Chapter 1: The Betrayal
Emmalynn Dervish-St. Martin paced the Secretary’s office, reminding him of a caged animal. Her normally warm brown eyes were smoldering, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. The Secretary cleared his throat several times before timidly saying, "I don’t know what else you want from us, Emma."
She paused in her pacing. "That’s not good enough, Roderick. I need something definite. I need you to do something."
Roderick Mooreland, American Secretary of Magic, sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "You’ve performed the Fidelius Charm on Angeleigh. You’ll be performing it on Janus tomorrow. Unless the Secret-Keeper talks, the Charm is completely successful. I don’t see why you feel so uptight…" he looked at Emmalynn imploringly, his hazel eyes questioning her. "Emma…"
"I don’t trust Janus, Roderick," she said finally, staring him straight in the eye. "I know Simon does, but I just can’t shake my feelings on him. Dervish family curse, I guess," she said wryly. She sighed. "Basically I want a guarantee of Angie’s safety no matter what happens. I have a bad feeling about Janus, but I can’t seem to sway Simon.  This is national security on the line."
Roderick sighed as well. "I really, honestly, don’t know what to tell you, Emma. We’re taking all necessary precautions to protect your family… Angeleigh especially. The safety of our top three families, other than yours, rests in her. No one wants her kept safe more than I do. We’ve had her trailed by Hit Wizards all this school year… and you and Simon have been training her for the last three years. No one is more protected than that girl—"
"The Potter boy," Emmalynn interrupted stubbornly.
Roderick was taken aback.  "Well, of course he is, Emma, but that’s an entirely different situation—"
"Why should his safety be any more important than Angie’s? Roderick, Angeleigh is privy to some of the most coveted intelligence this side of the wizarding world right now. She’s in a very dangerous position and I want to make certain of her safety!" Emmalynn’s voice had reached a slightly hysterical pitch, and she stared at Roderick with wide eyes. "Look. I know no one else shares my suspicions about Janus, you included. Even Angeleigh adores him; he taught her to duel, did you know that? All those fancy moves of hers, he taught her. But I have misgivings, and I need to ask you to do something for me right now."
Roderick regarded her uncertainly. "Like what?" he asked slowly.
"If anything should happen to Simon or myself… or both of us… I need to know Angie will be safe. I need to switch the guardianship on her papers."  Emmalynn bit on her lower lip and turned her eyes on Roderick.  In the smoldering depths of her gaze, a sense of desperation, and even fear, was evident.
"Who’s next in line now?"  Roderick asked evenly, ignoring the queer feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Janus," she said softly. "But I have a younger brother in England. His name is Damien, and he still lives in the Dervish manor outside of Bath. It’s gorgeous over there, and I think if Angie had to leave Salem, she’d be happy in England…"
"What about school? She’s going into her sixth year at AIM. Do you expect her to do Owl Correspondence?"
"She was down for AIM and Hogwarts when she came of schooling age," Emmalynn said with a wave of her hand. "She can be transferred to Hogwarts. Damien graduated near the top of his class there, and I’ve already owled the headmaster and made arrangements, just in case—"
"Emma…" Roderick began carefully, "All these prearrangements…You’ve really thought about all of this.  You sound like you expect things to go wrong. Is there something I should be aware of? As Secretary of Magic, and all," he added.
Emmalynn sighed and tugged absently at a lock of hair. "Nothing definite. But… times are getting darker, like right before the Potter boy’s first triumph. The Aurors are high on the hit lists again, and unfortunately, Simon and I are near the top after we orchestrated that infiltration back in April--the one that put half the Reaper circle in Azkaban. We lost Silas, Jezebel, and Gemini, and a couple of Silas’s other higher-ups. He wants us, and the Groves, for that one… he’s after the Ledgewoods and the Colburns for ambushing another cell’s initiation ritual. He’s powerful… he’s You-Know-Who’s second in command in this country. We have reasons to fear."
Roderick nodded slowly. "Have you been in contact with the Ledgewoods since they went into hiding?"
"Only an owl to let them know the Charm was performed. Same with the Colburns and Groves."
He tapped his quill contemplatively before asking, for the umpteenth time that year, "Are you positive it’s wise to entrust that kind of intelligence with a sixteen-year-old?"
"They wouldn’t suspect her. That’s why we all agreed it should be Angeleigh. And in turn, Janus will be the protector of our location; even if they breech that line of defense they’ll still think either Simon or myself are the Secret-Keeper. They won’t give Angie a second thought, which is why I need to be sure she’s taken care of if anything happens." She paused. "It’s for the other families’ sake too, Rod."
"Alright, alright," Roderick said with a sigh. "I’m convinced." He waved his wand and a stack of papers appeared on his desk. He opened it up and shuffled some papers. He handed one stack of forms to Emmalynn, who conjured a quill and began filling out the paperwork to change her daughter’s guardian. "You’ll keep us posted as to your status, right?" he asked after several minutes of silence, broken only by the scratching of the quill.
"Of course." She concentrated on filling out the paperwork, chewing on her bottom lip in thought, a worried expression on her tired face. That expression remained all throughout the rest of her afternoon, and only grew in intensity when that night Janus vanished, seemingly another casualty of the Death Eaters’ new reign of terror.
~*~*~*~

It was summer, and Angeleigh St. Martin had been home for the holiday for two weeks now. It was a perfect New England summer, not too humid yet, with a breeze off the ocean. This particular day, June 23, was still warm, even though the sun had long since set. Angeleigh had spent this day as she did most summer days, on the town common watching tourists and passers- by, and considering getting ahead in her work for the fall term. When it came to the getting ahead bit, she figured it was the intent that counted. So her school books and quill pen remained in her satchel as she watched the people, taking it all in; it was definitely more interesting than Selected Topics: the Puritans and their Views, or Wizard Literature 4: Where Hawthorn Had it Right. Her advisor seemed to think that since she lived in Salem her coursework for her second to last year should center on her home city and its history.

Now, after dark, with no chance of getting any schoolwork done, Angeleigh gathered her things, stood and stretched, then started back toward Thatcher Street. No one took any notice of her as she passed by; she looked like any other sixteen-year-old in Salem. However, Angeleigh’s mother seemed rather jumpy whenever Angeleigh decided to leave the cozy house on Thatcher Street. She was constantly being bombarded with warnings to be careful and vigilant, and not to draw any attention to herself. It was irritating to always be looking over her shoulders, but she’d been raised that way. She sometimes joked with her friends at the American Institute of Magic that her parents were totally, unreasonably paranoid.
Normally Angeleigh considered her mother’s crazed concern to be just that—crazy, obsessive even, she thought. However, since Uncle Janus had disappeared a week ago, Angeleigh had been forced to take the warnings more seriously. Tonight, she understood why. As she walked home a sense of urgency grew stronger the closer she got to Thatcher Street. Angeleigh was always cautious after dark; as the daughter of the country’s top Aurors she’d grown up watching her back. Normally, this was a precaution. But tonight something was wrong. Something didn't feel right, and she couldn't put her finger on what it was.

As she turned down Thatcher Street she felt like she'd been socked in the stomach by a bludger; one had, in fact, socked her in the stomach only a month ago, during a Quidditch match at the end of term. She remembered the ache in her internal organs, and the way all the air in her lungs rushed out until she felt quite dizzy from lack of oxygen. That was kind of how she felt now. Cold sweat poured down her face and she became aware that her legs felt like jelly. It made it difficult to walk. The quiet street looked perfectly normal, except for one small detail out of place. The St. Martins' porch light was... off. It was never off after dark; they left it on all through the night and turned it off shortly after sunrise. Only tonight, while all other houses on the street had on their porch lights, the St. Martins did not. The entire house was dark. The air along the street felt charged with a dark sort of energy that Angeleigh could not explain.

What she could now explain was the feeling that was overtaking her. It was fear in its most primal, concentrated form. Something was terribly wrong and it made her deepest human instincts tell her to run. It made her heightened wizarding instincts tell her to run fast. But she had not been chosen as the Secret Keeper because her will was weak. No one and nothing could force her to do anything she did not want to do, not even her instincts. And as much as they told her to run far and fast away from this place she could not. Her shaking legs kept walking, as though under an Imperious Curse, toward 16 Thatcher Street until she finally stepped up onto the porch.

The door was slightly ajar. Her parents always kept the door closed, even in the stifling heat of summer. A cold breeze grazed her bare arms, and gooseflesh prickled her skin. She slid her wand from her belt loop and pointed it at the door. "Lumos," she whispered, and a pale golden light shone from the wand's tip. She thrust it into the dark house and pushed through the open door. Her wand hand shook violently.

The wand cast a ghostly light upon the ransacked living room. Pictures were knocked off shelves, the glass from the frames in shards all over the floor. Throw pillows were slashed and cushions were everywhere. Frightened more than ever before, Angeleigh took one step inside, then another. Then she was over the threshold and in the house. Another step--and the door slammed behind her. She gasped and wheeled around, bumping into something tall and cloaked. She uttered a strangled cry and turned to run into the house but the figure grabbed her wrist. She flung her wand at it but the figure, quicker than Angeleigh could have anticipated, said, "Expelliarmus."

She gasped as her wand fell from her hand and her arm went limp. She wrestled away from the figure, only to be grabbed by two more. "Let me go!" she shouted. "Help me!" her neighbors were bound to hear her. They'd come help her, they'd call the police and rescue her and arrest these people who were intruding....

The tall figure came forward and slapped her across the face, knocking her breath out of her. A shower of sparks lit up her field of vision and she felt blood spurt from her nose. "Shut up," it growled. "Bind her hands. Tight," it ordered. The hooded people flung Angeleigh to the ground and tied her hands behind her back. When she was restrained, the first figure knelt beside her and held its wand to her. She flinched. "Lumos," it whispered with a laugh.

All the lights in the house went on and Angeleigh blinked furiously, trying to adjust her eyes. She saw a circle of hooded, sinister Death Eaters surrounding her. Angeleigh steeled herself, knowing and accepting what they had come for. She would not, could not, fear them. It was easier to think this than to actually do it.

The figure removed its hood, and a Death Eater muffled Angeleigh's horrified yell with his hand. The figure in front of her was a woman, only a few years older than was Angeleigh herself. Jezebel Reaper, daughter of Silas Reaper, her family's mortal enemy, knelt before her, laughing maniacally. Jezebel's cold, yellowy green eyes danced merrily. "Good evening, Angeleigh," she sang. "We understand you have some important information for us. We're prepared to do what we have to do to get it." To the others she snapped, "Bring out the incentives."

The circle parted and allowed a masked Death Eater to come forward, escorting Emmalynn and Simon. Both looked calm and resigned. "No matter what happens, Angie, don't tell them," Emmalynn urged as she was shoved onto the couch. Simon nodded emphatically. "No matter what," he added. Angeleigh nodded, trying to understand. No matter what? What was Jezebel planning to do to her family? To her? She looked to her parents for guidance, scared beyond belief. They were steely, ready for anything, but when they looked upon Angeleigh, it was with such love and faith and confidence that she somehow found the strength to accept the inevitable.

Jezebel smiled and tore the sleeve of her cloak. The Dark Mark burned, black and ghastly, on her forearm. She tossed the material to the Death Eater holding Angeleigh. "She's going to scream when I do it. I don't need the neighbors getting involved." She began pacing. She reminded Angeleigh of a caged lion, a metaphor she had come to associate with her mother. "Now, Angie, dear," Jezebel began, "you know what I want to know. I'm not going to beat around the bush. If you don't tell me, I will inflict great pain on your family." She gave a casual nod and the Death Eater’s hand unclamped itself from her mouth.

Angeleigh's heart thumped. She looked to her parents, frightened and torn. They both shook their heads furiously. She took a deep breath. "I won't tell you anything," she said firmly. She spit at Jezebel to emphasize her statement.

Jezebel's face screwed up angrily. She turned upon Emma and Simon and pointed her wand at them. “Silencio,” she said, effectively silencing both St. Martins.  Then the real torment began.  "Crucio!" she cried.

Sure enough, Angeleigh screamed out in horror. The Death Eater jammed the heavy material of Jezebel's sleeve against her mouth to muffle the noise. It was rough and smelled of foul incense. She could feel hot tears in her eyes as she watched her parents silently writhe in the horrific pain she knew the Cruciatus Curse produced. She wanted it to stop. Jezebel was laughing. Angeleigh was losing the feeling in her hands, but she still strained against the Death Eater holding her back. Finally Jezebel broke the curse. "Now you see we mean business. Are you prepared to tell me where the Groves, Ledgewoods, and Colburns are at?"

Angeleigh had never felt so torn apart. She had to save her parents. But saving them meant betraying three other families, and there was no guarantee Jezebel would spare either of the St. Martins once she had her information. She looked to her parents, gaze blurred with tears. Her shoulders shook. Her mother, still trembling from the pain, managed a kind smile. She shook her head no; her father mouthed 'don't tell'. Mother, father, and daughter all sensed the weight of the impending sacrifice.

Jezebel sensed it too, and it seemed to intensify her cruel satisfaction in her escapades. "Perhaps this will help you decide, darling," she said casually. A flick of her wrist and her wand pointed toward Emmalynn. "Avada Kedavra," she said. In a flash of dazzling green light, Emmalynn St. Martin was dead. Angeleigh was too horrified to scream. "One last chance, Angeleigh," Jezebel said, voice dark. 

Angeleigh was limp in the Death Eaters' grasp. She felt numb all over now. Her father stared coldly at Jezebel. His gaze seemed to say that he hoped Jezebel rotted in Azkaban for this.  He then turned his gaze on to his daughter with a look that begged, "Angie, sweetheart, don't ever tell anyone what you know. You've been very brave tonight, honey. I love you."

Jezebel sighed impatiently, tapping her wand on the palm of her hand.  "Now tell, Angeleigh, or he dies."

Angeleigh was choking on her sobs and the disgusting material in her mouth. She wanted to vomit. She managed to shake her head no.

