no problem. Why?"

***

When the beginning of the end came, it was, of course, Metis' fault. She couldn't leave things alone; she needed and wanted and pulled. And, in the end, that caused everything to unravel.

"You'll drain me dry," Tom said to her once, but it wasn't true. They both knew it. She was the one who was drained, who was empty. She felt hollowed out and it wasn't fair. She wanted, too. He wasn't the only one. She needed, and she'd begun to grow tired of the lack.

So she pulled.

She pulled the thread that unraveled the world. But of course she hadn't known that then. All she knew was that she needed Tom and he didn't need her anymore -- or, at least, he seemed not to.

"You're so far away."

It was Saturday afternoon and it was raining, big, half-frozen drops against the leaded windowpanes.

"I'm right here," Tom said. His head was in her lap, but she couldn't see his face. She could see the way the fire played on his hair. She could see the line of his neck, the way his hands held his book. Tom was always reading these days. There had been a time he'd read out loud to her, but lately he read silently, only to himself, only for himself. He closed the book when she spoke to him, covered its spine with a hand so she couldn't read the letters engraved there. She hadn't asked, but it was slowly killing her not to know. She suspected that he knew this and still said nothing.

There were days when Metis wondered how it was that she hadn't failed out of school. She couldn't concentrate. Even sitting in class where the world should have been clear and sharp and written in black India ink, there were greys and shadows and blurs. She wrote and answered automatically, without any real thought. Her teachers never seemed to notice. They congratulated her as always, she still earned good marks. Sometimes she would receive an essay back and find herself staring at the words. Who had written them? It seemed impossible that it could have been her.

Arithmancy was possibly the worst of all. All those numbers, cold and dry and distant -- they bored her, made her restless. None of it seemed real, she couldn't imagine how it could possibly matter.

So one afternoon, when no one was looking, she slipped out of class. Even if someone had noticed, she might have gone anyway.

She didn't have any idea where she was going really. Out. Away. That's all that mattered. Sitting still made her twitch, made the air stop in her lungs. She felt as though her whole life pressed down on her when she sat still and she couldn't think of anything but Tom. So Metis wandered. Aimless, looking for something. She wanted to go outside, wanted to run, but the sky was grey, cold, threatening rain again.

Metis heard someone coming along the corridor, so she yanked open the door to a nearby lavatory and slipped inside. Only to find she wasn't alone. Another girl was already there, sprawled carelessly on the floor in front of one of the sinks and rolling a cigarette between her fingers. Metis recognized her, but didn't know her name. She was a year or two below Metis, a little gawky, too thin, but still pretty in an unrefined way. The sort of girl that Tom called 'cheap.' She barely looked up when Metis walked past. But there was something familiar in the way she held herself, the line of her shoulders. She sagged under the weight of something bigger than she was, like maybe it was an effort for her just to breathe.

Ashen, grey. Emptied. She looked the way Metis felt.

"Are you all right?" Metis asked carefully.

"I'm fine," the girl said, looking at Metis a bit suspiciously. "Or I will be, anyway." There was a pause and she muttered, "I'll kill him for this."

Metis ignored that and said, "Would you like me to fetch the nurse? Or maybe walk you back to your classroom?"

"I'm not going back in there," she said, standing up and cracking the window open. "Not today. I can't bear the whispering."

"I'll stay with you," Metis offered, not quite sure why she was doing it. "I wasn't getting anything done in Arithmancy anyway."

The girl looked ready to protest. But after a moment she seemed to relent a little, and held out a hand. "I'm Dana."

"I'm-" Metis began.

"Oh, I know who you are."

Metis blinked in surprise. "Do you really?"

"Of course," Dana said. That look was back in her eyes, as though she half-suspected Metis was making fun of her.

"I didn't realize," Metis said softly.

"Everyone knows you and the handsome Head Boy. You're quite the couple."

Metis didn't know how to respond to that, so instead she said, "Are you really all right?"

Dana laughed, and sat back down on the tile, fumbling with a match for the cigarette. "I am most definitely not all right. But I'm not in any immediate danger, if that's what you mean."