"Suit yourself." Green light flashed from her wand and filled the room. Angeleigh felt like lead as she watched her father slump over, dead. She felt very heavy, yet empty and very cold. She felt like she was having the worst dream of her life and could not wake up from it. She didn't struggle as Jezebel jerked a dark hood over her head and only dimly overheard her order the Death Eaters to take her to Silas Reaper while she stayed and disposed of the bodies. Angeleigh kept wishing that she would wake up soon and this nightmare-- that was what it had to be-- would be over.
Chapter 2: Broken Wings
Angeleigh hit the floor with a thud, her head thwacking against the stone. She heard a door slam and keys rattle in a lock. She stared into the dark and tried to get her breath. The heavy dark hood that covered her eyes and face, combined with her fear and panic, made breathing difficult. She felt her heart pounding and tried to remain calm. She gingerly tested the cords binding her wrists. They weren’t enchanted, but were tied so tightly she could barely feel her hands anymore. Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. She hated being so helpless. From the day her family went into hiding she had been prepared for this, but had never really thought it would ever happen. Yet in the course of one night her world had been turned upside down.
Her insides felt as though someone had cast a scouring charm on them. Her abdominal cavity felt raw and scraped clean of all emotions. She didn’t even know if she could feel the fear anymore. She felt resigned. There was no more feeling left in her heart than there was in her hands, which had gone numb. I’m an empty cauldron, she told herself. Empty cauldrons have nothing in them; they are scoured clean of everything—that’s me, she repeated over and over in her mind. When she started to feel anything she’d mentally shout "Scourgify!" and empty herself again. It wouldn’t do for her to be emotionally weak in the face of whatever was to come. Her mother had taught her better than that.
She didn’t know how long she lay there in the cold silence. She’d ceased physical and mental struggle long ago, exhausted from the efforts. She may have even fallen into a dreamless sleep. Suddenly she heard heavy footsteps. She scrambled to sit upright as best she could as keys clanked in the lock. The footsteps drew near to her and she heard the rustle of robes. Her heart seemed to stop beating for a long moment and then she felt a hand on her shoulder, pushing her up into a sitting position. Then the black hood was removed from her head.
She was in a small, dungeon-like room with one small, high window that let in a feeble amount of light. The floor was made of uneven stones. The air was dank.
The robed figure paced in front of her; she refused to look up into his face but knew what she’d see: the waxen white skin and opaque black eyes of Silas Reaper. She heard a snap and splinters of wood landed in her lap; it was her wand. Her eyes widened and panic constricted her throat.
Silas knelt down in front of her. His inky eyes narrowed, searching her. Then, with no warning, he angrily slapped her. Angeleigh’s head jerked to the side and her cheek stung. "Your horrid, rotten family," he hissed through clenched teeth. "They killed my daughter." Though dazed Angeleigh was secretly overjoyed, in a bitter sort of way. Your rotten daughter killed my family, she thought and would have told him so had not her mouth been blocked. There must have been some sort of enchantment on the house, or Aurors had shown up. 
Silas had once again grown eerily calm. He smiled ironically. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. Hello at last, Angeleigh," he said, his voice a raspy death rattle. “I’ve been simply dying to meet you; you’re even prettier in reality than in the photos my surveillance squads brought back to me.”  She turned her face, refusing to look at him. He grabbed her chin and forced her to face him. "So sorry about your family. But as you know, we’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. You Aurors seem to understand that so well." He paused and regarded the fury in her topaz eyes. "I’m going to untie you now, but please don’t scream, because I don’t want to listen to it. Am I clear?"
Angeleigh nodded curtly and she felt his cold fingers at the back of her neck, undoing the tight knot in the black material gagging her. "Bastard," was her first word out. She punctuated by spitting at him. He hit her again, and a shower of sparks illuminated her vision.
"Stupefy," he growled, and Angeleigh felt the wind rush out of her, losing consciousness for a moment; finally Silas said, "Ennervate," reviving her from the stunning curse. She came around groggily, eyes focusing slowly on the dagger Silas had pulled out; she stared warily at it, but he used it to cut through the cords binding her wrists. She would have struck at him if her arms were not so stiff and cramped. She contemplated making a run for it, but Silas pointed his wand at her outstretched legs and casually said, "Locomotor Mortis." She instantly felt her leg muscles stiffen and go senseless. Silas sat back and smiled. "Now that we have that taken care of… welcome to your new home. It’s kind of small, I realize, but you don’t need much space anymore."
Angeleigh remained silent, partly out of defiance and partly because her mind was racing, trying to find a way out of the mess she was in. But she was slowly realizing that Silas had counted on her resourcefulness and had effectively debilitated any and all her means of escape or retaliation. All she could do was resign herself to playing his little games. "What do you want with me?" she asked, her voice hollow, her mind trying to quell her hopeless panic.
"If you don’t know, you’re not as bright as I thought you’d be," he said flatly. "I’ll be frank with you. I know you’re a Secret-Keeper. I know you know the hiding places of the key Aurors, who are inconveniently planning my downfall. I won’t go down without a fight, and you are going to help me to that end, whether you like it or not. You’ll tell me where they are hiding and what they are planning."
Angeleigh felt queasy and uncertain but played the only card she could think of. "The Fidelius Charm can only be broken if I choose," she said triumphantly.
"I’ve already had your parents killed in an attempt to make you talk. I don’t know yet what else I’ll have to do to you to make you talk, but I’m not opposed to using any of the Unforgivables on you… in fact I’d rather enjoy it. I’ll let you take more time to decide. In the end I think you may end up seeing eye to eye with me on the issue.”  His voice dropped even lower, his tone more menacing as he added, “Because I will make you so miserable you will wish for death before the end—if you beg for it I’ll know I’ve done my job well. Just know that the moment you tell me what I want to know the pain stops and you go free. You have my word." He waved his wand at her and dark, heavy manacles appeared and clamped on her wrists, weighing her hands down. They were linked by a heavy length of chain which he clipped to a rung in the damp stone wall, close enough to the floor so she could rest her hands at her sides.  He jammed the gag back in her mouth and knotted it tightly. He did not break the leg-locker jinx. "I’ll give you a couple of hours to think it over," he reminded her, leaving and locking the door behind him.
Once alone Angeleigh finally allowed herself to cry. Hot tears poured down her cheeks; she had never been so scared or helpless. She experimentally tugged at the chains and uttered a muffled scream as the bewitched metal burned into her wrists. She leaned back against the wall, heart pounding. The cool dampness of the wall was enhanced by the icy sweat that had started to coat her back and now trickled down between her shoulder blades and soaked through her thin t-shirt.  There had to be a way out of this, there was always a way out. That was what she’d learned. Her parents wouldn’t lie to her about something so vital.
But then again, they’d also said they’d always be there, and in a flash of green light they were gone, leaving her hopelessly alone. What would Silas do to her if he came back and she refused to tell anything? Could she resist if he threw either the Imperius or Cruciatus Curse at her? She remembered how her parents had writhed and twitched and screamed, and a fresh wave of sadness engulfed her. Maybe the Killing Curse would be her best bet after all… but she couldn’t beg for it, oh no; let Silas think he’d won? She would rather face endless days of torture than give in to him.
She was still sniffling and hiccuping when Silas returned with a young man Angeleigh could only assume was Silas’ son Gemini. Angeleigh felt very small, a wounded prey animal cornered by large predators. She shrank up against the wall, wincing as the metal started burning again.
Silas laughed a cruelly amused sort of laugh. "You see, Angeleigh, the more you resist the worse this will be for you. So really, the situation isn’t as difficult as you’re making it out to be. I trust you’ve had ample time to weigh your options?" Angeleigh refused to look at him. "Stubborn one," he observed with a smile. "Maybe your parents were smarter than I thought, which takes great pains for me to admit." He knelt next to her and undid the gag. "Ready to talk, Angel?"
"Don’t call me Angel," she growled.
"Play nice, Angie," Gemini taunted, leaning against the door, amused. "Remember what we can do to you."
"I’m not afraid of anything," Angeleigh snapped, but feeling less confident than she sounded. She had the sinking feeling that she’d opened a can of writhing, angry worms.
"Not afraid of anything," Gemini repeated. His inky eyes, so much like his father’s, sparkled oddly. "This will be fun. Father, I don’t think she’s ready to cooperate yet."
"Indeed. Care to do the honors?”
"I thought you’d never ask. Serpentsortia!" He exclaimed, raising his wand. A large snake emerged from the wand’s tip and started to circle the cell angrily. Angeleigh uttered a strangled gasp. "You sound afraid to me, Angie," Gemini teased. He strode over in three steps and kicked Angeleigh in the ribs, making her fall over on her side, one arm at an awkward angle due to the chains restraining her to the wall.  The manacle around that wrist began to slowly sear her flesh, and Gemini’s kick had cracked a rib in the process. She stared up at him with pain and hatred in her eyes. "Hm. You look afraid too," he observed. "If you talk now, this could be all over with now.  Pretty logical, I’d say."
"No," she snapped through teeth clenched with pain.
"Okay, but never tell me I didn’t give you a chance to avoid this.”  He detached the menacles from the wall. Angeleigh slumped over, breathing heavily, but Gemini was not finished with her.  “Petrificus Totalus!"he exclaimed.
Angeleigh felt her entire body go rigid, as if it were bound tightly to a board. She was paralyzed. The snake slithered past her head, hissing. She felt her breathing quicken in panic. 
"Think some more, Angeleigh," Silas suggested. "Think until tomorrow.  It’s only Day One; we haven’t lost patience yet."
She heard their footsteps shuffle out the door, and again heard the keys in the lock. Don’t panic, she told herself. Panicking will only make it worse…
Petrified, with no way of breaking the curse, Angeleigh had no other option but to weigh her choices. What did she have to lose by telling the Reapers anything? She would betray her dead parents’ trust in her, that much was certain. And she’d also be signing the death certificates for the Ledgewoods, Colburns, and Groves. She’d lose her self-respect. And then again, what would she gain? Once they had their information they would kill her. Silas had given his word that she’d be spared, but what good was the word of a Death Eater? Once they knew everything she’d be of no more use to them or their Master. It would be a crowning end to add this one more betrayal to her record. If it killed her she would not give them any sort of satisfaction.
By the time darkness broke and insipid light seeped into the cell Angeleigh had determined never to tell anyone what she knew, no matter what the risk to her was. Come snakes or pain or even death, she would not tell. But two days later she was discovering another interesting truth: it was easier to make her vow than to keep it. When the snake trick had failed to extract any information from her, Gemini had pointed his wand at her shackled wrists and cast a very simple reducing charm on them. The metal burned and shrunk into her wrists, biting her skin and crunching carpal against carpal. "Stop!" she screamed, tears running down her face. "Please stop it!" she begged, the pain of her shattered bones and the smell of her burning flesh making her sick to her stomach.
"Will you tell?" growled Gemini.
The pain throbbed in her hands, which had gone pale and bloodless. "The Ledgewoods are…" she sobbed. She nearly gave in, but suddenly pictured Mr. and Mrs. Ledgewood and their three children. Through the waves of pain she saw their faces, their eyes… a clear picture of who she’d be betraying...  Then remembered how she felt having been betrayed—though she didn’t yet know who it was that had done that betraying.  Once she had the clear vision in her mind’s eye, and the feelings that had accompanied her own betrayal, it made the pain slightly easier to withstand. And just because her family had been betrayed was no reason to do the same to an innocent family who was planning to kill the bastard torturing her. If anything it was more incentive to hold on a bit longer. She clenched her jaw and glared at him.
"Are you ready to tell me where the Ledgewoods are?" Gemini asked again, reversing the curse and returning the manacles to their original state.
Angeleigh ground her already clenched jaw against the sharp burning ache. "Go rot in hell," she hissed with renewed purpose. He disgustedly kicked her, cracking yet another rib, and she glared at him as he stormed out of the cell. 

She waited stoically to hear his footsteps fade down the hall, and once she heard silence she burst into howls of pain. She couldn’t move her hands without sending fresh waves of agony through her arms—which Gemini had strategically chained to a rung above her head.  Gravity kept forcing her arms down, yet the restraints held them up.  The result was streams of lava flowing through her burned and broken wrists, and her arms, shoulders, and back muscles.  Fireworks sparked at the edges of her consciousness and her stomach roiled with nausea from it all.  She had nothing within her to vomit up, so it was dry heaves that wracked her body and only increased the pain.
This proved inconvenient when, that night, a Death Eater brought her evening ration of water. Starvation was part of Silas’s plan to break Angeleigh, but he knew that without water she’d die before he’d be able to extract any information from her. She didn’t really mind so much; most of the time she was so nauseated by pain and grief to even notice hunger pangs. This night, the Death Eater set the cup of water at the doorway.  He unchained her arms and watched as they fell with a thud into Angeleigh’s lap, then  watched as she pathetically slunk toward the water. Cold, starvation, and torment had made her weak. And between the searing chains and the throbbing in her crushed wrists, she could barely raise the cup to her cracked lips. In the end the cup clattered to the floor, spilling its contents, and Angeleigh sank down, exhausted from the effort. 
"You’re going to die in here no matter what," the Death Eater said, looking at the broken girl on the stone floor. "What do you have to lose?"
"Everything," she muttered hoarsely. "But I wouldn’t expect scum like you to understand that," she added, earning a swift kick to the stomach and another broken rib.
But the swollen, mottled purple pain in her wrists, hands, and ribs was nothing compared to the Cruciatus Curse. Silas had finally lost patience, and as he stormed into her cell on the sixth day of her captivity Angeleigh had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She slunk into a dingy corner, wincing as her hands throbbed. Silas strode over to her and grabbed one shackled and bruised wrist, making her yelp. "This looks like it must hurt," he commented, smiling leisurely. He squeezed hard, which elicited a squeal of pain from Angeleigh. He dropped her hands in her lap and stepped back. "I’ll have you know that that is nothing. We’ve tried everything to get you to cooperate, but you really leave us no choice. Tell me where I can find the Groves, or you will feel the worst pain you’ve ever felt in your whole miserable, short life."
Though she was weak Angeleigh still felt the intense burn of hatred within her. She looked up from nursing her shattered wrists and met Silas’s inky eyes with her own golden ones. "Go fuck yourself," she said deliberately, bracing herself for what was to come.
But nothing could have prepared her for that moment when Silas’s face contorted in fury and he raised his wand at her. "Crucio!"
It was the first time she’d felt, firsthand, the terribly awesome force behind an Unforgivable Curse. Angeleigh felt her body and mind convulse as the curse hit her. It was awful, truly the most terrible thing she’d ever felt, worse than her gnawing guilt and throbbing wrists. She was being crushed and stabbed and pulled apart all at the same time. The fiery pain devoured her from the inside out and made breathing impossible. Not one inch of her body was spared from the consuming, sheer pain. She was writhing, twitching, and convulsing, body and mind on fire. Her screams filled her ears; she would have taken the suddenness of the Killing Curse any day over this torment.
Slowly the pain began to subside, leaving her shaken and sobbing on the cold stone floor. She opened her eyes to see the room spinning around her. Her whole body pulsed with the residual pains of the curse.	
"I’m going to ask you one more time, Angeleigh. Where are the Groves?"
Angeleigh felt her stomach roiling with nausea. She propped herself shakily on one elbow and stared up at Silas with dazed and bleary eyes. She felt defeated, and Silas must have seen it in her pale, drawn face. He knelt close to her, and gently stroked her lank hair. "This will be all over as soon as you tell me," he said soothingly. She gave him a sort of smile just as nausea won out and she retched all over him. Silas jumped back in disgust. "You filthy little bitch," he snarled, smashing his foot against her face, and giving her another hard kick in the ribs.
Angeleigh couldn’t help but laugh as she felt her cheekbone fracture and her nose break, drenching the front of her filthy T-shirt in blood. After the Cruciatus Curse the kick had actually felt rather pleasant. Silas gave her an impatient, disgusted look as he left, slamming the door behind him.
Slowly her crazed laughs dissolved into pathetic whimpers. The blood eventually stopped gushing from her nose, but the throbbing ache did not cease. She suddenly realized just how cold she was. The jeans and T-shirt that had been perfect for a late-June day were simply not adequate for a cold basement cell in the middle of the night. She tried to pick herself up off the floor, but couldn’t. Her arms had clearly taken enough abuse and refused to obey her brain anymore. In the light from the waxing moon that shone through the high, barred window, she managed to get an idea of the damage to her wrists. The broken joints were swollen to distortion, and burned and rubbed raw right down to meat. Blood oozed thinly around the shackles. A malicious squeak drew Angeleigh’s exhausted glance, and she saw an emaciated, filthy rat creep into the moonlight. She was revolted by its presence, but too weak to shoo it away and had to lie there in helpless disgust as it lapped at her bloody wrists. Two more rats scurried toward her and fought over her blood.
She could feel her grip on reality slipping, but was amazed it had lasted even this long. Wizards much older and better trained than her had been driven mad by such torture. She didn’t know how she was managing to endure. Now that Silas had resorted to the Unforgivable Curses she knew that she, as an underage witch, didn’t stand a chance. How was she managing?
Once she had resigned herself to this knowledge she began to wish Silas would hurry up and kill her. This waiting was ridiculous. Amazingly, he kept demanding she tell her secrets, and each time Angeleigh told him to do something choice with his wand. Enraged, he would hex her in any way possible, and one time cast such a bone-breaker-hex on her leg that she instantly knew she’d never walk properly again. Twice more Silas hit her with the Cruciatus Curse, and each time she was certain she would die. She wished for it. She was growing weaker and weaker, but still maintained her silence and her dignity as a Secret-Keeper. She would die before betraying that, and perhaps that was what kept her alive.
Eleven days after the horrible night of her parents’ murders Silas stormed into the cell and kicked Angeleigh into an upright position. "I’ll ask you one last time to tell me what I want to know. I’ve been more than generous with you."
"Take your benevolence and shove it, you Death Eater scum," she said dreamily, so weak and in so much pain she wasn’t sure she was even feeling it anymore. "Just get it over with."
Silas actually grinned. He grabbed the thick chain that linked her cuffs and yanked her toward him. She only winced slightly. His inky pool eyes stared into her own dulled golden ones, searching her. She stared back in calm defiance, past the point of caring. "You’re very determined, Angeleigh," he finally said, letting go of the chain. She fell back, motionless, only her eyes betraying the fact she was still alive. "Maybe I won’t kill you after all. I could just keep you around and torture you when I get bored. Or maybe I could work out my anger on you. I’m a Death Eater, after all. This is what I do."
"You go ahead and do that," she muttered. "I just can’t care either way."
His expression softened slightly until it was almost one of respect. "You proved a worthier opponent than I thought. I’ll have you know I actually have some degree of respect for you, considering you’re an Auror’s child and all. Do you know," he said, "I was going to wait. I wanted to see the moment."
"The moment," she repeated, voice slurred.
"Yes, the moment that you broke. The moment I could look into those eyes of yours and see the fire burned down to dead coals. The moment I could know for certain you would never fight back again. The moment you would be a shell. Yet, it didn’t come. You’ve fought back every single time. This has been most enjoyable, on many different levels."
"Indeed. But… could you please kill me? Much more of this torture thing and I won’t be much fun. I’m partial to Avada Kedavra," she said. "It’s quick and easy. You’re already looking at a life sentence in Azkaban as it is for using the Unforgivables and being a Death Eater… let alone kidnapping and torturing an Auror’s daughter. You’ve got nothing to lose, really."
He pondered this and finally shrugged. "True. If I have to kill you, I’d say you’ve earned Avada Kedavra," he said. He stepped back and nodded politely. Angeleigh tried to nod, but her head lolled to one side and she smiled wryly. Silas raised his wand and Angeleigh slumped back, eagerly awaiting swift green death. But it never came. Suddenly Silas was gone, Disapparated, and footsteps were thudding down the corridor. She tried to focus her swimming gaze on the Auror that now crouched beside her, casting a modified Reductor curse on her chains. The metal crumbled away revealing raw, red and blistered tissue surrounded by deep purple bruising.
"Angeleigh. Are you all right? Talk to me, sweetie."
Her brain focused much more slowly than her eyes. She processed the gray eyes, the pointed nose, hair graying at the temples… "Uncle Janus," she mumbled, slumping over against him.
"Shh, it’s over, kiddo. You’re fine now." Janus motioned to his team of Hit Wizards. "Search the premises, get any evidence you can. Stun and petrify any Death Eaters." They nodded and took off. He conjured a stretcher and gently laid her down. "We’ve got a Portkey to a safe house, Angie. You’re safe now, and we’re going to get you all fixed up."
She flicked her gaze at him, her vision blurred and swimming. It was suddenly very important to tell him something… "Janus," she coughed. "I didn’t tell," she said in a slurred voice as she finally allowed herself to black out into blissful, painless oblivion.
Chapter 3: Bitter Recovery
"She’s in a dreamless sleep right now," the mediwitch said, gesturing down at the unconscious Angeleigh. "And if anyone’s ever needed it, she does. Poor girl… what were they after?"
"Classified information, Nora," Roderick Mooreland said grimly. "What is important is she’s with us now and has a shot at making a good recovery." He sat back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes. The last 12 days had been a nightmare for the Department. First the news that his two top Aurors were dead, then the realization that their daughter, the Secret Keeper, the nail upon which the Department of Magical Law Enforcement precariously hung, had gone missing… and the tireless search for her… he sighed and looked up, hearing a rustle of robes. "Janus," he acknowledged with a tired nod. "After all the precautions… After everything we did we still lost Simon and Emma. I’m sorry, Janus, I know you and Simon were close."
Janus sat opposite Roderick and smoothed a lock of Angeleigh’s hair with his fingertips. Even cleaned up from the blood and grime she still looked more dead than alive. Her wrists and hands were mottled yellow and green and purple around the raw and shiny pink of the burn scars. "Amazing," Janus said fondly, not responding to Roderick’s apology. "She’s so strong. To lose everything and still be able to survive that. When will she be ready to come home?"
Roderick did not want to deal with this now, but his position as Secretary of Magic required it. He rose stiffly. "Janus, can I see you outside?"
"Something wrong, Roderick?"
"Not wrong, necessarily." The two moved outside, latching the door behind them. "Janus," he began slowly, "when you vanished, Emmalynn grew understandably worried for Angeleigh’s safety. You were presumably taken by Death Eaters, so there was no reason to expect you to return, let alone barely harmed. Emma made alternate arrangements for Angeleigh’s future."
Janus’s face had gone livid, lips pressed together. His foot tapped nervously and his eyes flicked back and forth; all in all he appeared very twitchy. "So that means…"
"When she’s recovered she’ll be sent to England. There’s a relation there who will see she’s cared for and protected from any further harm. This never should have happened in the first place."  He crossed his arms over his chest and gave a nod of finality.
"She’s my goddaughter, Roderick," Janus said in a slightly raised voice.
"I understand that, Janus, but you had disappeared—"
"It’s because of me Angie is alive," he fumed.
"I know, and I’m sure she’ll be grateful, as would Emma and Simon, but we have to respect Emma’s directives on this. I’m sorry, Janus. But now the Reapers know what she’s hiding, they’ll be after her again." He sighed, frustrated. "The whole reason Emma made her the Secret-Keeper is she didn’t think they’d suspect a sixteen-year-old. Somehow, they did. Now that they’ve seen what she can withstand… It’s just not safe for her here anymore. Surely as her godfather you would want her utmost safety?" he challenged.
"There are charms—"
"Indeed, but someone knew from the start who the St. Martins would choose as their Secret-Keeper, so they made certain you were out of the way before they could perform the Charm. Then they watched to see where the St. Martins would be, and ambushed them. They’ll be watching to see where Angeleigh goes next. There’s a traitor out there, and that person lost me my two best damn Aurors." He paused to catch a breath and calm his racing pulse. "Angeleigh has amazing promise, Janus. She’s still a Secret-Keeper even after being tortured; if that isn’t the mark of a promising Auror, I don’t know what else is. She’ll be a great Auror, but only if she’s alive." His tone darkened. "Em and Simon wanted her protected, and I sure as hell want what they want. And that is my final position on this, Janus."
Angeleigh woke groggily and heard everything through the door. She found she had woken from a dark dreamworld to a surreal reality. She sighed, wincing as sharp pain tore through her ribcage. She turned her head and saw a tray of various potions and a vase of flowers at her bedside. She stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to process everything. She felt a lump growing in her throat and heat burning at the back of her eyes. She sniffed painfully through her broken nose, the enormity of her situation pressing down on her.
She heard the door creak and the Secretary of Magic entered with his mediwitch, Nora, following closely. "Hey, she’s awake!  How do you feel?" Nora asked as she approached, then sat down and gently took Angeleigh’s pulse and felt her forehead. "Can you sit up?" Her eyes sparkled with concern, searching Angeleigh’s bruised face.
Angeleigh gave a small nod, grimacing as Nora helped her up, conjuring a pile of pillows for her to lean back on. She fell back against the pillows, worn from that little bit of exertion. She was incredibly weak and hurt all over. She lay limply against the pillows, all pride laid aside as Nora tipped a beaker of some warming potion down her throat. It sped through her body, leaving her feeling light and pain-free, though still so weak she could barely move. "That feels better, doesn’t it hun," Nora said kindly. "It’s only a temporary fix, though. When the pain returns we’ll give you a little more."
"Thank you," Angeleigh said hoarsely, trying to keep her eyes open. She felt so relaxed. She flicked her eyes in Roderick Mooreland’s direction. "Mr. Mooreland… wh-what went wrong?"
Roderick sat down next to her. "We’re working on figuring that out, Angeleigh."
"Silas was about to kill me."
"I know, sweetheart, I know. And now... I’m so sorry, but... I need to ask what else happened to you… what they were after," Roderick said carefully. "I know it will be difficult, but this is important…"
Angeleigh closed her eyes and tried to will away the tears. "Mom and Dad… They—they’re…" She felt herself getting hysterical and her chest constricted painfully in spite of the potion. "And Silas… he used the Unforgivables… I tried so hard to be strong; I almost told everything to make it stop…Merlin, it hurt.  Hurt so bad..." She dissolved into hiccups and sniffling, vestiges of pain wracking her battered body.
"I know, honey, we’re so sorry."
"Will I be living with Uncle Janus now?" she asked dully.
"Actually, other arrangements were made by your mother when Janus vanished. We had little reason to hope for his recovery." Or yours, he added silently, feeling a pang in his chest at the sight of the once-vibrant girl. 
"Oh," she said simply. "What about Aunt Holly? Uncle Grant? Aunt Joyce? Gram St. Martin?" she asked, getting hysterical at Mr. Mooreland’s silence. "Mr. Mooreland, that’s my whole family! Where am I supposed to go?" Her eyes widened in their darkened sockets. "Oh God, are they all dead too?"
"No, they’re all fine," he added hastily. "Worried sick about you, but otherwise fine. Angeleigh, it’s not safe for you to stay here, in this country. You know too much and the Death Eaters will be after you again. Silas escaped and remains at large. I can’t, in good conscience, let you remain here. It’s a danger not only to yourself, but to the three families you’re hiding."
"I’m never going to tell anything," she said angrily. "They can kill me for all I care. They’re not getting anything out of me."
"Angeleigh, I know it was difficult, but you’re too young to be wishing for death," Roderick said sensibly, but looking into Angeleigh’s golden eyes told him he didn’t know the half of it.
"You don’t know what I went through, Mr. Mooreland. If you’d gone through it you would probably want to die too." She paused as a tear trickled down her cheek. Suddenly something occurred to her. "Mr. Mooreland… if I’m not going with Uncle Janus where am I going? I’ll still be going to AIM, right?" Once again his silence answered her questions. "You don’t understand, Mr. Mooreland… I’m going to be sixth year. I’m up for Resident Coordinator and I’ll be first string Beater on the Quidditch team. You can’t take me away from that!"
"I’m sorry, but it’s too risky." He was reminded of his own daughters and son as he saw the anger welling up within Angeleigh. "I know it’s hard," he said hastily. "First you lose your parents then you lose your home; but it’s for your safety.  You don’t want to lose that.  Your parents wanted your protection," he said gently, reaching for her hand.
Despite the sharp pain it caused, Angeleigh jerked her hand away. "Aurors shouldn’t be allowed to have kids," she spat bitterly. "So where do I end up? Fletcher’s Home for Orphaned Children of Wizards?" Venom was in her voice. "If I can’t go with my aunts or uncles or gram, that’s the only place left."
"There’s one other place," Roderick said. "Your mother set it up shortly before the ambush."
This grabbed Angeleigh’s attention. She turned to face him.
"Your mother has a younger brother. She kept him a secret from you and from your father and his family. All her records show her as an only child. She did it for you; for your safety, so she could be secure knowing you’d be taken care of. His name is Damien Dervish, and he lives in England. Once you’re well enough you’ll be moving there. There’s old magic on it, rather akin to what was used to protect the Potter boy."
"Potter boy?" Angeleigh asked, thinking hard. "Oh, him. Right."
Roderick continued. "This magic will keep you safe when you’re in Damien’s care. As for schooling, it’s been arranged that you will attend Hogwarts; it’s one of the oldest and finest schools of its sort," he said hopefully.
The anger had drained out of Angeleigh’s face and was replaced by a resentful acceptance. "I suppose I don’t have any other options."
"I’m sorry, Angeleigh. You don’t. This was put down in writing by your mother."
She sighed, feeling bitter and defeated. "Alright. Can you… would you mind…"
He rose stiffly. "Certainly. I’ll be here if you need anything. We have the perimeter surrounded by Hit Wizards and an Auror stationed at the door, so you’re protected. Get some rest." And he left.
Once alone Angeleigh tried to close her eyes and rest, but every time she did so horrible visions assaulted her senses. "You’ve been very brave tonight…" she heard her father’s voice say in her head. Brave… that wasn’t quite her word for it. If she had been brave she would have been able to resist Jezebel, get help, or even save her parents. She felt her chest swelling painfully. A lump was growing in her throat, choking her, and demanding to be released. I can’t cry, she told herself desperately. What’s done is done, and crying won’t do a thing about it. She took a few slow, deep breaths, willing the strangling feeling in her chest to loosen. Mr. Mooreland was right; her mother had made a decision, and she, as a minor, had no choice but to accept the directives and move on.
A few hours later she was still staring at the ceiling, trying to process everything that had happened to her over the past few days. She heard the door creak, letting a shaft of light from the hallway fall across the darkening floor.  She looked up and squinted at the figure in the doorway. "Hi Uncle Janus," she whispered, as her uncle slipped in and sat by her bedside.
"Hi, kid, how are you feeling?"
She sighed listlessly. "Not so hot, but I’m surviving. I ache all over."
He nodded wisely. "The Cruciatus Curse will leave you feeling that way," he said with a smile. "Water?" he asked, offering a cup to her.
She shook her head, feeling confused and uncertain. "Uncle Janus… when you vanished, what happened to you? Did they torture you too?"
"They sure tried, honey. I was walking home from your house when they jumped me and took me to Silas’s place. I had to make them think I was your Secret-Keeper and knew something. I stalled for time, hoping your Dad would choose someone else for the job. The only thing that kept me going was knowing you were safe."
She nodded once, slowly.  "How did you get out?"
"When I’d convinced them I knew nothing they threw me out."
"So that’s how you knew where I would be?" She asked, trying to make the pieces fit. They were fitting too conveniently for her. She knew how Death Eaters worked, all too well. If Janus had been useless, why didn’t they just get rid of him? Why let him go free, especially when he could go back and warn the St. Martins… yet he hadn’t…The many ifs, ands, and buts swam through her brain, making her head pound more than before.
"Yes, I had an idea that that’s where Jezebel would have you taken."
Her breathing was getting quicker as pieces tumbled in her mind. "If you knew where I’d be what took you so long to find me? Eleven days, Uncle Janus. Eleven days of being starved and kicked and cursed to hell and back. If you knew where I was and what the Reapers could and would do to me, why didn’t you come for me?" She could feel the heat burning at the back of her eyes again.
He smiled, but only with his mouth.  His eyes remained wide and flat, giving him the appearance of a deer caught in the headlights, as the Muggles were fond of saying.  "You don’t understand, Angel, sweetie, we couldn’t just run in after you. There were logistics to consider, plans to plot out—"
"Oh, damn your plans and logistics. I’m your goddaughter, Janus, and your plans were more important than my life. Get out."
"Ange—"
"Get out and leave me alone." She watched him leave with angry eyes, but the moment the door latched behind him she felt guilty for pushing him away. He had a point, the Reapers were ruthless, but knowing that she’d endured eleven days of torture when she didn’t have to was just too much to bear. She stared up at the ceiling yet again, hating it, but too weak and hurting to turn onto her side or stomach, and too haunted to sleep. She was still staring listlessly, mentally scouring away her emotions when the sun rose and Nora entered with a tray.
"Ah, you’re awake."
"I never went to sleep," Angeleigh admitted.
Nora nodded understandingly. "Well, it will probably take time. I’ve dealt with Aurors before. What a dangerous job; the things they face day in and day out just boggle my mind." She felt Angeleigh’s forehead again. "Well, you’re getting some color back, and you’re not quite so cool and clammy, so that’s a good sign. How does the rest of you feel?"
Angeleigh shrugged slightly, which miraculously did not send spasms of pain through her body. "I think better… I don’t ache as much, and things don’t really throb, but it still hurts." She grimaced as Nora adjusted the pillows behind her. "And I still can’t really feel my leg; what’s wrong with it?" she asked, not terribly worried after remembering the bone-breaker-hex that had caused it.
Nora nodded slowly. "Well, we gave you some Skele-gro, and that seems to be helping. But we’re not sure if it’ll heal properly."