"If you're really sick, perhaps you ought to see someone."

"You really don't know, do you?" She laughed. "Well, there's one person, at any rate. Look, forget I said anything. Go back to your perfect boyfriend and your rich friends and your tidy little life. This isn't the sort of thing you're used to dealing with. You might get your hands dirty."

"It isn't," Metis said abruptly. The other girl looked up at her. "Perfect. It isn't perfect or tidy or anything that anyone thinks it is. You don't have any idea."

Dana leaned her head back against the sink and looked hard at her. "Maybe I don't."

Metis took a seat beside her on the cold tiles, pulling her skirt down to cover a bruise on her thigh. She suspected the other girl saw it anyway. "I can only imagine what you're feeling, and I'm sorry. It must be terrible."

"It's fixable," was all Dana said. "At least, I hope it is."

She took a long drag on the cigarette and held it out to Metis. Metis accepted it politely and took a delicate puff, but she'd never liked the taste much.

"I suppose it's all my own fault," Dana said, taking the cigarette from Metis without looking at her. "I knew how he was, what he was, but I didn't really care. I'm not sure I do now."

"Even after you've been hurt?"

Dana laughed sharply. "Maybe even especially then. Something tells me you know how that feels."

Metis said nothing.

Dana just shook her head and looked at her wristwatch. "Time to go, I guess," she said, grinding the cigarette against the sink and reaching up to flick it down the drain.

Metis took her firmly by the arm and helped her up.

"I never thanked you, you know," Dana said once they were out in the corridor.

"You don't have to."

"Well, here's my ride, anyway," she muttered, and Metis looked up to see a nice-looking boy in her own year come round the corner.

He looked at Metis, his eyes widening slightly with recognition. She recognized him, too. Charles something-or-other. He was with Tom quite a lot lately, ever since Denis- Ever since Denis had gone.

"Where have you been?" he asked sharply, looking away from her, and Dana's head came up just fractionally. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I can't be expected to organize a bloody expedition to find you."

"I have to go," Metis said softly. "Will you be all right?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine."

Metis left them standing there, glowering slightly at each other, and fled down the hallway.

Tom was waiting outside her classroom, looking impatient and rather put out.

"Where have you been?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's not like you to wander off like that."

"I had something to take care of."

Charles and Dana came around the corner, arguing quietly. Metis watched them and didn't look Tom in the face.

"You know Charles rather well, don't you?" she asked after a moment. "What's he like?"

"He's a bit of a bastard. But we get on well enough."

"It's a pity about Dana."

"Who? Oh, the little Hufflepuff. You know about that, do you?" Tom held her hand absently as they walked.

"Well, it's what Ruth said anyway," Metis lied. "And if anyone would know, it would be Ruth." She watched Dana a moment longer before she let Tom tug her along down the corridor. "What do you suppose they'll do?"

"He'll have it taken care of, I suppose. He certainly has enough practice."

"Is that what you would do?" she asked softly. "If it were you? It if were us?"

Tom waved an impatient hand, ignoring the implication of that entirely. "Of course not. But that isn't going to happen to us." He paused, then gave her a second look. "It isn't, you know."

"I know. I just- I wondered."

He seemed to believe her, but she caught him watching her more carefully after that.

***

June didn't remember much about her homecoming. They crossed the channel on the first Sunday in January. The boat tossed on the waves and Hayden had looked slightly green and stayed below decks the whole trip. Back in England there was snow and sun and an endless succession of trains. Hayden held her gently by the elbow and guided her in and out of the crowds.

She'd expected Hayden to take her home to London, and they'd been halfway to her parents' house before she'd caught on.

"Oh, Hayden. Must you? They'll make the most awful fuss."

"Really, darling," he said, looking vaguely scandalized. "You did almost die, after all. I think you owe the mater and pater at least a courtesy visit."

But her head hurt and her hands still shook and she was all out of courtesy.

It turned out, luckily, to be far better than she expected. Her parents were deferent and kind and didn't cling or ask too many unpleasant questions. And, for the first week, Albus sat at her bedside every day, holding her hand and looking pained. June insisted that she was fine, but he wouldn't be convinced.