"Yeah, I’m not holding out too much hope for it," Angeleigh said dryly. "Can I—Can I see it?"
Nora did not argue, but pulled the covers back to reveal a splinted, bandaged mass. She flicked her wand and the bandaging started to unravel into a neat pile. Angeleigh watched in morbid fascination as the limb beneath was revealed. It looked like a twisted length of skin, mangled and swollen and purple. It was hideous. She looked to Nora, who was visibly having a hard time concealing her disgust. "That has to be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen," Angeleigh observed calmly as Nora waved her wand again and bound the limb in its bandaging.
"Right up there with these," Nora said levitating Angeleigh’s arms and very gently rubbing a salve onto her wrists. "Sorry, darling, I know it hurts,” she said when Angeleigh winced and tears filled her eyes.  “They were too swollen yesterday to bandage them up, but I think after some rest they’re looking better. Ferula," she said with a wave of her wand, and instantly the mottled appendages were splinted and wrapped in bandages. "That’s better, dear. How do you feel about breakfast?"
Angeleigh’s stomach churned. "Not too well, actually."
"Just have a little. Mr. Mooreland wants you to get your strength back as soon as possible. Drink this first."
It was a small dose of the painkilling potion she’d had yesterday, and as she swallowed the aches and pains subsided and she felt relaxed. "Much better," Angeleigh said dreamily. "Now I may be able to manage some breakfast."
"I thought so," Nora said with a smile, helping her eat toast and tea. When Angeleigh had managed one slice, she poured another potion. "Dreamless sleep," Nora said in answer to her questioning gaze. "You didn’t sleep at all yesterday. You need to sleep, or else you won’t get your strength back."
"Every time I close my eyes—" Angeleigh began.
"I know, I know, hun. This will help you sleep without being haunted like that. Trust me, after catching up on your rest you’ll feel better all the way around."
Angeleigh once again could not argue with orders, and was in no position to refuse, so she allowed Nora to tip the draught down her throat. Before she had even finished the full dosage she began to feel as though the edges of her conscious mind were being wrapped in black velvet. "Just a little more," came a kind voice from very far away. The rest of the liquid made its way down her throat, and before she could even swallow it she had descended into a cool, calming, completely oblivious blackness.
Chapter 4: Transition
Mid-July meant heat and humidity in eastern Massachussetts, and usually meant lazy days for everyone except the American Institute of Magic’s Varsity Quidditch team. The early practice strategy had earned them the regional Quidditch title for four years running, and had also earned them the reputation of the toughest team in their division. The team, two strings plus coaches and tacticians, would take over the AIM campus from mid-July until the start of school in late Augustl. For the past two years Angeleigh had been on the second string as a Beater; she had a great rapport with her teammates, and was excited to go into her sixth year as a first-string player. For Angeleigh, Quidditch was just a fact of life.
But as the sun poured through her window on July 18th Angeleigh realized with a pang that today her team would be arriving on campus. Normally her roommate Bailey Byrd, a Chaser, would get to their room and find Angeleigh; they would leave their unpacking for later that night as they grabbed their brooms and dashed to the Quidditch Pitch and raced around the perimeter before the rest of the team arrived. Then Drake Langer, the Seeker, a handsome boy who would be a seventh year, would join them and gloat when his custom Firebolt smoked the both of them. Then the team would practice drills and end with a full match pitting the first string players against the second.  They would head in to dinner long after sunset, tired, aching, and excited to start the season.
But Bailey would arrive today and not see Angeleigh. The team would congregate on the Pitch and wonder where their ferocious Beater was, and Coach Davis would bow his head and remind them about the attack, which they had probably read about in the Daily Prophet, Boston Edition. All the students at AIM knew the St. Martins were Aurors, so none would be surprised by the news. Coach Davis would leave their imaginations to think the worst, which was just what Roderick Mooreland wanted from AIM’s students—as well as the rest of the wizarding world. The press had been left to believe Angeleigh was dead, and as for the Reaper circle, spies had planted information leading them to believe she had died from the severity of her injuries. To the American wizarding world Angeleigh would simply disappear, just another casualty of the Reapers. She hadn’t even been allowed to owl any of her friends or professors.
She felt completely cut off and very lonely. She was given a Daily Prophet each day since she’d woken from the Dreamless Sleep, but the news always stayed the same: Silas Reaper remains at large!  Auror safety questioned, Death Eaters found to be active at home and abroad!  She didn’t even know why the reporters bothered. She did get to read her parents’ obituaries, which left her so upset Nora had to sedate her with a sleeping draught and a gentle memory charm. Roderick Mooreland had stopped in once since then, but now that her safety and health were assured, he was returning his attentions to other pressing business in the Department of Magic. Uncle Janus had not returned to see her since the day she told him to get out.
On the brighter side, her injuries were healing remarkably quickly. She had a strong suspicion that Roderick had told Nora to use any magic she could to help Angeleigh heal. So long as Angeleigh remained helpless in bed, he was edgy and nervous. Her suspicions were confirmed when she overheard him that morning. "I’ve got my best men and women guarding her around the clock, but they’re human too, Nora. I need her to recover soon so we can get her out of the country."
"She’s improved drastically since that sleep. I think it was the first time in two weeks she’d really slept. Combined with the potions and spells that was the best medicine for her."
"Good." He paused and Angeleigh heard him drumming his fingers against the other side of the wall, something she’d come to realize as a nervous habit of his. "When can you get her up and walking?"
There was a long silence. "I can do my best, but… I don’t know what kind of hex that filthy Reaper man put on her to break those bones. I tried everything I could while she was out cold, but I didn’t want to cause more harm than good. The bones are setting, but not correctly, and there’s precious little else I can do."
"But can she use it." Roderick’s tone was impatient.
Nora sighed. "On a limited basis for now; then with a crutch or cane probably for the rest of her life."
"If that’s the best you can do we’ll accept it. Get her up and about today, if you can. I’ll be in contact with Damien about fetching her."
His steps died away and Angeleigh lay back quickly; she had actually been able to push herself up and lean forward to hear as much of the conversation as she could, and she didn’t know what Nora would do to her memory if she knew she’d been eavesdropping. Nora entered, and Angeleigh smiled in greeting, hoping she didn’t look too guilty. "Well you certainly look better this morning," Nora chirped, checking Angeleigh’s pulse.
"I am feeling a lot better," Angeleigh said truthfully. "But I’m wicked bored.  The ceiling stopped being interesting a few days ago," she added, her attempt at a joke.
Nora nodded sagely, smiling a bit. "Right, active little Quidditch player like yourself would find bed a boring place to be, especially on a day like today."  As if to punctuate her statement she opened up the curtains, flooding the room with sunlight.
Angeleigh squinted a bit and sighed wistfully. "I would give anything to be playing Quidditch right now."
"Well, that I can’t allow, but how about getting out of that bed? You’re looking stronger, and the sooner we get you up and about the better. And maybe we can get Mr. Mooreland off my back," she added with a wink.
It proved to be a task much easier said than done. After her days spent in bed Angeleigh found that her leg muscles just did not want to obey her. She concentrated hard on just the simple task of getting her legs over the side of the bed, but was left sweating and drained and swearing. Rather than admonish her, Nora only smiled kindly. "You underwent a lot of damage, Angel. It’s not going to be an easy road; I’d be lying if I said it was, and I can’t lie to you after what you’ve gone through. Let’s try this." She pointed her wand at Angleigh, who bit her lip in anticipation. "Mobilicorpus" she said, and Angeleigh felt a strange sensation as her body lifted off the bed and hovered an inch above the ground, floating as if suspended by unseen strings. She felt like a puppet. "How does it feel to be upright?"
"Weird." Angeleigh felt slightly dizzy as blood rushed into her legs, tingling. "Can I see the rest of the house?" she asked, tired of being cooped up in the room. She turned on her most pleading pout when Nora looked uncertain. "I can’t stand being in here much longer. All I do is replay that night at my house, or think back on those eleven days again and again. There’s nothing else for me to do; even the news isn’t helpful." Her tone turned frustrated. "I need to remember there’s a world besides this."
Nora smiled, her eyes twinkling. She really didn’t seem that old. "I’m sure. Come on." She used her wand to guide Angeleigh to the doorway, and then through the house. It wasn’t a large house, but it was comfortable. She was reminded painfully of the cozy house on Thatcher Street. "What is this place?" she asked, craning her neck to get a better look around.
"Department safe house. We keep several pieces of property around the country for cases like yours; they’re unplottable. I’m employed by the department to deal with severe curse-related injuries. I specialize in healing magic, and Mr. Mooreland hired me about a year ago. I’d been working at St. Mungo’s in London before that," she explained.
Angeleigh nodded. "Is anyone else here?"
"No, you’re the only one, besides the team that keeps watch."
"When am I leaving?"
"Hopefully by the end of the month," Nora said, guiding Angeleigh back to her room. "For the next few days we’ll work on getting you up and about so you’ll be stable for transport. I think Mr. Mooreland is planning to disguise you as a Muggle and use Muggle transportation overseas. It’s safer; heinous as the Reapers are, they’re not so desperate as to attempt another kidnapping in front of Muggles. That and you’re too young to Apparate," she said with another wink.
Despite the seriousness of the situation Angeleigh actually laughed at how ridiculous it all sounded. Nora gave her an incredulous stare. "This is not my life," she gasped between peels of painful laughter. "It can’t be. It’s so unreal!" She laughed, wincing at the ache in her healing ribs. "So unreal," she murmured, her golden gaze suddenly going blank and faraway.
~*~*~*~
One week later Roderick bustled into the safe house, face bursting into a smile when he saw Angeleigh dressed and sitting at a table, stiffly fumbling with a fork, eating breakfast. "You look marvelous," he exclaimed, taking a seat and pouring coffee. "You look like a completely different girl; almost like your old self again. Are you feeling improvement?"
She nodded and swallowed. "I can sort of walk, with the crutches of course, but it hurts my arms. But, I actually have an appetite again. You look cheery," she observed, changing the subject and feeling slightly suspicious.
"Our Muggle Affairs Liaison was able to book us tickets on an airplane to London."
She felt her heart pause and her stomach drop. She dropped her fork. This meant all this was a reality. "When?"
"The 29th. That gives you the next few days to gather yourself together. We salvaged what we could of your things; a Department aid will be bringing your stuff by tomorrow. After that…"
"I’m gone," she finished dully.
Roderick continued, obviously eager to brief her on his plans. "We’ll register you with the British Ministry of Magic our first day in London," he continued. "There your uncle will meet up with us, at which point I transfer you to his care. You no longer exist as far as America is concerned," he said seriously. 
She gave him a doubtful glance. A person couldn’t just... disappear.  "And just how will that be ensured?" she asked.
"First and foremost nearly all communication between you and the Department and the country will cease, and absolutely no correspondence with anyone else in this country. You communicate with only with me, and that is on a limited basis. As to your safety…" his voice trailed off and he looked at her meaningfully. "I’ve decided to be your Secret Keeper."
Her eyes widened. "Don’t do that. It’s too risky for you."
"Better me than anyone else," he said practically. "Who will come after the Secretary of Magic himself? Besides the Groves, Ledgewoods, and Colburns, and you, of course, I’m the most protected person in this country’s wizarding society. And if something happens to you, it opens the door for something to happen to the others. Thus you’ll retain your position as a Secret Keeper unless otherwise notified. I’m sorry you’re still under so much pressure, but it’s what we have to do."
She prodded at her remaining food. "I understand," she said softly. "Aurors do what they have to," she added, paraphrasing Silas. She pushed her plate back and picked up the pair of crutches Nora had provided for her. "Excuse me," she said, heading to her room. It wasn’t the exit she hoped for; she was rather slow hobbling on her crutches, and her mangled leg was awkward to maneuver. She quietly latched the door behind her and made her way to the bed and flopped on her back, resting her head on her arms. Four more days until she left her home country for good. Four more days of limbo.
She felt torn and frustrated. She was an only child, and was used to being listened to. She’d never been spoiled but had grown up with a certain level of equality to adults due to her family’s position. Her parents had always treated her as more of an adult than a child, even since the time she was small.  She wasn’t used to being ignored or treated like a child, and that was exactly the way she felt now.
She wondered about Damien Dervish. What did he look like? Would he look anything like her mother, or were there other family traits he would possess? Was he an Auror too, or was her mother the black sheep in the family? Emmalynn had, after all, chosen to attend AIM instead of Hogwarts, where Damien went. How did he feel about taking guardianship of his high profile, targeted niece? Did he even know he had a niece? Angeleigh had not been told about him, so perhaps he was just as clueless about her. And what would the Dervish house be like? Angeleigh caught herself envisioning a cozy English cottage in the countryside, not much unlike her old house on Thatcher Street.
She sighed and stretched out her arms. As strange as it would be to be living in England for the rest of her life, she realized it would be even stranger to remain in America, completely cut off from her old life, yet watching it go on without her at the same time. Moving to England would make it a complete break. She doubted anyone over there would know or care who she was or what she’d gone through; they were preoccupied with the Boy Who Lived. Over there she could bury her past and start over. Heck, she could even get someone to cast a Memory charm on her, if she didn’t give up her role as a Secret Keeper…
She busied herself with therapy for her final few days, doing her best to stretch her muscles and get around the house so she wouldn’t arrive in England looking as pathetic as she felt. Concentrating on her healing body took pressure off her mind, which was whirling with what-ifs and maybes. It also kept her away from the trunk of things that had been brought from Thatcher Street. Angeleigh somehow knew her photo album was within the trunk, and knew if she started looking through the pictures of her friends and especially family that she’d lose her carefully gained control. She could not have that happen, not now, when she’d so carefully coached herself to remain emotionless and dutiful.
~*~*~*~
Roderick and Angeleigh tried to look inconspicuous as they appeared at Logan Airport and tucked their Portkey into Angeleigh’s book bag. "Lucky those tickets made a practical Portkey," He murmured to her as they made their way to the check in desk.
He seemed to hold his breath the whole time the airline agent processed their tickets, and only relaxed when they made it to the gate. Angeleigh sat down amid the hustle of the crowd and looked around at all the Muggles, feeling slightly overwhelmed after a month of near isolation. She glanced at Mr. Mooreland, who was fiddling with a Muggle newspaper. He noticed her curious gaze and put the paper down, turning his attention on her. "What’s on your mind?"
"I was just wondering if you had a family," she said, blushing. "I never hear about them."  It felt so odd to be discussing such normal, mundane subject matter with the highest ranked magic official in the country, yet here she sat, doing just that.
He sort of smiled and folded the paper. "Yes, yes I do. I have a thirteen-year-old son and twin seventeen-year-old daughters. They go to school down in the DC area, not far from the Department offices, actually."
"How do they feel about your job?"
"Why do you ask?" he said, taken aback.
"Well… I just know how hard it was on me being an Auror’s kid. And your job is even more stressful than that, so… I was only curious."
"My job keeps me very busy," he affirmed. "But the past two years have been the worst. It’s been difficult on my marriage, and I don’t see my kids nearly as much as I’d like to." He sighed and gave her an amused look. "You’re quite the little philosopher."
She shrugged and stared at her outstretched leg. "I’ve had a lot of time to think, is all. I think a lot about the effects of all this on families."
His expression softened. "I can imagine. But the Department is highly selective in choosing its personnel; Aurors included. No one gets a job with us unless they fully understand the risks and time commitments associated. Particularly with our Aurors, because they’re our first line of intelligence and defense, after all. And not everyone who applies to be an Auror is cut out for it, and those who are have to want it badly. They have to know just what they’re getting into. Each of our top families understood the risks when they signed on. Yours included."  He gently put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a slight squeeze of a hug.	
"I know," she said, smiling, but not really feeling much better about it. It didn’t change anything.
~*~*~*~
Despite her situation, Angeleigh was still entertained by Muggle transportation. She’d taken two years of Muggle studies and had learned about Muggle travel and had seen airplanes in the skies over the AIM campus, which wasn’t too far from Logan. But sitting in a classroom reading about Muggle planes was completely different from actually sitting in the first class section of one. Her wide-eyed gaze caught the attention of the first class flight attendant. "First time flying?" she asked, smiling as she handed Angeleigh a can of juice, and Roderick Mooreland a small bottle of red wine.
Angeleigh nodded quickly, embarrassed at her obvious naivete. "Yeah," she mumbled, staring at the clouds below.
Once she got over the initial thrill of the takeoff and ascent, Angeleigh found the flight very long and very boring. She found the constant thrum of the engines annoying, the in-flight movie was dull, and she refused to sleep for fear of having nightmares. Mr. Mooreland, however, spent two-thirds of the flight sleeping: evidently cruising at 35,000 feet left him feeling safe enough from Dark Wizard attacks. The final leg of the flight he spent explaining London to her and by the time they landed at Heathrow Airport Angeleigh’s head was spinning with vivid images of the things he’d described.
Mr. Mooreland took her to baggage claim, infinitely patient as she hobbled behind him. He collected her trunk and inconspicuously bewitched it to have wheels. The next step was waiting in a very long line to go through something he called Customs. "Muggle security," he murmured. "It’s fascinating how they compensate. You’ll have to go through something similar once we get to the Ministry of Magic offices too." He smiled and casually waved his hand at the Customs official, who smiled and nodded after giving their paperwork little more than a cursory glance.
They exited into the main thoroughfare of the airport and followed the signs for the train station. It was excruciatingly slow going and they were both relieved to finally get to the trains. Mr. Mooreland used Muggle money to buy one ticket to Bath and handed it to her. "Hang on to that, Angeleigh. We need to get to the Ministry offices now. Your uncle will meet us there." His voice dropped to a whisper. "There we will perform the Fidelius Charm, and then I head home and you start your new life." He awkwardly patted her on the shoulder and smiled, but she could see tears in his eyes.
"Aw, Mr. Mooreland, are you going to miss me?" she teased, trying to ignore her fear and uncertainty.
"Believe it or not, yes," he said, starting toward an exit.
Chapter 5: Magical London
"Percy Weasley, associate of Mr. Fudge," the red-haired young man said stiffly, taking Mr. Mooreland’s hand and shaking it, and nodding to Angeleigh, who stared at the floor. "Mr. Fudge can’t be here; he sends his regards. I will be processing your papers. Please follow me, your guardian is waiting down the hall."
Percy Weasley pompously led them down a very long hallway, and seemed almost impatient at Angeleigh’s slow progress; or maybe that was her projecting her own frustrations on Percy’s stern face. Between the jet lag, the hobbling all over Heathrow, and her still-wavering strength, this next walk was almost too much. It was a relief to arrive at their destination. Her mouth suddenly felt dry and her heart pounded. Her hands were clammy on the handles of her crutches. What if Damien Dervish didn’t like her? What if her mental and physical scars disgusted him and she had to remain in England, an orphan and an easy target for Death Eaters?
She snapped back into reality, realizing Percy Weasley and Mr. Mooreland were waiting for her. She breathed deeply and pushed herself forward, on into the office, staring at the design in the purple carpet rather than up and at the people in the office. She crossed the threshold and paused just inside the doorway, biting on her lower lip. It was almost uncomfortably quiet.
"Angeleigh, you can have a seat," Mr. Mooreland was saying, craning his neck to try and catch her eye. He guided her to a chair. "She’s a little shy, I apologize."
"Well, she’s been through a terrible loss," an accented voice commented. "It’s a rough transition for anyone. If she wasn’t shy I’d almost be worried."
Angeleigh glanced up and met the gaze of a handsome man probably no older than his early thirties. He was watching her carefully. He had the same facial features of her mother, only his eyes were not brown, like her mother’s, but the same topaz gold she saw every time she glanced in a mirror. So that’s where I got my eyes, she thought. She took the seat Mr. Mooreland offered to her, her legs feeling like jelly. She continued to bite on her lip, casting an occasional look in the direction of the man.
There was nearly a solid minute of silence. Percy Weasley finally cleared his throat, agitated that they hadn’t yet started in on the paperwork. "Oh, yes, sorry Mr. Weasley," Mr. Mooreland said. "Damien," he said with a nod.
Damien Dervish casually pulled out a quill and mumbled a few words over it, then poised it over a stack of forms and let it go. It remained poised over the paper, writing, filling in the paperwork. "All we’ll have to do is sign the documents at the end. Rather clever, I should say," he said, flashing a dazzling smile. He turned his eyes on her as the quill scratched away. "How are you feeling, Angeleigh?"
Angeleigh could tell right away there was no point lying. "Not great," she mumbled. "It’s been kind of rough."
"Understandable." He regarded her for a moment longer. "I’m so sorry about your parents. Your mother was a wonderful woman… I’m sorry," he said again.
"I am too," she replied, glancing up at him.
Percy Weasley was looking at his watch. "Mr. Mooreland," he said stiffly, "what time does their train depart?"
Roderick nearly jumped. "Soon enough, and you should take off shortly if you hope to get her a wand before heading to the station," he told Damien.
The quill sped up its mad scratching, flipping through forms, filling in blanks. After a few moments Damien took the quill and signed his name with a flourish. "Angeleigh," he said, handing her the quill. His gold eyes widened as she reached for it and the cuffs of her shirt crept up to reveal her hideous scarring. "Well, love, it seems they did quite a number on you," he observed quietly.
She bit her lip and signed her name, shrugging. "They tried." She caught Mr. Mooreland’s anxious look. "What now?"
Mr. Mooreland took a deep breath. "This is where I leave you, Angeleigh. Damien will take you to Diagon Alley, and then to Bath." He stood awkwardly. "I’ll be in contact on a very limited basis, mostly to check on your safety or to alert you to any movements in the Reaper circle. Goodbye, Angeleigh."
Angeleigh felt a lump welling up in her throat and choking her. She felt her lip tremble, and tears fill her eyes. "G’bye, Mr. Mooreland," she croaked. He gave an odd sort of bow and, with a flourish of his robes he’d left the office, no doubt headed to another office for the Fidelius Charm. She blinked furiously against the tears. Her connections were gone. She no longer had any ties to America or her old life. She glanced up, feeling bewildered, scared, and small. Percy Weasley was impatiently waiting for her to exit. Damien Dervish seemed very patient in severe contrast.