"You don't have to be brave," he said over and over. "Not with me."

And she tried to tell them that she wasn't being brave, she was only being how she felt, but no one seemed to want to hear it, Albus least of all.

But then, abruptly, at the end of February he stopped coming, and June didn't even know how to begin to feel about it. She wondered at first if he'd finally decided to give her the space she'd asked for. Then she wondered if he'd just gotten tired, gotten tired of the endless waiting and uncertainty, gotten tired of her. That bothered her more than she liked to think about.

She sent him letters that went unanswered. She owled the school and was politely but briskly informed that Professor Dumbledore was not to be disturbed for an extended period of time, and, no, they did not know when or if he would be available. Well, the last thing June planned to do was take that lying down. The only thing for it was to go find him. She got up one morning at the beginning of March, got dressed and went downstairs before she thought anyone else was up. She'd nearly made it out the side door when her mother caught her and bustled her back up to bed.

It was just after this incident that June insisted she be allowed to return to her apartment in the city. She'd been 'recovering' for over two months, and she suspected that all this forced bed rest and loving care had more to do with the fact that she was a woman than with any actual physical damage.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she told her parents she was leaving.

"But, dear," her mother said, with a worried sidelong glance at her father, "are you quite sure you ought to be all alone right now? The doctors are convinced that it's best for someone with a delicate constitution to be looked after until-"

"Until what, Mother? Until I can sleep without dreaming?" June took her mother's hand. "Yes, it was terrible. I saw some terrible things, and I got hurt. But I'm stronger than that. You both made me of stronger stuff than that. I'm going to be quite all right."

And after that, they let her go.

Hayden, of course, was convinced that all she really needed to make a complete recovery was some good brandy and a bit of fun -- both things, he declared grandly, that he had in ready supply. For her part June felt fine, but even Hayden refused to take her at her word on this point. But at least he made good on the promise of brandy.

"You have no idea how good it feels to be out," June said. "I thought I was going to go mad cooped up in that house."

They were in the drawing room of Hayden's townhouse, relaxing after a late dinner. Hayden put Serenade in Blue on the phonograph, and rain drummed softly against the windows. June moved closer to the hearth and stretched out her hands toward the fire.

"Well, I'm just glad to have you still in one piece," Hayden said. "I trust you've learned the folly of rushing off to fight other people's wars for them?"

"It was the right thing to do," she replied.

"You'll forgive me, of course, if I disagree with you," he said, busying himself with a decanter. "It has been my experience that no good ever comes of meddling in those affairs. It's, if anything, a kind of arrogance on our part. Because, surely the poor misguided Muggles couldn't settle their own disputes without our help."

"I hardly think that's what was intended-"

"Really, darling? You don't think it would have been a waste if you'd died? I think we've already lost quite enough to that sort of arrogance. I would think that we'd have learned our lesson thirty years ago."

"I told you months ago that I thought you were drawing too many parallels."

"And yet you still bled for them. You could have been killed. Many of our people have been killed, will be killed. And then what will we do the next time it happens?"

"If you'll recall, the Ministry didn't officially sanction those who went off to fight in the Great War. What's happening now is completely different. It's a very real threat, to all of us. Or it will be if it's allowed to continue."

Hayden looked unconvinced.

"You haven't seen the things I saw. I haven't talked about it much, because everyone's been so worried, but… Hayden, these people need to be stopped. They burn women and starve babies. They're monsters."

"Be that as it may, June, it wasn't your fight."

"Whose fight should it be, then?"

"Not yours," he said stubbornly.

"I know what you're thinking. I know why this makes you so angry, but this is not the same as the things happened before. The people who have gone off to fight this time don't have the same motives, the same romantic view of battle…"

"They were fools. All of them."

"But, Hayden, your father-"

"My father was an misguided fool who had no business running off and getting himself killed. Brandy?" He held a snifter out to her.

She took it.

"I can't discuss this with you anymore," she said, sitting down again by the fire. "Not if you won't admit why it really upsets you so much." She settled back, crossing her arms across her chest.

"What is it you want me to say?" he asked, flinging himself resentfully into a chair opposite her. "That it hurt? That my mother cried for days and I didn't understand why? That I've resented his selfishness all this time? That I've been angry with him for twenty-seven years? Fine. Consider it said, but don't expect me to lie in your lap and cry about it."

"Hayden," she began gently, putting down her glass and catching up his arm.

"You are a terrible influence on me." He shook his head.

"Why?" She scooted closer, still holding his arm. "Because I make you say what you're really thinking?"

"You never used to, you know. And don't think I don't know whose influence that is."

"I wish I could figure out why you dislike him so much," June said with a frown. "After all this time, I really don't understand it."

"Don't you?" He leaned back out of her reach, looking wryly amused, and took a sip at his brandy. "Then again, perhaps you don't. You're very perceptive when it comes to things that don't involve you personally, darling, but about your own affairs, you can be positively blind."

"Whatever do you mean by-" June began, but was cut off by the arrival of the butler.

"There's a gentleman to see you, sir."

"At this time of night?" Hayden raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't want money, does he?"

"I don't think so, sir. Shall I find out for you?"

"Oh, yes. Please do. And if he is here for extortion, just pay him the going rate and send him off."

The butler bowed slightly and left the room.

When he had gone, June asked with a laugh, "Are you blackmailed often?"

"Oh, quite frequently. One can't live an interesting life without paying for it, though, I've always said."

"Yours could be a touch less interesting and still be more so than most people's. It might be good for you."

"There's only one way that will ever happen, darling, and that's with the love of a good woman." He leaned forward, grinning. "And what do you think are the odds of a good woman ever consenting to have me?"

June laughed. "Slim to none. She'd have to be unspeakably brave."

The butler returned, looking almost amused -- if a proper butler could ever strictly be said to look amused. "The gentleman insists that he has no desire for any monetary compensation and that it is of the utmost importance that he speak to you. Shall I tell him to call tomorrow?"

"No, no. By all means, bring the fellow in. I'm terribly intrigued by all this cloak-and-dagger melodrama." Hayden rubbed his hands together. "Perhaps we'll have some excitement tonight, after all."

June raised an eyebrow. "An evening with me isn't exciting enough for you?"

Hayden opened his mouth to speak, then paused, reconsidering. "Oh, don't tempt me, darling," he said after a moment. "You almost make it too easy."

The butler returned then, followed by, to June's very real surprise, Jack Seward.

"Jack!" she said, without thinking.

"You know this fellow?" Hayden asked, standing up. "Then you both have me at a disadvantage."

"I'm sorry to call on you so late," Seward began. "But Miss Lisbon's household told me she was here and it's kind of urgent." Turning to June, he said, "We've got a problem. A big one."

"Have you gotten yourself mixed up in some sort of intrigue, darling? How delicious."

"Hayden, be quiet."

"I'm quite cross that you didn't include me, though."

June sighed heavily. "Hayden, Jack is Albus' partner on a bit of a research project. They were on the Continent together last year. I'm quite sure I've told you all this."

"Ah. But you made it sound dreadfully boring." He turned to Seward. "I think I quite prefer the way you tell it."

Seward gave June a look that clearly said, Is this guy for real? But he accepted a large brandy when Hayden handed it to him.

"Do have a seat and tell us all about this problem of yours," Hayden said with a mischievous grin.

Seward took a long drink from his brandy, looked up at them both and said, "I can't find Dumbledore."

"Whatever do mean, old boy? Have you misplaced the Professor? I can't imagine he'd wander off on his own."

"He's just… gone," Seward said, looking worried. "My owls have gone unanswered, the school has been completely unhelpful and nobody else seems to have seen him." He looked at June. "I thought you might've."

"No, it's been weeks since we last spoke. I haven't been out very much lately." She paused. "I thought- Well, I just haven't seen him."

Seward looked at her for a long moment. "I know I shouldn't ask, but… do you suppose you could try to get in touch with him? The formidable old doorwardens at that school won't let me in, but I can't imagine they'd turn you away."