As they headed for the exit, Percy handed a thick packet to Damien. "These are her Hogwarts papers; supply lists, train ticket, rules. She’ll enter as a sixth year. Safe zones for her are your grounds and the school. Anywhere else, if she’s not with you she’s vulnerable," Percy warned.
"Thank you, Mr. Weasley," Damien said cordially. "We’re much obliged; please give Mr. Fudge our regards."
Outside the department store that served as the Ministry façade, Damien stood on the street corner, hands in his pockets. Angeleigh stood next to him, hunched on her crutches. After an awkward moment, he looked down at her and smiled. He had to be at least 6’5", she realized, staring up at him from her diminutive five feet three inches. "How are you holding up?" He asked, and she shrugged. He smiled. "I should ask more specific questions, shouldn’t I. How is your leg? Can you stay on your feet, or would you like me to hail some transportation?"
"Walking is fine for now," she mumbled even as she wondered if she could stay on her feet a moment more.
"Alright. Just let me know if it bothers you." He started off down the street, slowing his pace to match Angeleigh’s. "Your Secretary told me that your wand was destroyed. What kind did you have?"
"Nine-inch willow with a veela hair core," she quoted, remembering fondly her old springy wand and the brilliant Charms grades it had gotten her. "I haven’t had a wand in over a month now. I feel weird without one. I feel vulnerable."
"Indeed," he commented. "We’re not trying to rush you along, just under your circumstances it’s important for you to have a new wand as soon as possible. We have time to get you to Ollivanders, the wand shop. We’ll see how long he takes with you; hopefully we can get you a wand before the train leaves and if not we can come back when it’s time to do your school shopping." They walked on until he paused at a shabby pub with a peeling sign that read The Leaky Cauldron. Angeleigh followed her uncle inside the dim pub and was surprised to see it was full of witches and wizards. A few of them nodded to Damien.
"Anything for you today, Mr. Dervish?" called the wizened bartender, a glass in hand.
"Thanks, but not today, Tom, just passing through to the Alley with my niece," Damien called back. He paused and waited for Angeleigh to catch up. They continued on through he pub and left through the back door, emerging in a dingy back alley occupied only by a dumpster. Damien pulled out a shiny dark wand and tapped a brick above the dumpster; the bricks began to shift, revealing the world beyond.
He led her down the newly revealed Diagon Alley, which was like Salem on Cheering Charms. The sheer amount of wizarding goods all in one place assaulted Angeleigh’s senses. She wanted to get a look at everything, but didn’t have eyes enough. She tried to console herself by thinking that at least she’d be back later in August for her school supplies, but that didn’t stop her gaze from darting to and fro down the length of the street, sweeping over crowds of robed people, cobblestone sidewalks littered with owl feathers, and storefronts that had Salem beaten for age.
Damien steered her toward a shop with a peeling sign that read Ollivanders Fine Wand Makers since 382BC. The shop was dim and musty with floor to ceiling shelves full of boxes upon boxes. Cobwebs clung to everything, and a fine layer of dust covered the floors. The Ollivander family had been making wands since 382 BC, and the shop looked about as old.
Suddenly a head of fluffy white hair peeked around a corner. "Ah, Damien Dervish, thirteen-inch Mahogany and Norwegian Ridgeback heartstring," he said, emerging from around the corner. "Excellent for Transfiguration and warding off dark arts. I hope it has served you well." He smiled kindly at the bewildered Angeleigh. "I’m Mr. Ollivander, dear," he said. "I remember every wand I’ve ever sold." He took a long, appraising look at her, his large, misty, silver eyes searching her until she squirmed. "You’re in for a replacement, correct? Your last one must have been… destroyed. What was your old one?"
"Nine-inch willow and veela hair," she recited again, her eyes roving over the stacks of wand boxes. "Amazing Charms work," she added.
His eyes shimmered. "Indeed. But you’re now in the market for something less… flexible." He pulled out a tape measure, which snapped to life and began to measure every length and angle of her body as he scurried off to the stacks. "Are you left or right wand-handed?" he called.
"Right," she answered, and the tape measure sprung to her right hand and measured the diameter of her wrist, the span of her palm, and the length of each of her fingers. Mr. Ollivander appeared, holding a stack of boxes. He slid the lid off one. "Yew and dragon heart string, ten inches. Give it a wave—" he handed it to her, only to snatch it back when he caught sight of her scarred wrist. "No," he said, meeting her eyes curiously. "Disastrous. That would be simply disastrous. Giving you a yew wand after what you’d gone through…" He slid the cover off another box. "Try mahogany. Like your uncle has; he does well with it."
She took the eleven-inch wand and took a moment to get accustomed to the feel of a wand in her hand again. She gave it a stiff swish and flick, and the shop door suddenly began slamming in a series of deafening bangs that continued until she set the wand down, embarrassed. "Mahogany isn’t for me," she said dismally. She gazed at the pile of boxes with dismay. There was no way she’d be able to get through that pile before they left for the train. Mr. Ollivander was regarding her strangely again.
He smiled mysteriously and his eyes twinkled. "The wand chooses the wizard, dear," he said as he handed her a long thin box. "Perhaps this one."
She took the box and removed the cover curiously. Inside, on a bed of maroon velvet, was a twelve-inch wand made of medium color wood with a fine reddish handle. She looked up at Mr. Ollivander curiously. "Twelve inch oak with a red cedar handle and phoenix feather core," he said, staring this time at the wand rather than at her. "Red Cedar and Oak are known to be protective woods. They guard against evil, thus warding off the Dark Arts, and if I’m not mistaken (I never am), you will need that. Give it a try."
Angeleigh gently plucked the wand off its velvet bed and instantly felt a connection, a tingling that started in her fingers and shot up her hand and arm and coursed through her whole body. She balanced it in her hand, amazed at the way the smoothly carved handle fit her grip so perfectly. It didn’t feel like a wand, but an extension of her hand. She confidently waved the wand at the untidy pile of boxes on the table in front of her and they effortlessly piled up into neat stacks. She turned to the door of the shop; the glass had cracked during her last disastrous wand attempt. "Reparo," she ordered, and it was instantly fixed; she actually smiled. "I think this might be it."
"I think you’re correct," Mr. Ollivander said smiling. "This wand will take you far, Angeleigh. It is powerful… yes, very powerful, without being dangerously so."
Angeleigh had the very strange feeling Mr. Ollivander was still pondering what could have happened if he’d allowed her to even try the yew wand, and it made her curious to know what would have happened. It had to be something frightening. She stared at the oak wand in its box. "This one’s so different from my last one," she commented softly, placing it in its box and replacing the cover.
"Sometimes it is uncertain why a wizard ends up with one wand, when another would seem better suited," Mr. Ollivander agreed. "But for reasons we cannot always understand each wizard ends up with the correct wand."
She could only nod as Uncle Damien paid for the wand and Mr. Ollivander wrapped the box in brown paper and tied it with twine for safekeeping. After one wave of the wand she had nearly forgotten her old one. She could still feel a faint tingling in her hand. She flashed one last glance at Mr. Ollivander, who nodded in farewell, his eyes on the wrapped box Damien carried under his arm.
"Well, love," Damien said, "it’s high time we got to that train. I know the Ministry keeps a Portkey to the train station around here; how do you think you’ll manage with Portkey travel?" he asked, eyes flicking to her braced leg and crutches.
"That’s how Mr. Mooreland and I got from the house to the airport," she told him through a yawn, trying to keep up with his long strides, which were making an effort to slow to her hobbling pace.
"Alright, then." He guided her to a terrace in front of an ice cream shop. He looked around before finally smiling as he laid eyes on a napkin dispenser. "They always choose the oddest things for Portkeys," he said with a smile, which Angeleigh halfheartedly returned. She touched the Portkey and felt the whirling sensation of being transported back to the train station, and onward into her new life.
Chapter 6: The Journey to the Dervish Estate
Damien effortlessly stowed Angeleigh’s trunk in the train and helped her get comfortable in her seat. He seemed amused by playing a Muggle as he piled the little train pillows under her bad leg. He did hold out his hand and cast an inconspicuous cushioning charm on them, though. He sat across from her and handed her the wrapped package containing her new wand and smiled. "It’s not too terribly long to Bath," he told her. "If you feel you need to rest, please do; I won’t be offended."
Angeleigh could only nod dumbly in thanks. Now that she was finally seated her exhaustion was catching up with her. Her eyelids dropped and her gaze blurred. The rocking of the train was pleasant and comforting, and she hadn’t slept in so long that it was almost impossible to even conceive of staying awake.
As Angeleigh drifted to sleep Damien stared out the window at the country rushing by. He was strangely mesmerized by the blurring scenery. He did this so infrequently now; it was just much easier to Apparate or use a Portkey. He stretched out his long legs and flexed his fingers and ran them through his unruly brown hair. He wondered how he’d come to this place in life and he wondered if he could succeed at the task set out before him. What had possessed Emmalynn to think he would be capable of raising a sixteen-year-old girl? Though he presented a calm face for everyone, inside he was very nervous. Not only was Angeleigh a spitfire, she was also high profile, and it was now his job to raise her and keep her safe. He’d never had children of his own, and hadn’t ever really liked them for that matter. He hadn’t even liked being a child himself and now, at the age of 36, he was responsible for his teenage niece. Only his devotion to Emmalynn gave him the strength to believe he was remotely capable of doing this.
Angeleigh slowly opened her eyes an hour later to find Damien watching her curiously. She rubbed her eyes and sat up straight. "What?" She asked awkwardly. "Was I talking in my sleep or something?"
He shook his head. "No, no. I was thinking how much you remind me of your mother. I missed her terribly when she left England for good when she was seventeen, but we both understood it was for the best purposes." His golden eyes had a faraway look in them.
"What was my mother like when she was younger?" Angeleigh asked, realizing consciously for the first time that she’d never seen a single picture of a young Emmalynn.
"She was spunky. Determined… driven. Once she got an idea in her mind there was no swaying her."
"That’s why she made such a great Auror," Angeleigh interjected. "And that’s probably how she got the Department of Magic to agree to performing the Fidelius Charm on me."
Damien smiled wryly. "That sounds like something Emma would do. It was a good idea, in theory. She was a very confident girl, to the point of arrogance and cockiness," he said ruefully. "I’m sure she never expected any of this to happen."
"If she had expected it I would still be living in America," Angeleigh said in defense of her mother.
Damien raised an eyebrow. "You have your mother’s temper," he observed.
Angeleigh stared out the window. "She always said I inherited her worst traits."
"But she wouldn’t have entrusted you with such classified information if you didn’t also possess some of her best traits as well," he pointed out. "Loyalty, determination, the will to survive… I think, Angeleigh, you are a lot like your mother."
"Not really. If I was I would have fought back harder."
"You have the capacity to fight back harder than you did?" he asked, incredulous, and with a vague hint of sardonic amusement in his voice.
Angeleigh was quiet as emotion churned in her. Her mother had always taught her she could fight harder, that there was always room for improvement. Damien could practically read her mind. "Emmalynn was a relentless perfectionist, to the point of being unrealistic. Don’t fool yourself, Angeleigh. You couldn’t have fought any harder than you did. Fully trained witches and wizards have given up after less. Someday you’ll know."
She only shrugged, lackluster and unconvinced, even though deep down something told her he had a point. She’d survived the deaths of her parents, which in itself was so sudden and horrific she could only figure shock had deadened her senses enough to keep her going on the eleven days in the Reapers’ captivity. She sniffled, blinking rapidly to clear her tears. Crying wouldn’t change anything. The only option now was to move on.
"I didn’t mean to upset you—" Damien began.
"I’m fine," Angeleigh said quickly, fiddling with the ends of the twine on her box. "When does term start at Hogwarts?" she asked, changing the topic.
"September first. We’ll go back to Diagon Alley on the 30th of the month to do your school shopping, we’ll let a room for two nights, and on the first you’re off to school." He paused and stared at her, his eyes meeting hers and holding the gaze. "I wonder what house you’ll be in," he said thoughtfully. "I was a Ravenclaw, myself. Nice middle ground, no interhouse feuds like between Slytherins and Gryffindors, and without the undeserved reputation of Hufflepuff." He appeared to be fondly remembering his school days. His gaze darkened. "Emma probably would have been a Slytherin; her iron determination could be dangerous. But I suppose we’ll never know… and with you we won’t know until you get there, will we."
Angeleigh just nodded, wishing he’d stop. She didn’t want to know about Hogwarts and houses, just when term began. She wanted to think about everything else when the time came.
The train pulled up into Bath station and stopped with a jolt. Angeleigh looked out at the lush green hills, growing dark under the setting sun. She hobbled off the train and waited while Damien hefted her trunk and dragged it off to the side. He smiled and Angeleigh noted quite by accident a very tired expression in his gold eyes. "One more Portkey, which should take us right back to the Estate," he said, running his fingers through his wavy hair. He walked down the platform in the opposite direction of everyone else until he came to a tub of discarded ticket stubs. He waited for her and when no one was paying attention they casually touched it.
Angeleigh again felt the odd tugging sensation as she spun through time and space, leaving the Bath train station behind, only to emerge in front of a huge stone manor house that was very unlike the cozy country cottage she’d pictured in her dreams. Her head was reeling from Porting and jetlag and she wondered if she was still awake. Her legs were starting to feel wobbly and it was an effort to keep her eyes open. She followed him into the manor house, too tired to take in the magnificent stone entryway lit with dozens of levitating candles. She nearly fell over as she looked at the high walls. She stumbled back into Damien, who smiled down at her. "You’re looking very tired, Angeleigh… do you want something to eat, or would you just like to go to bed?"
"Bed," she said through a yawn. She felt a little awkward being in his house and going straight to bed; she thought it might be more polite to chat with him, seeing as they barely knew one another, but she was nearly falling asleep on her feet as it was.
"I thought so," he said with a smile, and she almost saw a flicker of relief in his own tired amber eyes. "Come on."
Before Angeleigh could protest he had easily picked her up and was carrying her up the stairway. She was torn between feeling embarrassed and grateful. Her leg was throbbing from all the hobbling around, and the truth was, she’d had no idea how else she was going to get up the stairs and into her room. Damien carried her down a long hallway, his steps muffled by a plush carpet under his feet. He finally paused at a room and entered, setting her down gently on the bed. "Your house elf should be up shortly," he began, but Angeleigh was already asleep.
~*~*~*~
She slept soundly, and if she dreamed she could not remember it when she finally woke many hours later. For a long while she lay in the very comfortable bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling, eyes then roving down the fabric-covered walls and at last to the rich maroon bedclothes. She pushed the comforter off, finding she was still in her rumpled jeans and shirt. She pushed herself into a sitting position; the pain in her torso was reduced to a dull ache she barely felt anymore. Her wrists were still stiff and a little bit tender as she propped herself up and looked at the sunlight that streamed in through her window.
Suddenly she became aware of someone else in the room with her. Her heartbeat sped up and she felt ice trickle in her veins. She peered around the room, but saw nothing until she returned her eyes to the window. There, standing about 3 and a half feet high, was the oddest looking creature she’d ever seen. It had a head of sparse hair, huge, batty ears, and a nose that sloped into an exaggerated ski-jump at the end. It had large, goggling blue eyes and wore what appeared to be a child’s fleece blanket wrapped toga-style around its small and wiry body. It was grinning up at her in a manner that Angeleigh found both endearing and disturbing.
"Good morning, Miss Angel!" the creature sang. "I’m Libby. Master Damien sent me to look in on you and see if you’ll be needing anything."
Angeleigh pushed her hair back and rubbed her eyes, and when she looked the creature was gone. She leaned back on her elbows only to see that the creature was sitting on her pillow. She felt totally bewildered. "Sorry… but what are you?"
"One of Master’s house elves, Miss. Does Miss want some breakfast? Hot bath?"
Angeleigh realized just how grubby she felt after her long day of traveling. "That would be great," she said as she stiffly climbed out of bed. She realized with a start that today was indeed the real beginning of her new life. She slid out of bed and limped to the window, which overlooked rolling green hills far as she could see. The sky was a brilliant azure, dotted by soft clouds. She glanced at her watch, trying to push the sight of her scars out of her mind. Her watch read 9am, which would make British time… "2 in the afternoon?" she asked incredulously. "I slept that long?" she murmured. She made her way to her private bathroom where Libby was finishing drawing the bath.
An hour later she followed Libby to the main sitting room, feeling more awake and refreshed. The big stone house was beautiful, very medieval in architecture and décor. The eyes of her ancestors gazed down at her from their portraits, and she was almost positive she could hear them muttering to one another. "So Emmalynn had a daughter then," said one woman with her same amber eyes. "I told you she would. You owe me one of the Galleons from your still life backdrop, said another woman stiffly." Aside from the discomfort of being so analyzed, Angeleigh felt like a fairytale character as she stared wide-eyed, at a huge tapestry at the end of the hall. An embroidered crest showed an ornate D with a stern, noble-looking falcon perched proudly inside it and glaring out at her with topaz-colored eyes.
"That crest has been in the family for centuries, much like this house," said a voice behind her, making her jump slightly. "This family dates back for centuries; there’s always been a Dervish heir in this household. The earliest I’ve been able to trace our family back is the 1100s. We may go back further, but I’ve postponed my research indefinitely." Damien was staring at the tapestry again, but then he smiled down at her. "Did you rest well?"
Angeleigh took her eyes off the tapestry and faced her uncle. She still felt a little nervous in his relaxed presence. "I did, thanks. Sorry I slept so late… I didn’t realize," she stammered.
"No apologies, please," he said. "You live here now. This is your home, so be comfortable and sleep as long as you want when you want to," he joked, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners. "If you’d like perhaps we can eat; you must be famished. Then I can show you the grounds."
~*~*~*~
Angeleigh spent the next weeks growing accustomed to her new settings. She was subject to the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery, but Uncle Damien permitted her to do minor charms around the manor so she could break in her new wand. He entertained her with stories about her mother’s upbringing and childhood. There were four House Elves total, and all four were hilarious; in addition to Libby there was Auggy, who waited on Damien, Kipper, and Dymphna. Half the time they spent bantering about how to run the manor, or arguing over whether or not Mr. Damien would ever find a wife.
"He’s the last Dervish," Libby told Angeleigh one night as she drew the heavy curtains closed. She made it sound like a conspiracy. "We all keep hoping he’ll find a nice lady so he can have a son, but we’ve been waiting a long time now." She hopped up on the bed and bowed. "Anything else you’ll be needing Miss Angel?"
"No, I’m alright, Libby." Angeleigh noticed the elf’s wide violet eyes staring at her intently, and she squirmed as she always did when she was under scrutiny. "…what?" she asked slowly.
"Is Miss Angel happy?" Libby blurted out. "Forgive me for being so bold," she said quickly, grabbing her huge ears and tugging hard.
Angeleigh quickly reached out and grabbed the little elf’s scrawny wrists. "Libby, it’s alright, stop punishing yourself." She let go and Libby’s hands fell away from the ears. Angeleigh fell back on her pillows and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. Was she happy here? After three weeks of living at the Dervish Manor she was getting to enjoy the English countryside and the huge stone manor house with its hidden passageways. She also realized just how freeing it felt to be truly safe; on the grounds there was no chance of Death Eaters ambushing her. She could wander freely, guard down, something she hadn’t been able to do in nearly two years. But did she feel happy here and now? Was her freedom worth all she’d sacrificed for it?
She chose her words carefully, having learned quickly early on that Libby was very sensitive about her young mistress’s comfort. "I feel much better being here," she said finally. "But I do miss my old life. And that’s no one’s fault," she added quickly, trying to smile as her mind tacked on, no one’s fault but the Reapers. "It’s really nice here. I don’t want to leave for school next week," she confided.
Libby hopped about fluffing pillows and tucking sheets, smiling. "Don’t be scared Miss Angel. School is good. School is safe." She hopped off the bed and stood in the doorway, bowing low. "Goodnight, Miss Angel," she said and snapped her fingers, disappearing in a puff of purple smoke.
Angleigh stretched her arms out and folded them behind her neck and started into the dark. Just as she was growing used to her new home she had to pack up again and go to a new school where she didn’t know anyone. Though Uncle Damien assured her she’d love Hogwarts, she couldn’t calm her nerves about it.
"Couldn’t you teach me here, on the grounds?" she asked a week later, the night before they were scheduled to leave for London. She was sprawled on the rug in the sitting room, sipping a butterbeer and staring up at the hovering candles. "I’ll do owl correspondence courses, or something."
From his spot on a sofa Damien grinned down at her. "Nervous, I take it. Why?"
"Well, aside from not knowing anyone, it’s just another quick transition. Just as I’m getting comfortable here I have to uproot again." She sighed.
He nodded, golden eyes understanding. "You’ve been through a lot of changes in a very short time, but after this the transitions will be over. So long as you’re here or at Hogwarts there should be no more transitions for a while. Any Death Eater would be either very mad or very desperate to attempt attacking anyone at that school. There have been attempts, yes, but they’ve failed. Is that what you’re afraid of?" he asked, eyes searching her.
She sat up and shrugged offhandedly. "Yes and no. I mean, I’m sure you know everything already. There’s nothing they can do that me that I can’t withstand." She laboriously got to her feet. "I’m going to bed now… good night."
In bed that last evening Angeleigh stared at the darkened ceiling and instead of trying to fall asleep quickly and avoid nightmares, she purposely tried to remember each and every detail about her parents’ deaths. She forced herself to relive that night moment by moment and refused to halt the images in her memory even when she felt tears track down her temples and into her hair. The idea was simple enough, she’d relive that night and put it all behind her so she’d have a blank slate once she started at Hogwarts in two days. But as the best laid plans are often laid to waste, Angeleigh fell into sleep before the cold voice in her memory could say the first Avada Kedavra.
Chapter 7: The Surprise Lioness
Much to Uncle Damien’s surprise Angeleigh did not make Ravenclaw, his old house at Hogwarts. Rather, as she stood amidst a sea of eleven-year-olds, feeling very awkward and out of place, a stern witch named Professor McGonagall called out her name and placed a tattered black wizard’s cap on her head. This hat thought aloud in her mind for what seemed an eternity; Angeleigh could feel the blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks and along her ears, which were ringing with nervous excitement and fear. It almost felt as though invisible fingers were poking into her mind and stirring her thoughts up, looking for information she herself did not have consciously accessible. 
"Hmmm. Very interesting," a low, ponderous voice said in her ear. "Brave, yet doubtful. Strong, yet uncertain. You are a walking contradiction, Angeleigh St. Martin."
I know, she thought. I remind myself everyday.
"Spunky, too. Yet, that spunk is a veil. A cover; but what are you covering up? What are you hiding?"
Her breathing quickened. Nothing. There’s nothing I’m hiding, I have no secrets, really.
"So insistent. Methinks the lady doth protest too much," the hat said with a chuckle. "So defensive, yet so vulnerable." The voice was patronizing in its honesty. "You’re fairly intelligent, I see, but resourceful and determined to prove yourself… loyal. Interestingly, intensely loyal."
A thought, unbidden, rose to her conscious mind. Just shut up and sort me already. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be sitting up here like this? She felt herself blush deeply.
The hat chuckled again. "Temper, temper. No need to get snippy. I’m thinking. Where to put you, where to put you… the trouble with you is you’d do well enough almost anywhere, but since you can’t live in four houses at once, we can’t have that… better be… no, not quite right…"
She squirmed a bit, uncomfortably aware of all the eyes on her, watching this out of place sixteen-year-old in a role normally reserved for those five years younger than herself. She knew how odd she looked; even though she only stood about five foot three inches (and even a little shorter, hunched on her crutches), she still towered over the first years. Not only that, but she was painfully aware of the knowledge that no matter which house she was sorted into, all the sixth years had indeed already been there for six years, and would have their own groups of friends. She would be an outsider, a shy, limping American on the outside looking in. The prospect terrified her.
She was so preoccupied she almost missed it when the hat finally gave a lackluster "humph!" and shouted out, "Gryffindor!" which was met with a smattering of lackluster applause. Professor McGonagall subtly pointed out the Gryffindor table, and Angeleigh hurried over and took a seat close to the exit for the Great Hall. None of the other students seemed particularly interested in her arrival. She was grateful when the Headmaster dismissed them; she followed a House Prefect through many confusing corridors and passageways, and up uncountable staircases. She tried to strike a balance between pacing herself and keeping up. The stairs were torment to her tired legs and arms. It was sheer relief to arrive at a portrait of a very large woman in a very pink dress. "Egg Whites," the Prefect said, and the portrait swung open to reveal an inviting common room. Once in, the returning students shuffled to their dormitories, leaving Angeleigh and the first years with the Prefects, who directed them to their rooms. Angeleigh hobbled toward her dormitory, doing her best to dodge the glances of the first year girls shuffling alongside her.
Once in her dormitory Angeleigh scribbled a quick owl to her uncle to let him know where she would be spending her two years at Hogwarts, sent it off with Nim, and climbed beneath the covers of her four-post bed. The four other sixth year girls avoided looking at or speaking to her. She turned several times, trying to get comfortable, trying to block out the noises of the other girls around her. There was some whispering and giggling that faded as the night wore on, and eventually Angeleigh drifted into a sleep filled with broken bits and pieces of dreams. When she woke in the morning she did not feel rested and knew it must show on her face and in her eyes.
She was the last to breakfast, and only had time to eat a slice of toast and wash it down with orange juice before she had to leave if she wanted to get to class on time. Her first class was Transfiguration, taught by Professor McGonagall, who was also her head of House; the last thing Angeleigh wanted was to give her House Head a poor opinion of her on the first day. It was bad enough that Transfiguration was easily Angeleigh’s worst subject. The only comforting thought as she hurried down the corridors to the classrooms was that at least she was getting it over with early in the day.
Angeleigh learned that sixth year students at Hogwarts would be learning and practicing the art of human transfiguration. Professor McGonagall demonstrated her transformations into a cat and back. All her classmates had seen this performed countless times, so this impressed only Angeleigh; she couldn’t recall any of her AIM professors being Animagi. Angeleigh blushed and tried not to show her awe in front of her peers, but Professor McGonagall caught her eye and offered a small hint of a smile. She went on to detail the finer points of human transfiguration, its usage, and its history. As she scribbled notes, Angeleigh’s head spun with all the information and she wondered how she’d ever be able to put it into practice. It was a small relief when Professor McGonagall told them most of the first term would be spent studying the theories.
Next class… What was it? She checked her schedule. Potions. She was surprised to see her classmates grimace and groan about this. What was so bad about Potions class? She made it down to the dungeon classroom just as passing period was ending. Nearly all the seats were taken. The only place left was in the front row between two Slytherin girls. One had dreadlocks in her blond hair. The other had black hair with streaks of purple and aqua through it. Angeleigh bit her lip nervously as she hobbled to the space. "Um, excuse me, but is this seat taken?" she asked shyly.
"Now it is," the dreadlocked girl said brightly, pulling out a chair. The other girl stared at Angeleigh, dark eyes unblinking as they sized her up. "I’m Vanora, Vanora MacGrear, sixth year Slytherin. You?"
"Angeleigh St. Martin," she mumbled, digging out her textbooks, all the while acutely aware of the intense stare of the streak-haired girl. She absently tugged the sleeves of her robes down over her wrists. "I’m a Gryffindor," she added. "Sixth year as well, transfer." It was the most she’d said to anyone since her arrival at Hogwarts.
"Antigone Windemere," the girl said slowly, eyes still unblinking and unreadable. "Also Slytherin; also sixth year."
Angeleigh smiled awkwardly, then bit her lip and lowered her eyes. She was spared further scrutiny—if spared was the word—by the arrival of Professor Snape. He had a sour expression on his face, which only intensified when he saw Angeleigh. "Another Gryffindor," he said in a low soft voice that dripped disdain and made her shrink into her chair with embarrassment as he surveyed her over the bridge of his abnormally large, hooked nose.
"He’s like this with all the Gryffindors," Vanora whispered when Professor Snape turned away. "Doesn’t like them much, but just ignore that. This is usually a pretty cool class. If you’re lucky I’ll melt a cauldron!"
Angeleigh had always been decent in Potions class. She liked the element of control and the slight rush she got adding ingredients and waiting for the reactions. As she listened to Snape’s disdainful voice tell them all how he expected them to fail the term, she felt an odd sensation welling up in her, a sensation she only felt around her mother and Silas Reaper: the intense desire to prove them wrong, show them she could do it, show them she wouldn’t break. Nervous as she was, she resolved to never give Snape the satisfaction of breaking.
After potions was lunch. She had enough time to nibble some chicken before she had to take off for Care of Magical Creatures which was taught on the school grounds rather than in a classroom. Halfway she paused to catch her breath. Her heavy school bag made her already lumbering movements very awkward and made her arms ache. Her leg was throbbing and her wrists were stiff, and she felt very cranky after her lack of sleep. She just wanted the day to be over.
"Could I help you with that?" a male voice asked, and Angeleigh wheeled around, surprised. A boy of about sixteen stood before her in Slytherin robes, a silver pin with the letter P on it pinned to his collar. He was calmly holding out his hand toward her school bag.
Angeleigh felt herself blush. She was grateful for the help, but at the same time embarrassed she couldn’t carry it herself. Finally she slid the bag off her shoulder and handed it to him. She immediately felt lighter. "Thank you," she mumbled. She vaguely recalled seeing the boy earlier that day in Potions. He’d sat alone, quiet, toward the back and had been one of the only people Professor Snape had not ridiculed. She followed him across the grounds, a couple of paces back. The boy didn’t speak at all and when they got to class he set her things down near the fence and then leaned against a fence post ten feet away. He did not introduce himself, nor did he say another word.
Vanora and Antigone were in the class also, along with the rest of the sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins. The course was taught by a man who introduced himself as Hagrid, the school game and groundskeeper. He was a giant of a man, twice the size of a normal man, with huge hands and a tangled mass of beard. If not for the warm sparkle in his black eyes Angeleigh would have been quite frightened by him. "’Ello, class! Got an excitin’ lesson fer ya t’day," he boomed. "Magic Creatures we kin keep as pets. They’re darn useful. Crups and Kneazles. Come closer, they won’ bite…" The class gathered around the dog-and-catlike creatures, and Hagrid pointed out the features that made them notable. The lesson was released early, and Angeleigh hobbled back to the castle with Vanora and Antigone. The boy rushed past in a flutter of billowing robes. "Who is he?" she asked, figuring they’d know.
"Oh, that’s Cyrus," Vanora said with a casual wave of her hand. "Slytherin Prefect. Not the most friendly sort, but he’s a good student and a pretty decent prefect. The teachers seem to like him well enough."
Antigone gave a sort of bemused snort. "Magic Cyrus," she murmured loud enough for Angeleigh and Vanora to hear, tossing her streaked hair behind her. Again she gave Angeleigh an appraising glance, then shook her head and walked on ahead.
Angeleigh blinked uncertainly and looked over at Vanora. "Did I, um, offend her in some way?"
Vanora chuckled. "Nah. She’s like that with all new people. The first years are positively terrified of her. We started calling her Scourge of the Firsties a couple years ago; she’s giving Peeves and Snape a run for their money. So where are you from? No discernible British accent, I observe. American? Running from the law?"
Angeleigh felt her stomach drop and her ears roar. "Um, yes, I’m from America, but I’m not running or anything. I just had to… move here."
"Hey, I’m American too. I’m from California, former chaser for the SWICA Flying Sea Dragons Quidditch Team."
Familiarity! Angeleigh’s heart leapt into her throat. "Salem Witch Institute, California Academy," she said. "We played you at the finals—AIM Moving Targets. East Coast champs. You guys trounced us last year, but we put up a decent fight." It was more than she’d said to anyone since coming to Hogwarts, but she was just so thrilled to finally find some commonality with someone.
"I remember that game… Three days long, right? That was brutal, but totally fun. I got the play-by-play from my Mum. She still lives in California, but she keeps me posted. Up with the info, you know? So where do you live now?"
"Somewhere south, near Bath I think. I only just moved here in late July, so I don’t know the country very well yet."
"Right, right… can I ask why you moved?"
"You can ask, but I can’t really say," Angeleigh said with a shrug. "Things. You know how they are."
"Do I ever," Vanora said, her grin faltering slightly and her hand straying to rub a spot to the left of her navel. "Look, I need to run back to Slytherin before dinner. I’ll catch you later."
The idea of hobbling all the way to Gryffindor Tower and back down was in itself exhausting, so Angeleigh just made her way to the Great Hall and took a seat at the nearly empty Gryffindor table. She sighted and took out a textbook to get a start on her work, but a barn owl swooped in and landed in front of her, a letter in its beak. Its wide amber eyes stared at her expectantly.
"Silly owl," Angeleigh muttered, scratching Nim behind her head and fed her a piece of roll. Angeleigh took the letter. In Uncle Damien’s flowing script was written:
Dearest Angeleigh,
Congratulations on making Gryffindor—perhaps you’re more of a little lioness after all. The elves all miss you; they say you gave a spark of life to the house. At first I was mock-offended, but they’re right. Still, I digress into sentimentality.
I hope your first day of classes went well and you are doing all right. Owl if you need absolutely anything. Make sure to put this faithful owl to good use! I look forward to hearing from you soon. So do the elves.
With Love,
Uncle Damien
She smiled and reread the letter. Between making friends with Vanora and getting the letter from her Uncle, Angeleigh’s day was looking up again.
Chapter 8: An Ally in Slytherin
The first Quidditch match of the year arrived shortly after Hogwarts’ famous Halloween celebration. The Great Hall had been splendidly decorated complete with live bats and hundreds of carved, lit jack-o-lanterns levitating in the air above the long house tables. Uncle Damien marked Angeleigh’s nearly two months’ "anniversary" by sending Nim with a package of various wizard sweets and a singing Halloween card. He’d written to her every week and always reminded her to owl him if she needed anything.
Unfortunately what Angeleigh needed more than anything her uncle could not send via owl: more time to do all the work Hogwarts professors enjoyed piling onto the sixth years. So while 99% of the school filed down to the Pitch to watch Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff duke it out Angeleigh slung her very heavy school bag over her shoulder and made her way to the library. She drew the suspicious stare of Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, but otherwise the halls were deserted.
"Why aren’t you out at the game?" Madam Pince, the stuffy librarian, said with a sniff as Angeleigh entered.
She shrugged. "I just have so much work to do. The professors are tougher here than at my old school, and there’s a lot I need more background on, and since the resources are here…" she let her voice trail off. "This is just the best time to be here."
Madam Pince pushed her glasses up her nose and sniffed again. "Suit yourself, then." She went back to her filing and Angeleigh set herself down at the nearest table, spreading her books and papers out. When she stopped to think she realized her loads of work was also a cover for avoiding the crowds outside. Ever since arriving at Hogwarts she’d been surrounded by crowds of people; she was not part of one ever, but she was so surrounded she felt she was drowning in the sea of people. She needed the solitude only a huge old tome could provide.
She flipped to her Potions assignment and inwardly groaned as she read Professor Snape’s expectations for their essay on variations on sleeping potions. The essay would easily be at least two, if not three scrolls long once she had incorporated all the information she wanted to include. She drafted out a plan of attack: she would attack potions and transfiguration first, since they were her least favorite subjects, then do the preliminary work on her Defense Against the Dark Arts essay. She liked the class, but the professor, a Riddley W. Wildeve, was nearly as difficult and demanding as Professor Snape.
Angeleigh sighed as she picked up the list of textbooks she’d need to complete her assignment. She hobbled over to the potions section of the library and started skimming the book bindings for what she needed. She rounded a corner, deep in thought, only to be knocked off her feet. She hit the ground, her paper fluttering down before her, legs sprawled out in front of her. She looked up, rubbing her head as her swimming vision focused. The image was blurred at first but as the edges firmed she realized that the figure before her was a Slytherin prefect, currently stooped and in the act of picking up a stack of very large, very heavy books. She bit hard on her lower lip, feeling a fiery flush creep up into her cheeks. "Sorry, I… I just didn’t see you coming."
He neatly stacked his books and rose, setting the pile on the edge of a table and offering her a hand up, which she took. "It’s alright. I had too many books." He reached down and picked up her crutches, handing them to her. "I’m Cyrus Dumontia."
She settled herself on her crutches. "Nice to meet you. I’m—"
"Angeleigh St. Martin," he said, sounding as though he were reciting a list. "I know."
She raised her eyebrows, slightly disconcerted by this information, and unsure of what to say in response.
"My father works with the Ministry of Magic," he said with a wave of his hand, as though it were casual, common knowledge. "I was asked to… keep an eye on you while you got adjusted to life here at Hogwarts."
"Oh, I see," she mumbled. "Any other spies here I should be aware of?" She blushed again. "Sorry. I just…. Well, if you want to know, the adjusting part isn’t going so hot, but, well… that’s how it goes, I guess."
He shrugged, and there was a sort of twinkle in his blue eyes. "I guess." He followed her to her table, picking up her list on the way. He stood across from where she seated herself. "May I?"
"Sure." She watched him sit and tugged her robe sleeves over her wrists. "So… how much do you know?"
"Enough."
"Specifics?"
It was Cyrus’ turn to raise an eyebrow. "I know your parents were Aurors, and I know they were murdered. I know you were presumed dead, which was a cover-up orchestrated for your protection, because you seem to be more instrumental in the fight against good and evil than you let on. I know you live with your only relation on your mother’s side, an uncle, I believe."
She narrowed her eyes. "Sounds like enough to me. You know the important stuff," she conceded.
"Should I know any other details?" he asked, but was not being facetious. He was dead serious.
Angeleigh chuckled grimly and crossed her arms over her chest, a hint of a smirk playing on her face. "Not really. I don’t think they’re that important. At least not for your purposes."
He nodded once, but looked deep in thought, as though ready to ask something. "Are you certain of my purposes?"
She looked at him, meeting his cool gaze. "I’m not certain of anything anymore," she said bluntly. "As far as I knew no one here was supposed to know much of anything about me, let alone keep an eye on me. Now you turn up. How do I know you’re not a spy for the Reapers?" she finished coolly.
"I swear on my birthright as a Dumontia," he said, vocal tones equally blunt. "I would not make an empty oath on my family name." There was quiet for a moment, each regarding the other almost suspiciously. Finally he said, "You’re right to be suspicious, I guess, after what you’ve seen and been through. It couldn’t have been easy."
"It wasn’t." She peered around the library, but it was fairly empty. "It was an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone, except perhaps the slime who did it to me."
"You didn’t strike me as the vindictive type."
"And you didn’t strike me as the conversational type."
Cyrus actually smiled. "Touché," he said. "Normally I’m not. The conversational type, that is. Too often I find myself too preoccupied with other pursuits to engage in empty chatter."
"I see."
He regarded her for a long moment. "And I see you’re going to play the silence card in an attempt to make me continue the conversation."
"If that’s what I have to do. In case you hadn’t noticed I’m not the most conversational sort either. I’m too preoccupied with counting the days until the end of seventh year."
"This isn’t such a bad place; a tad elementary in what they teach… at least for me."
"Magic Cyrus," she retorted with a smirk, recalling Antigone Windemere’s nickname for the prefect. "It’s actually a little more difficult for me, hence my logic in spending a perfectly good Saturday afternoon studying and catching up on what the American Institute of Magic never covered." She sighed. "The work combined with… everything else… makes keeping up difficult, and I’ve always been a really good student." She bit her lip, silently cursing herself for saying so much. "Sorry. Didn’t mean to go off like that."
"It’s fine. Don’t feel the need to apologize so often."
"Sorry."
"Case in point."
"You’re infuriating, you know that?" she snapped, slamming the cover of a book and drawing Madame Pince’s glare.
"Of course." He could see the suspicion still in her eyes. "Angeleigh, trusting may not come easily to you now, and it may never, but I mean no harm. In fact, as long as I’m able to inform the Ministry that you’re safe, I probably may not ever be this forward again. Just know if you need it, you have an ally in Slytherin."
"That will thrill my co-Gryffindors," she said with a wry chuckle. "I’m already a bit of an outcast there."
He smiled slightly. "Don’t let it bother you too much. You only have two years here. If you need anything please let me know. I’ll leave you to do your work now."
"Thanks," she said, still slightly puzzled by the conversation as he stood and left, arms laden with thick Transfiguration texts. She could not quell her suspicions, but she realized that it was always going to be that way for her; he had seemed honest, though, and the idea of having an ally in this sea of people who didn’t want her there was slightly comforting.
Chapter 9: An Ally in Gryffindor
True to his word Cyrus Dumontia maintained his distance from Angeleigh; the closest he ever came to her in the following couple of weeks was sitting across the room from her in the classes they shared. He never spoke to her in class or in the corridors between classes, and he never looked her in the eye. It was as if their conversation in the library had never occurred. However, when her back was turned, Angeleigh could sometimes feel his shrewd crystalline gaze watching her every halting, awkward move.
She also drew the measuring, piercing stare of Antigone Windemere. Somehow word had leaked out around the school about who Angeleigh really was and what had happened to her, and Antigone had caught wind of it. Her dark violet gaze was no longer haughty and distant, but cautiously curious, as though the rumors of Angeleigh’s past torments made her worthy of closer examination.
A nice contrast was the friendly gaze of Vanora MacGrear. In the few months Angeleigh had been at Hogwarts Vanora had done her best to make her feel welcome and accepted; if not for Vanora Angeleigh would have been entirely alone. Granted, her developing friendship with the Slytherin had further alienated Angeleigh from her Gryffindor housemates. Apparently there was a centuries-old interhouse rivalry that made Slytherin-Gryffindor friendships not only inconceivable, but also unacceptable.
"You’re only here for this year and next," Vanora said with a shrug one afternoon after Defense Against the Dark Arts let out. Both houses had lost points for "acting childish and in a manner unbecoming to students of Dark Arts defense", at least according to Professor Wildeve, a strict former Hit Wizard with little tolerance for matters that did not concern his class. "It’s not your fault or mine or anyone else’s that the rivalry is as stupid as giving a mime a telephone, or a Muggle a wand," Vanora said, brushing it off.
Angeleigh actually chuckled, drawing the aloofly curious stare of Antigone, who followed them like a skeptically interested cat. "Most of Gryffindor pretends I don’t exist anyway," she mused. "I guess you’re right."
"Now there’s the Ange St. Martin optimism I know and love!" Vanora skipped a little and tossed her dreadlocks.
"Watch out, she may hug you next," Antigone said cynically in a husky alto voice.
"She speaks!" Vanora shouted with glee, grabbing Antigone in a huge hug.
"I see," Angeleigh commented to Antigone, who actually grinned.
"So Angeleigh," began Antigone, prying Vanora off of her, "is it true, what we hear about you?"
Angeleigh froze, but tried to remain casual. "Every last word."
Antigone and Vanora both stopped in their tracks. "Every word," Antigone repeated slowly, eyes skeptical again. "So your parents were… and you were…"
Angeleigh smiled grimly and fought the pang in her chest. "Both accounts true." She abandoned all caution and shame and pushed up her robe sleeves, holding out her hands for the Slytherin girls to inspect. "My watch didn’t make these," she said, showing the shiny, livid scar tissue that made permanent manacles around her wrists, chaining her to a past she should not have had to endure. "Excuse me, I need to get back to Gryffindor." She felt their astonished eyes watch her retreating back as she tried desperately to blink back her tears. Her old familiar self-pep talk of Crying won’t change a thing played over and over in her mind.
She did not know how she made it to the Tower without breaking down. She mumbled the password, and the concerned Fat Lady swung her portrait open to admit the upset student. Angeleigh hobbled to a couch in front of the roaring fire and flopped down, trying to swallow her tears. She angrily threw her crutches to the floor and they clattered on the stone. She’d probably just alienated the closest thing to friends she had in this place. She stared into the fire, grinding her teeth against the sobs that threatened her, silently cursing her social stupidity. Her chest tightened, but she kept her breathing slow and even, and in a few minutes she had swallowed the lump and calmed herself.