"Now, look here," Hayden said. "I'm sure you're a nice fellow and all, but June's not well. She's not going to go running all over the countryside just because old Dumbledore's got himself-"

"Hayden." June held up a hand, silencing him, then turned to Jack. "I'll find him for you. I have a few questions to ask him myself."

***

The sky cleared and Metis dreamt of gold.

She dreamt honey and amber, the blood of trees and the earth's breath. She dreamt gardens and wild-lands, fields and fens. She dreamt a river, golden with rushes and the summer sun. Butterflies, fat-winged, yellow and black, and green-gold moss and decay. Yellow-feathered arrows and golden strings. She dreamt grasses and flowers, wind and waves. She saw the sandy edges of the ocean and tasted yellow apples and burning leaves, felt the sting of a honeybee.

She dreamt a world that was young and stones that were old. She dreamt, she felt, the beginning of everything and the end of it all. She dreamt yellow parchment paper and black charcoal, records and pictures and careful script. The words on the parchment flowed and changed, tidal and fluid. They came together and formed a snake eating its own tail. Round and round and over and over. The snake came and changed the dream, made it red, then blue, then green, then gold again.

Metis dreamt life and death and circles, and a little girl with a stone knife. The girl was small and wild, her hair pale yellow, and she held the knife by the blade. Blood seeped from between her fingers and fell onto the black earth. In her other hand, laced between her fingers, she held a ruined silver chain, the clasp broken as though it had been yanked from her neck.

"There is no such thing as Death, you know," the girl said, and Metis wasn't quite sure who she was speaking to. "There is no Death, no rest, and it is all his fault. I never wanted this. I want a sunset; I want an end to things. I want back the things he took from us." She closed her eyes then, and said, "I think you could give it back, any of you could, but you will not. We will have to wait."

She fell silent, and Metis woke up.

***

Saturday morning found Albus, both literally and figuratively, up a tree. He'd taken to hiding himself away on the weekends. First, in his office; then, as more people had figured out where to find him, in the prefect's garden in the north wing. The place must have lost some of its popularity since Albus had been a student. This was the second weekend in a row he'd locked himself away and he had yet to see another soul. And if there had been anyone else in the garden, Albus would have seen them. Halfway up a stately old elm, he'd found a branch that stretched out over the pond. It was the perfect size and shape for sitting, and, even better, afforded him a view of the entire garden.

Which was why he felt an utter fool when June managed to sneak up from behind and take him by surprise.

"I thought you might be here," her voice said from below him. It was around noon and he must have fallen asleep at some point during the morning. "I'm not sure why I thought it, but I did."

He started guiltily out of his half-doze and nearly out of the tree, and looked down at June, standing with one hand planted on her hip at the edge of the water. She'd lost weight, was paler than he remembered her. She looked coolly up at him, seemingly unruffled, but he noticed that she leaned slightly against the tree's trunk for support.

Feeling guilty, he sat up, swinging one leg over the branch and looking down at her. "You know me too well by now, I suppose."

"That's what makes it so odd," she said, stepping lightly onto the lowest branch and trying to pull herself up. "This isn't like you at all."

He caught hold of her arm and helped her up beside him. He could feel her ribs underneath her skin when he held her around the waist to steady her. She felt like she might shatter if he squeezed too tightly.

"I am sorry," he said, a little taken aback. "I didn't mean to worry you. I just needed some time, someplace quiet to think. I've had quite a lot to consider over the last month or so."

"Have you?" she asked, surprised.

He leaned back against the tree trunk, and June leaned against him in turn, resting her chin on his knee.

"What you really mean is you're hiding from us. All of us." At his confused expression, she said, "Jack came to see me when he couldn't find you. And here I'd thought it was just me you were avoiding."

"Is that what you thought?" he said softly.

"What did you expect me to think?"

He didn't know what he'd expected, and maybe a mean little part of him had wondered if she'd even notice his absence.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "That wasn't my intention. Things have just… moved rather more quickly than I'd thought they would."