"Are you alright?" a male voice asked, startling her.
She looked up, hurriedly wiping her eyes with the cuff of her robes. A Gryffindor Prefect had silently walked up behind her and now leaned over the back of the couch. She tried to smile. "Yes. Fine, thanks."
"Are you going down to supper?"
"Probably not. I’m not too hungry. Thanks though."
"I’m actually not too hungry either. May I join you?"
"Sure," she said, pushing over a bit. "You just caught me at a bad time. Sorry."
He smiled kindly. "No need to apologize."
"So you must have heard the rumors too," she stated glumly with a heavy sigh.
"I’ve heard, but I didn’t believe any of it… I thought I’d wait to hear the true story from the source."
"Keep waiting," she replied, giving him a sidelong glance.
"I will," he said, his smile softening his features. "I notice that you’ve had a rough time adjusting."
"Funny, everyone seems to be noticing that. But no one seems to have any suggestions on how to make it easier." She shyly half-smiled. "Not that I’m accusing you of anything. You’ve got your hands full being a Prefect and all."
"No, you’re right, I should have been more sensitive to it. I don’t usually really go out of my way to talk with new people is all. I’m Lance Shadowcrest, Prefect. And you are Angeleigh St. Martin."
"Last time I checked," she said with a rare grin. "Though with all that’s going around about me maybe I’ll change my name."
"Don’t," he interjected, then bowed his head a little. "Forgive me for being so forward, it’s just that you have a great name. Where’d it come from? I’ve never really heard it before."
Angeleigh blushed a little. "According to what my parents used to tell me, when they had to pick a name my mom wanted Angela, and my dad wanted Emily, and in the heat of arguing the names crossed and they got Angeleigh." She shrugged. "It’s a little different, but…"
"It’s nice. Other than the social part of being here, how do you like Hogwarts?"
"It’s alright. Classes are difficult, but I’m learning a lot."
"Where do you go for holiday?" He registered her blank look and smiled. "Breaks. Vacations."
"Oh," she said, feeling stupid. "I live with an uncle somewhere in the South part of England. You?"
"My mom’s side breeds horses in Northern Spain, and my dad’s side is aristocracy with a manor in the Lake District. It’s lovely. The family splits the holidays between places. Where are you originally from? I think I overheard America, at one point."
"Yes, that’s one rumor that’s true. I’m from Salem, Massachusetts."
"Was it nice there?"
Angeleigh sighed nostalgically. "It was nice enough. It was home, I guess that’s what was important. I really missed it back at the end of October. Halloween in Salem was always amazing. And we usually started Quidditch the week before Halloween; around this time of the year we’d start playing the Eastern Conference teams, then we’d break for Christmas, and… sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble like that."
"No, I like hearing about schools over there. I didn’t know they played each other. Here at Hogwarts we only have interhouse matches. The competition gets pretty fierce, particularly between Gryffindor and Slytherin."
"I noticed. I don’t quite understand it. The closest thing I have to friends here are Slytherins."
"Antigone and Vanora, right? I’ve seen you talking with them here and there."
"Yes, well, Vanora more so than Antigone. I think she’s kind of unsure of me."
"She is," he stated with certainty. "She’s had a difficult upbringing, so she tends to be skeptical and suspicious of newcomers. I’m a friend of hers," Lance explained. "Hey. Gryffindor is playing Slytherin next weekend, why don’t you come with me."
"Oh, I’d love to, but my work…" her voice trailed off and she blushed a little bit.
His soft brown eyes met her gaze. "A Quidditch match won’t take too much of your work time away," he said, turning on a charming grin. "Just consider it. Come out for an afternoon; think of it as rewarding yourself."
She grinned a little shyly. He did have a point. "Sure. Why not. It could be fun."
He rose from the sofa. "I think I’m ready for supper now. Care to accompany me?" He extended his hand to her and sort of bowed.
She smiled and shook her head. "Thanks, but I’ll stay here." She curled into a corner of the sofa and started into the dancing fire as Lance left. She didn’t know how long she sat there, doing nothing but stare. She didn’t even think. It was a surprise when the other Gryffindor students started filing back from the Great Hall, laughing, talking, joking… she heaved a sigh and pulled out her school books in an effort to get some work done amid the watchful, suspicious eyes of her housemates.
*~*~*~*
Angeleigh worked extra hard in the evenings that week, putting forth her best effort to get as much schoolwork as possible done. By Friday morning she was exhausted, but it was worth it to receive the approving smile of strict Professor McGonagall as she handed Angeleigh her most recent essay, which had received a high mark. Even rarer was the laconic nod of approval Professor Wildeve gave her when he glanced at the essay she turned in toward the end of the day. "Good work, Miss St. Martin," the professor said, which drew the slightly surprised and now envious stares of the other students in the class; Professor Wildeve rarely said anything to anybody, let alone anything good. Several of them rolled their eyes and pushed past her in a huff, and she sighed. She couldn’t do anything right here. She hefted her bag on her shoulder and headed toward the door of the classroom.
"Let me grab that for you," said Lance Shadowcrest, appearing beside her as silently as a phantom.
"Lance," she said with a start. "In the future, try not to startle me like that. I’m a little on the easily paranoid side."
"I didn’t mean to. I’ll try harder next time." He flashed her a disarming smile. "Can I take your book bag for you? It looks about to burst."
"Almost." She slid the strap off her shoulder and let him take it. She’d found out early on not to refuse Lance’s assistance; he lived by a modern code of chivalry and was easily offended when she refused a perfectly valiant offer. "What time is the match tomorrow?"
"One o’clock sharp. I thought maybe we could head down a little early and beat the rush."
"That sounds fine."
Lance grinned and checked his watch. "Nearly dinner time, may I escort a lady to dinner?"
Angeleigh blushed a little, but smiled. "Well, if you two don’t mind me tagging along." She looked over and saw his slightly hurt face. "Oh, you meant me. Sure." She laughed. "It was a joke, Lance." His puzzled face finally broke into a smile, which she returned. It felt good to genuinely smile, and even better to laugh.
She laughed a lot more the next day, too. From an outsider’s perspective the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry was positively hilarious. Minor hexes flew surreptitiously between the two houses’ students as they filed down to the Quidditch Pitch. The Gryffindors booed the Slytherins, who hissed at them in return. The game in the air was played as dirtily as was possible without drawing the ire of Madam Hooch, who circled the Pitch as referee. Lance would lean over to Angeleigh and point out different players making different moves, and he nearly leapt to his feet when he spotted the Snitch. "Both Seekers are fair," he explained. "Not really superb, but not lousy either. Slytherin’s regular Seeker is Cyrus Dumontia, who has a Firebolt and can smoke anyone who doesn’t. If anything at least this roster makes the game last longer. Good thing you worked so hard earlier this week."
She smiled and nodded in agreement. "Yes, I’m having a great time. Hey, is that… I didn’t realize Vanora was on their team."
"Yes, she plays…well, just about any position they need a filler for. Apparently her old Quidditch team played rotating positions. Today she’s playing… Seeker—no, wait, Chaser."
"Do you play?"
"Sometimes. I was on the team a couple of years ago. They played me as Keeper, but after a while I decided that Quidditch was more fun to watch. At least for me. Did you play?"
"Yes. Beater."
He shot her an appraising look. "Remind me to steer clear of you when you’re mad, won’t you?"
She grinned facetiously and gave him a sort of light jab in the shoulder. "Steer clear of me anyway. I’m trouble."
"I may be a Prefect but I’ve never been one to mind trouble." This time it was his turn to redden. "I’m sorry."
"Me too. But this is the best time I’ve had since… well, in a long time. Thanks."
"My pleasure, my lady."
An hour later the Slytherin Seeker caught the Snitch, ending the game. Though they had come early, Angeleigh and Lance mingled with the crowd of moping Gryffindors to head back to their tower and lament. "Take that, loser!" a familiar Slytherin voice jeered.
"Oh, quiet, Anee," Lance said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, looking over at Antigone, who was approaching them. "It was sheer luck your team won."
"Dear, we won without Cyrus playing today," Antigone said loftily, approaching them. "I don’t know if that was luck on our behalf or just poor playing on yours." She paused and glanced at Angeleigh. "So you do come out into society from time to time. I was beginning to wonder if you were under some sort of restrictions or whatnot."
Angeleigh ducked her head shyly. "No, just… not big on crowds."
"Suit yourself, then." Antigone looped her arm through Lance’s. "Want to escort a lady back to the castle?"
"Milady, how can I refuse such a request," he said gallantly. He turned to Angeleigh. "And if you would take my other arm, I’d be the envy of all the males at Hogwarts."
Antigone rolled her violet eyes. "He says that to all the girls. Don’t you, Sir Shadowcrest."
"Only to all the ladies. There is a world of difference between girls and ladies, Anee darling." Antigone pouted slightly, then allowed herself a measured grin which Lance returned. "No other man here at the school can pull this off," he said.
"And he’s modest, too," Angeleigh said with a chuckle.
The other two laughed, and Lance escorted them back across the grounds and to the castle. Antigone left them to gloat over the win with the other Slytherins, and Lance sat with Angeleigh at the Gryffindor table, then walked with her back to the Gryffindor Common Room. "I’m glad you had a good time today," he said at the split between the dormitories. "Rest well this evening." He took her hand and bowed slightly, raising it smoothly and gently to his lips. Then he rose, turned, and was gone, leaving Angeleigh alone in the stone hall.
She made her way to her dormitory and was in bed before the other girls came in, sleeping more soundly than she had all semester.
Chapter 10: "You Otter be More Careful, Vanora!"
Once Quidditch got truly underway, the autumn term seemed to fly. Every other weekend Angeleigh accompanied Lance down to the Quidditch Pitch to see a game, and as the term started to wind to a close Gryffindor was in third place behind Hufflepuff and Slytherin. But on Angeleigh’s mind more than Quidditch, or her house’s lag in the interhouse championship, were the impending end of term. She had enough of a time trying to keep up with her work, let alone begin studying ahead of time. The last week of November she began waking up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, mind racing with the memories of dreams that she’d forgotten or failed the exams that the professors had all scheduled within rapid succession of one another.
The most problematic exam would by far be Transfiguration. Angeleigh did well enough with the theory behind the magic, but when it came to practical applications thereof she might as well have just turned in her wand. She spent countless hours practicing her animate-to-animate transfiguration incantations, but none of it seemed to do any good. Finally, one afternoon in early December she swallowed her pride and paid a visit to Professor McGonagall during the Deputy Headmistress’s office hours.
"Miss St. Martin. A pleasure to see you. How might I help you?"
Angeleigh blushed a little, still standing in the threshold. She chewed on her lip, trying to screw up the courage to say what was on her mind. It wasn’t that it was particularly difficult to say, as much as Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of the school, was rather intimidating. She finally found her voice. "I’m… having some trouble with my animate transfigurations, and… I was wondering if you can tell me what I’m doing wrong," she finally mumbled.
Professor McGonagall smiled kindly. "Certainly, Miss St. Martin. Please, come in, take a seat."
For nearly an hour Professor McGonagall went over the intricacies of animate transfigurations. "You understand the theory well, I can gauge that from your essays," she said, which could be taken as a rare compliment. "For some witches and wizards the ability to transfigure comes more easily than it does to others."
"My uncle is pretty good at transfiguring things," Angeleigh commented. "His name is Damien Dervish; he was a Ravenclaw when he was here."
"Ah, I remember him," McGonagall said with a nod. "He was one of my better students. With proper assistance and independent study work he was able to become an Animagus before he left the school. Usually that is not allowed, but he showed amazing potential. Has he shown you his animal form yet?"
"No, I never realized he was one."
McGonagall nodded. "A black cat, I believe. It suited him."
"Can you decide what you transform into?"
"That is the topic of much scholarly debate, Miss St. Martin. Some believe that the wizard’s characteristics determine the animal, others that the animal chooses the wizard, and still more that the process happens at random."
"Are there any other Animagi here?"
"On staff there is Professor Wildeve, your Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, who is able to become a wolf. Among the student body…" She glanced at the clock on the desk. "Do you have any more questions regarding the material? If not, you may want to consider getting a spot of supper."
Angeleigh rose and thanked Professor McGonagall, then hobbled to the Great Hall deep in thought. Her uncle, an Animagus? Two Animagi on staff, and possibly more scattered among her peers? The idea of her own body going through such a significant transformation was nearly inconceivable, and she allowed herself a secret smile wondering just what the heck she would transform into if she possessed even the remotest bit of transfiguration talent.
"You look happy for someone who’s just spent an hour with McGonagall," Antigone complained as Angeleigh passed her in the Great Hall. "Honestly, I’m just barely beginning to like you; if you’re going to go off spending your spare time with Professors I’m out of here."
Angeleigh laughed. "I needed extra help with transfiguration if I even want a hope of passing the next exam."
"So why not spend extra time with Magic Cyrus?" Antigone asked innocently. "I see him looking at you, and he’s quite good with transfiguration…"
Angeleigh blushed furiously, feeling both very embarrassed and very amused. "There’s nothing going on there. Maybe I have something on my robes—"
"Or under them."
"ANTIGONE!" Angeleigh shrieked, drawing the attention of most of the Slytherin table, and several of the more nearby Ravenclaws. She lowered her voice and fought the urge to disappear through the floor. "Look, nothing’s going on, nor will it ever. Look, are you any good with animate transfigurations?"
Antigone’s eyes narrowed; measuring, calculating. "That depends. How are you at charms?"
"Oh, no problems with charms. It’s one of my better subjects."
"Good. See, my problem is Flitwick half-insulted me once a few years back and ever since I’ve had trouble concentrating and doing the work for his classes. Performance anxiety, if you will. He told me I needed to control my magic once after I conjured a bit of a storm, and, well… the rest is history, as they say. So if I help with transfiguration, would you help with charms?"
"Hey, I want in!" Vanora had bounded over and flicked her oceanic blue gaze at the two girls. "Wait, what do I want in on?"
"Study group, it seems," Antigone said casually. "Correct, Angeleigh?"
Angeleigh nodded. "Antigone helps with transfiguration, I help with charms… who’s going to help us with potions?"
"Of the three of us you’re the most qualified for that," Vanora said, "even if you are a Gryffindor and Snape hates you. You and Lance always end up with a better potion than Anee and me. And as for transfiguration…" she grinned. "The stories I could tell."
"Mind saving them for after I eat? No offense, but I’m starving," Angeleigh said apologetically.
"I understand," Vanora replied brightly. "Getting extra help on transfiguration always makes me really hungry too. Sometimes it makes me want to transfigure a table leg into a porkchop, but I figure that may insult the pork."
Angeleigh laughed as she made her way across the hall to the Gryffindor table. Several Gryffindor students all but sneered at her. One fifth-year girl, Rebekah Morton, even grunted with disgust as Angeleigh set her things down a few spaces down from her. "Not only are you a ruddy American," she spat, "you have to go around with the Slytherins like you’re all pals."
Angeleigh cocked an eyebrow in Rebekah’s direction. "Perhaps, Rebekah, if my own house mates were a little kinder to me I’d associate with them more often than the Slytherins." She coolly met the fifth year girl’s gaze and waited until the girl’s angry flush crept up to her ears and she looked away with a huff. Only then did Angeleigh return her own gaze to the plate before her. It was so bewildering to her. Gryffindors hated Slytherins so much that they resorted to possessing the very traits they hated about their rivals. It was rather like revolutionaries and regimes… and Aurors and Death Eaters. Her fork clattered to the table and slid to the floor with the very thought. She recalled her mother… remembered the frightening mix of determination, hatred and glee that had shone in her dark eyes whenever she was closing in on a Death Eater hit. The mere memory made her shiver.
She jumped as a hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up into the concerned eyes of Lance Shadowcrest. "Oh my gosh, you just scared me." She caught her breath and began to search the ground for her fork rather than look him in the eye.
"That was brilliant back there, with Rebekah," he said, bending to pick her fork up for her. "Just ignore it all. You know and I know, and Anee and Vanora and Cyrus all know the feud is stupid."
"Why mention Cyrus?" she asked with a harassed sigh.
"Well, he’s always watching you."
She flushed a bit. "It’s nothing. Doesn’t his dad work for the Ministry? Maybe he’s heard all the rumors that are going around there, too."
"Maybe." Lance didn’t look too pleased, though. "I hear from Anee and Vanora you three may do a finals study group; mind if I join?"
Angeleigh swallowed a bite of chicken. "Not at all. It would be nice to have another Gryffindor around, if only to stop the rumors that I’m a Slytherin in disguise."
"That’s a new one."
"It’s amazing what I overhear in the dormitory when the lights go out and they all think I’m asleep. Or even if they know for a fact I’m awake," she added wryly.
~*~*~*~
Two days later Care of Magical Creatures was cancelled, so the chagrin of both houses Antigone, Angeleigh, Vanora, and Lance all gathered at a large table in the library. Even the passing Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs looked a little startled.
"Honestly," Antigone said with an exaggerated sigh, and loudly enough for the whole library to overhear. "You’d think they’d never seen a study group before!" The group’s sniggers drew the irritated glare of Madam Pince. Antigone glared back coolly then faced the group again. "Sometimes people are so stupid. She can kiss my aura for all I care. So Vanora… funny transfiguration story to kick us off?"
Vanora grinned broadly. "Ok, but remember you asked for it. Nine times out of ten people should be careful what they wish for, and the tenth time out of ten they deserve to get what they wish for." She took a deep breath and launched. "I have a personal vendetta against Prefects. It's just a Vanora… thing left over from SWICA. They just had this attitude of ‘anything you can do, I can do better, I can do everything better than you’," she sang. "My own dorm manager--our version of Prefects--had that kinda attitude towards me. We got into a fight; you know the deal, she makes my ears grow out, and I make her furry. She makes my hair turn green and I turn her legs into stone," here her grin widened even more, "I turn her into a bullshark outta water and I turn into an otter... I know it doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but it's true... and when the teachers turned us back, she pulled out her wand to have at it again--and I knocked her down a flight of stairs, ripping at each other's hair, I think I still have a scar someplace from the fall." She smiled proudly, tossing her dreadlocks and puffing her chest. "And that is my funny story. Apparently I’m an Animagus in disguise."
The three others applauded quietly, trying to hold back gales of laughter. "Has it happened again since?" Lance asked her.
"Nope. No, wait. Yes. Last year in DADA. We had that class with the Hufflepuffs. Wildeve got us a boggart and I freaked out when I faced it. Something triggered something else and BANG! I was an otter. I hid under their Prefect’s robes, and you know how modest he is. It was embarrassing on several accounts." She grinned angelically. "McGonagall has suggested on a few occasions I do the training so if nothing else I can at least make myself a non-otter in the event I get into another battle with a Prefect." At this she glared at Lance with a mock-threatening gleam in her eye.
"I’m very frightened," he said, sounding dignified. "What can we learn from this that we can apply to our next exam?"
For two solid hours they pored over transfigurations and charms texts, checking each other’s notes and arguing over the ethics of animal transformations. As the sunlight began to slant at oblique angles through the windows, dinner started to seem like a good idea. "I need to run up to the owlery before I eat," Antigone said, gathering her things. "I’ll catch you guys later."
"So that leaves the three of us to head to dinner. Are you sure you guys can be seen with me?" Vanora asked, eyes wide, glance dodging about conspiratorially. "I can drug that Gryffindor over there and steal her robes if you need me too," she said.
Angeleigh laughed as she shoved her books and parchments into her bag. "I think we’ll be ok, Vanora. I think just being seen with us will be insult enough for you, let alone pretending to be one of us."
"Ouch, Ange," Lance and Vanora said in unison, but they also packed up their things and the threesome headed out, taking what promised to be a shortcut. It took them right past the Defense Against the Dark Arts classrooms. Professor Wildeve was finishing up class with the fifth year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. One terrified Ravenclaw girl was facing a huge, leering, green-haired clown with sharp, dagger-like teeth and glowing yellow eyes with an odd light to them that reminded Angeleigh eerily of Jezebel Reaper’s deranged gaze. Angeleigh couldn’t help but stop to watch, fascinated by the way the girl’s wand wavered in her hand and her lower lip trembled. Wildeve’s face was blank and impassive as he watched his student.
"Boggarts," Vanora whispered, face pale.
Suddenly the clown-boggart turned into a fluffy pink rabbit and the girl cried out, "Ridikkulus!" The rabbit turned, looking for another victim. The vacant beady eyes turned to the doorway where the three sixth-years stood, transfixed. It focused on Vanora and the form shifted to a hooded, masked figure. A Dementor? No, a… Death Eater? Vanora’s biggest fear was Death Eaters? Angeleigh looked questioningly at Vanora, but she wasn’t there. She stared up and down the hallway, but there was no sign of the dreadlocked 16-year-old. She looked at the stone floor and saw… an otter? Her head reeled from the oddity of the whole situation, and suddenly Professor Wildeve was looming over them. She didn’t know what was scarier: the Death Eater boggart or the smoldering glare of the Professor.
"Mr. Shadowcrest and Miss St. Martin. Might I inquire what two sixth year Gryffindors, one of whom is a Prefect, are doing wandering the halls and disrupting class in the company of one… Enhydra lutrris nereis?"
"We were…" Angeleigh stammered, flushing under the stern gaze of Professor Wildeve and the curious stares of the class.
"Heading to dinner, after studying in the library," Lance interjected. "We had a free period this afternoon. We didn’t mean to disrupt. We’re very sorry. As to the… Enhydra…" his voice trailed off as his brain and mouth fumbled around Wildeve’s words.
"Enhydra lutrris nereis," Wildeve said, annoyed, as if this were a common thing to know. "California sea otter. Who must be… yes, let me think." He paused, tapping his chin, but it was only for effect. He very well knew who the otter was. "Miss MacGrear." He stared sternly at the sleek brown creature, squeaking and barking madly from the floor. "Miss MacGrear, you really otter be more careful," he chided. He glared at Lance and Angeleigh. "If I ever catch the three of you skulking the halls between classes again I will be certain to assign you detention without a second thought. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to finish." He slammed the door, leaving Lance, Angeleigh, and Otter-Vanora all staring at each other.
"Um… maybe we should get her to Madam Pomfrey," Angeleigh suggested, feeling the color start to fade from her ears. 
Lance nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Is it just me, or did Wildeve make a pun? He never jokes. And he didn’t give us detention either. I was certain that was guaranteed. Makes me wonder why he’s in such a good mood," he added sarcastically.
"Well, he didn’t, and I’m grateful. How embarrassing, not even here for a full semester and getting detention," she grumbled.