"Things?"

And here was the trick of it. The real reason he hadn't wanted to see her. How much ought he tell her? He didn't even want to know most of it himself.

"Well, you know Jack and I found something in Albania."

"One would hope," she said with a soft laugh. "After all the trouble you went to."

"Things have come to light recently… things that make me think maybe I've been on the wrong track."

"What?"

He shook his head. "For the moment, I think it's better you don't know. At least until I'm sure."

For a moment he thought she might argue the point, but when he looked at her she only looked worried, and maybe a little weary. At last she said, "But you've told Jack, haven't you?"

"I didn't have to tell Jack. He was there with me to see."

"And I wasn't, is that it?" She put a hand on his arm. "All you had to do was ask, you know. I would have gone with you."

"Would you? I'm not so sure." He shook his head. "But that's beside the point. Even though Jack was there, he doesn't understand everything we found. I don't understand everything we found and I just need the time to work it out." That, of course, was partly a lie. There were things he did know, things he suspected, but he couldn't tell her.

"This thing you've found," she began carefully, "it's in the past, isn't it?"

"No, not entirely. It's in the past but it's also about now, and things to come."

She watched him for a long moment and he could tell she didn't like what she saw. "If you can't talk to me, at least talk to Jack. He's worried, and it might help you figure things out."

She scooted a little closer to him and he could smell her perfume. "I don't suppose you missed me at all?" She said it easily, but there was something behind the words. She was unsure of him, off-balance, and he had to admit he liked it a little. Maybe even more than a little.

He put a hand to her face, brushing her hair out of the way. She leaned in to the touch. "I missed you," he said. "Even with the fate of the world in the balance, I always would."

Her eyes widened a little. "Well, you know what they say about absence. Apparently, it's true. It's turned you into a poet." Then, more lightly, "Well, you certainly chose an interesting place to get away from it all, didn't you?"

"You always liked this place."

"So I did." She kissed him briefly, then pulled away. "You know, you did say once that you wanted me to come here with you. It's a bit after the fact, but it ought to count for something."

He laughed, feeling somehow relieved. "Yes, it does count. Even if it is ten years too late."

"I'd hardly call this too late. Besides," she grinned and a little of the color seemed to come back into her face, "I hear the submarine races are lovely this time of year."

***

More and more often, Metis found Tom in the library. More and more often, Metis found that she had to search for Tom when she wanted him, and she had begun to fear that he didn't want her at all. She found him this time in the very back of the deepest, darkest shelves, thick with quiet and years of dust. His attention was focused entirely on a book, he didn't acknowledge her when she approached.

"I looked for you," she said softly, and he didn't even look up.

"And now you've found me."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "Again. It's as though… I thought we fixed things, I thought-"

He raised an eyebrow and kept reading.

She walked over to him -- suddenly bold, angry, desperate, something -- and slammed the book shut on his hand. He looked up at her in shock.

"What exactly," he said, uncoiling himself from the chair and standing up to tower over her, "do you think you're doing?"

"Making you see me. Do you think that I only exist when you want me? Do you think I can't see that there's something wrong with you?"

"You have your secrets, too. Don't think I can't tell, Metis. I can always tell."

"I don't keep secrets from you. You ought to know better." She turned away from him. "But lately there are things I think you'd rather not hear. Lately, I'm not always sure you listen when I talk."

"Oh, have I hurt your pride?" he asked, his voice going dangerously soft. He caught her wrists and spun her around to face him.

"You keep pushing me away and then pulling me back," Metis said, surprised by how steady her voice was. "You can't have both. I won't let you. You have to decide."

"You won't let me?"

"No, I won't. I don't know what's the matter with you, but I know this is killing me."

"Killing you?" he said. "You don't know, do you? You half-know. You guess, you hide. You say things that-" He laughed sharply. "If you really knew you wouldn't say them. You wouldn't dare."

Metis straightened up as tall as she could and looked him in the eye. "I'm sorry, Tom. But I have to do this. I can't keep on as things are- I'm walking away. For good this time, I mean it."

She didn't even make it half a step toward the door.

He shoved her back into one of the shelves, so hard books jumped and clattered and fell to the floor in a shower of dust. She struck her head on a sharp wooden edge and tears sprang into her eyes.

"Someone will hear, Tom," she said, reaching up to press a hand against the knot forming on the back of her head.

"Go ahead then. Scream. Bring them scurrying. I don't think you have it in you." He grabbed her arm and held on. She twisted and pulled and tried to get away, but he dug his fingers in, hard enough to draw blood. He looked at her in horror for a moment, then wiped the blood from his hands and began to laugh.

"I thought it was wrong," he said. "I thought it had to be wrong. But now I see. I see I could do it, and if I did it would be all your fault."

"Is that a threat, Tom?"

"It's the truth of things. Only I didn't want to see it. I thought if I kept you away, just a little, then I could still have you. Then it wouldn't be true. But I can't stay away, and neither can you." He shook his head. "You won't walk away and leave me. You can't. You say it, because you want to see how I'll react. Is this what you expected? What you wanted? You certainly have my attention now, don't you?"

"I have to do something, Tom," she said, sitting down. Her vision blurred and she felt bruised and slightly sick.

"Maybe you ought to try seeing me," he said quietly, kneeling down beside her. "Really seeing me. You've never done that."

There was a long, silent moment and Tom took her hand in his.

"Open your eyes, Metis," he said at last. "You have to see. It may be the only thing you have left to you."

***

Dumbledore dropped his bombshell on a nondescript Friday afternoon, sunny for once and hinting at spring. Transfiguration was the last class of the day and the students were restless, casting lingering looks out the high, arched windows and tapping their quills impatiently on the wooden desks. Tom was in no particular hurry himself, but then he never was.

Metis had avoided him since that day in the library and he hadn't yet decided whether he was pleased about that or not. Certainly, it was the outcome he'd intended, but he missed her, missed her with an itch and an ache. He could still feel the lines and planes and curves of her when he concentrated, as though she was never altogether gone. At his desk, he leaned back, closed his eyes and thought about her. Not with poetry or fever, but thought about her as she was, flawed and frightened and blinded, but still, always his.

The whisper of in-drawn breath on the air in the half-second before the bell rang made him open his eyes. As he got up to go, he was aware of Dumbledore watching him, a measuring expression on his face.

"Stay a moment, won't you, Tom?" he said.

When the other students had gone, Dumbledore offered Tom a chair in his office.

"Am I in some sort of trouble, sir?"

"Have I ever mentioned, Tom, that I have a very good friend at the British Museum?" Dumbledore said instead of answering the question.

"I don't believe so, sir," he said, putting on his best, most attentive student air.

Dumbledore watched him for a moment, toying with a quill and ink. "Marvolo? That's a family name, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. On my mother's side."

"Do you know much about your mother's family?"

"A bit, sir." Dumbledore was being far too casual about this. It put Tom's back up.

"This friend of mine. His name's Brendan," he said, as though that mattered. "He's been helping me with a bit of a project -- researching Salazar Slytherin and some of the things he's believed to have written. The name Marvolo has come up more than once."

Tom shifted a bit, judging the distance to the door.

"But I'm sure," Dumbledore smiled, "that you would have had no way of knowing that."

"Actually," Tom said casually, hoping to throw the professor off-balance, "the connection has been mentioned to me on occasion, by people with an interest in such things."

"Indeed." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "And what have these interested parties told you?"

Tom shrugged. "That my family was long thought to have descended from Slytherin. That nobody knows whether it's really true."

"That is true," Dumbledore continued, off-handedly. "Even if you wanted to prove something like that, it would be almost impossible these days. Unless, of course, there were records kept by the family. And, even then, they would hardly be reliable after all this time."

"What exactly are you asking me?"

Dumbledore sighed a bit heavily. "I'm not quite sure myself. But if there were something to what I'm saying, would you tell me?"

"Probably not," Tom answered bluntly.

"I figured as much." A pause, then, "Of course, if it is true, or even if you just believed it were, there are things you ought to know." He stopped, looking intently at Tom. "Or perhaps you already know them. Do you know what I'm talking about, Tom?"

"Maybe."

"This is very serious, Tom. Do you understand that?"

"I take everything seriously."

"I'm sure you do." But there was a hint of sarcasm beneath the words. Abruptly, though, it was gone and Dumbledore said, "Let me help you, Tom. It may be very important."

Tom said, nothing just shook his head.

"People are relying on us to do the right thing."

Tom sighed. "I never said I believed any of this business anyway."

Dumbledore watched him a moment, then said, "I think you believe it, all right. Or at the very least you want to believe. Isn't that right?"

Silence.

Changing tactics, Dumbledore sat back and fixed a hard gaze on him. "People may die, you realize. People you care about."

And that hit a bit too close to home. Tom shook his head sharply. "It doesn't have to be like that. Don't you see?"

Dumbledore leaned forward. "I don't see. I'd like to, but you have to help me to see."

Tom shut his mouth, sat up straighter in the chair. He'd already said too much, revealed too much of himself. He'd let his emotions goad him into being sloppy. He would say what had to be said to get himself out of this, but he wouldn't betray himself any further.

Dumbledore sighed. "Just tell me this then. What happened before, was it an accident? Or did you mean to kill that girl?"

"It was an accident," Tom said truthfully, because it had been. He'd certainly never intended to kill little Myrtle so sloppily. He'd never really intended to kill her at all, but he wasn't sorry either.

"You couldn't have known, I suppose, what it was you let out." But Dumbledore didn't sound entirely convinced. "You ought to have come forward, though. Blaming young Hagrid was wrong and I think you know it."

"Maybe, but it was either that or sacrifice my own life. And I don't just mean my life as a wizard. Going back to the Muggle world now would kill me, very literally. If not with bombs and guns, then with poverty and hunger. It would only be a matter of time. If there is anything that the Muggle world taught me, it's survival. I can't apologize for surviving." And for a moment Dumbledore almost looked sorry for him. Good. "I won't tell now. And you can't prove it. I'm sorry, but I'm nearly finished here. Expelling me now would do no one any good."

Dumbledore shook his head, resigned, knowing maybe that he had no kind of proof against Tom. "I suppose I can understand -- after a manner. It is understandable, but the fact remains, Tom, that it was also wrong. I trust you've learned since then?"

Tom nodded, for indeed he had. Many things.

"Am I free to go?" Tom asked, getting to his feet.

"Of course, of course."

He was almost to the door, when Dumbledore said, "We are more than our destinies, Tom. You do understand that, I think."

It wasn't until the door was safely closed behind him, that Tom realized he'd been holding his breath. He leaned against the door and listened to the rapid beating of his own heart.

He was fated, he'd always believed in that wholly. It had made him who he was. But now, just now, he'd begun to wish that he could change it. Not entirely. Just a bit, just the parts he didn't like, the things he didn't want to do. He didn't think it would be all that hard to change things. Fate was fate, but he was, after all, his own master. There was no reason that he ought not to have both.

***

Spring bloomed and Metis dreamt of blood.

Scarlet and crimson, salt-hot like the ocean and she found she couldn't breathe. Blood and holly, ink and a little boy pricked by a crown of thorns.

But she knew somehow that, after this, she wouldn't have any more of these dreams.

"Why?" she asked out loud, but no one answered.

"We brought Death into the world," the boy said instead. "We brought Knowledge, and it left us here, where blood cries out from the ground. We've tried so long to make it right, but time works against us and we are so tired."

"Are you dead?" Metis asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

"Only something that lives can die," the boy said. "I think we were once. Alive, I mean. I think we were born from ashes. But it's been so long and there have been so many that sometimes it's hard to remember. It may have been real, but then it may also have been a dream. It might have been a vision or a parable or a prayer."

He reached down and picked up a sword, heavy and silver and ruby. He held it in front of him, point down, clutching the hilt like a crucifix.

"We are not who we were. But we will stop it, they will. They will conquer Death and it will be our reward."

***