"Come off it, Ange, people get it all the time." He reached down and scooped up the madly barking Vanora. "I can’t believe she transfigured again. I hope it doesn’t last long this time. Last time she spent a week diving in the Lake. Snape refused to let a live otter in Slytherin, and she kept jumping in the toilets. Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore finally agreed she should live in the lake until she became human again."
The two Gryffindors finally decided to forego dinner and took Vanora down to the hospital wing. There they related the story of what had occurred to a slightly irate Madam Pomfrey, who promptly conjured a small rock to keep Vanora’s scrabbling claws busy. Clutching the rock seemed to calm Vanora some, and she lay on her back on one of the beds. She called for Professors Wildeve and McGonagall, who eventually dismissed Angeleigh and Lance, who in turn ran to find Antigone. They found her in the student study room.
"You left me to eat alone!" she moaned. "Where’s Vanster?" she asked, prompting the third retelling of the story. Her eyebrows raised quizzically, and her mouth turned up in a grin. "Man. That girl otter be more careful." When Lance and Angeleigh groaned, she asked, "What did I say?"
"Wildeve made the exact same horrid pun," Angeleigh accused.
"Hm," Antigone mused, lips still grinning as though she had a secret. "I didn’t realize he had a sense of humor. And if he does, well, I guess stranger things can and will happen; this is Hogwarts, after all." She was silent a moment, thoughtful. Then seemingly out of nowhere she said, "Wildeve is such an ass sometimes."
"Anee," Lance hissed, eyes narrowing. "He’s a professor of this school. He deserves respect."
"Ok, Lance, a man who makes fifteen-year-olds face their worst trouser-pissing fears less than two weeks before the end of term, and only a few months before the O.W.L.s warrants being called an ass," Antigone said flatly. "You know and I know that fifth year is the make or break year. He waltzes in fresh from the field and brings us boggarts and practical lessons where we get to curse the daylights out of each other… the man is an ass," she finished. 
"And yet he’s one of the few males you actually respect," Lance interjected.
For a moment Antigone’s eyes flashed with indignant anger. "We can discuss that later, Lance," she snapped, gathering her things. "I’ll leave you two to your own little Gryffindor convention."
"Anee—" Lance began, but the black-robed back did not answer, nor did it turn back to them. He looked at Angeleigh and shrugged. "She’s temperamental."
Angeleigh gave him a half smile and focused on the binding of a textbook peeking out of her bag. She didn’t want to disagree with Lance and get him any more irritated than he was, but in reality she couldn’t help but agree with Antigone.
Chapter 11: Tests
In early December the Hogwarts staff piled the work on the fifth and sixth year students; this would have been bearable if they also all hadn’t decided that the last double period of each class (before the holidays) would play host to exhausting exams. This was to prepare the fifth years for their OWL exams that they’d take in the spring. It was also to prepare the sixth years for their NEWTs, which they’d be taking in their seventh and final year. 
Potions was the first exam Angeleigh took at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The exam was comprised of an exhausting objective written portion with questions such as "Explain the correlation of Truth Serums and Memory Potions and explain the properties of the key ingredient," which not only required knowing how they related, but what the key ingredient was. "Explain the ratio of wormwood infusion to powdered root of asphodel and the effects of increasing and decreasing one, the other, or both," was another question. In addition she had to match ingredients to their proper potions and had to define a complicated vocabulary list that was written in the foreign language of potions brewing. By the end of the double period Angeleigh felt as though she could tip her head over a cauldron and use her liquefied brain as the base for an infusion. She handed her sheaf of parchment to Professor Snape who stared down his hooked nose at her. He took her exam by the corner, sneering at the parchment suspiciously as though he suspected her of dipping it in undiluted bobotuber pus. Angeleigh was happy to have that completed.
She made her way to the Great Hall to grab a bit to eat and to review her notes for her afternoon Arithmancy exam. Her friends thought she was crazy for taking the class, but the solid logic of Arithmancy was a nice contrast to the uncertainties of Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, the two other exams she was definitely not looking forward to. Of course, she couldn’t really say, even after a whole term spent in the class, when she would ever really use Arithmancy in practical applications, but that was beside the point.
"You and that crazy numbers class," said a voice over her shoulder. "You really should be taking Divination, or something useful like Muggle Studies."
"Vanora!" she exclaimed. "I didn’t see you in potions this morning." She hadn’t seen her friend at all since the otter incident.
"I came in late," she said with a shrug. "Snape wasn’t too happy, but I had a note from McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey stating I’d only just become human again two days ago and needed time to review and get… re-acclimated to walking around on two legs. Not that the reviewing did any good. I’m still certain I failed." She grinned brightly. "No biggie though. What’s the rest of your exam schedule like?"
"Arithmancy this afternoon, Charms tomorrow. Care of Magical Creatures Wednesday, Herbology Thursday, and Friday I go out with a bang: Transfiguration," Angeleigh told Vanora glumly. "I honestly think I’m going to flunk that one. I’m still having trouble with it, even after getting extra help from McGonagall and witnessing your spectacular transformation." She added, "Oh, and I get to face Wildeve in all his glory that day, too. I was trying to forget about it." She grimaced.
"Yeah, I deserve an A just for getting out of that," Vanora grumbled. "But nooo, exams build character, they say. I say they’re cruel and unusual."
Angeleigh’s fingers tightened reflexively on her quill and she tried to will her stomach to unknot itself. She managed a thin smile. "Been there and done that," she remarked as casually as she could. "Exams really aren’t so bad in comparison."
"If you say so," Vanora retorted, regarding Angeleigh with curiosity. "But then again you take—and enjoy! —Arithmancy." She stuck her tongue out. "I’m going to get some real food. I studied through breakfast and I’m sick to death of shellfish."
"Ok, enjoy." She neatly filed away her sheaf of potions notes and tried to refocus on her Arithmancy pages. Equations and diagrams and concepts flitted through her mind in thousands of tiny electrical blips. The page in Numerica and Grammatica started to swim in front of her. What was the magical significance of an equilateral triangle? Why did Pythagoras drink a wit-sharpening potion before attempting to figure out his theorem? What was the real importance behind sine curves and the relationship of Muggle trigonometry to wizard Arithmancy? A shadow fell on the notes and she looked up slowly, up a tower of black robes looming over her. "Yes?"
"Did potions agree with you?" asked Cyrus Dumontia in an even voice.
"In an ideal world it would have," she retorted wryly. "Yourself?"
"Of course."
"That’s no surprise coming from Magic Cyrus," Antigone announced, slinking up beside him. "Interesting, Cyrus, going so far out of your way to speak with Ange here."
He glanced at Antigone with a disdain he must have learned from Professor Snape, his head of house. "Can a student be concerned with his classmates’ final exam successes?" He stared at her coolly. "Since you’re here, how did you do?"
"Ideally fair to middling, but realistically, abysmally," she commented. "I’m going to burn my notes now and revel in the glow of the flames they produce." She slid her wand out of her robes and touched the tip to her handful of potions notes. They instantly burst into flames.
Cyrus sighed. "You know there’s not supposed to be magic in the corridors and common areas, Antigone," he said, sounding very bored. "But since you did anyway, I hope you enjoyed incinerating what could have been a valuable future resource."
"Ugh," Antigone whined. "It’s end of term. Lighten up."
"Maybe later," he said, with the slightest glimmer of amusement in his eye. But as quickly as it had appeared it was gone. "Best of luck on your other exams," he said with a curt nod to the girls as he turned his back and stalked away.
Antigone rolled her eyes and plopped down next to Angeleigh, drawing the furious stares of several other students at the Gryffindor table. Antigone stared back at them smugly then gave them a rude gesture with her wand. She turned back to Angeleigh with a grin. The scent of scorched parchment hung heavy in the air. "I have Herbology next," she remarked. "I can’t wait to torch those notes too. I hate Herbology," she continued. "I have a black thumb. They were temporarily out of green ones when they got to me. What do you have planned for the holidays?" she finished, transitioning smoothly from subject to subject.
Angeleigh set down her quill and closed her book, disconcerted by how quickly Antigone could shift subjects. "Um… I’m not sure, really. Probably just bond with my uncle. How about you?" she asked quickly, eager to change the topic from her family situation. Exams had helped her put out of her mind the fact that this Christmas there would not be droves of family members crowded into the cozy house in downtown Salem. But now, as she avoided Antigone’s purple eyes, she was reminded painfully of the large stone manor house, large enough for all the St. Martins, but housing only Damien, herself, and four house elves.
"I may go to my father’s," Antigone said, startling Angeleigh. "I’ll spend the holidays with him, and with Atalanta and Aidan. My younger sister and brother. Then again, I may just stay here. Less stress."
"You have siblings? That’s great." Angeleigh felt an odd twisting in her chest. Was it pain? Regret? Bitterness? 
"Lanta’s almost 14 and Aidan just turned eleven. They go to Beauxbatons. You don’t have any siblings?"
"No, I’m an only child. Easier for Aurors to deal with," she said, surprising herself with how caustic she sounded. "I mean… it’s safer this way. Doesn’t mean I’ve never wished, though."
Antigone gave a strange "humph". "Yeah, I hear you there. I love my brother and sister so much, but it gets a little crazy, what with mother trying to kill us every other month or so. One of these holidays I wish father would just kill her and save us all the suffering; she’s a total loon. As bad as it sounds I wouldn't mind a dead parent. Or at least a set of divorced ones. You'd think after a woman tries to kill you a few times a year that you'd at least divorce her. Right?"
Angeleigh blinked uncertainly; she had no idea what to say to that. Did Antigone want a response? "Oh…right," she finally settled.
"Mother’s a Death Eater," Antigone said flatly.
Angeleigh felt even stupider as she sat there, gaping at Antigone, her eyes bugging out of her head. "Oh…" she said again, hoping she wasn’t drooling from her stupidity-slackened jaw.
"Every holiday it’s the same drill: go home to dad and the kids, everything is happy until Mother comes in either sobbing and hanging all over us, completely lovey-dovey, or she comes in hexing us to hell and back and it’s all we can do to take cover," Antigone said, sounding bored and very accustomed to her situation. She took in Angeleigh’s slightly shocked stare and smirked. "And you thought being an Auror’s kid was tough, didn’t you."
"Well, yeah…" Angeleigh gave a half shrug, fighting off indignation. Antigone’s comment offended her; she couldn’t pretend it didn’t. The last five and a half months of her life were evidentiary support that being on the "good" side was not a guarantee of being spared from harm. She did feel badly that Antigone had to endure direct contact with the supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but she didn’t like how quick the Slytherin girl was to dismiss her side of the story. Then again, she reasoned, she’d never really told Antigone anything. All Antigone could see were the scars. All she knew was the pathetic little bits and pieces Angeleigh decided to divulge. And Angeleigh, in turn, knew only the little Antigone decided to tell her. Not for the first time in the last few months Angeleigh thought bitterly on how the dynamics of her friendships had drastically changed for the worst.
"…Can I help you or something?" Antigone said, her face unreadable and slightly cold. "You’re spacing out. Something I said?"
It was practically a challenge: one Angeleigh was not in the mood to accept. "No, Antigone. I have Arithmancy in a little while and it’s keeping me pretty occupied. Sorry if you misconstrued me," she fibbed. Antigone did not look convinced, and remained seated even as Angeleigh rose, stuffing her books and parchments in her bag. "Good luck with Herbology," she told Antigone. She hobbled out of the Great Hall and decided to make an early arrival to Professor Vector’s Arithmancy exam. She could feel Antigone’s gaze boring into her back the whole way to the exit; even with her back turned she could tell there was no friendship in it. The gaze was cold and haughty. Not for the first time Angeleigh could not help but wonder if she’d ever do anything right by anybody during her time at Hogwarts.
~*~*~*~
It took a lot of will power for Angeleigh to not throw her Transfiguration notes into the Gryffindor Common Room’s fire Friday after the end of the period, or to do the same with Professor Wildeve’s notes later that same afternoon. As she flopped onto her favorite couch in front of the roaring, crackling flames she couldn’t help but wallow in the sheer relief of being done with her first term at Hogwarts. All things considered she’d made it through exams in pretty decent shape; she’d know for certain after the weekend when grades were posted, but the fact that she still had a measure of sanity left was good enough for her at this point.
She pulled out her quill, ink, and parchment and composed a quick owl to her uncle. "Exams over, brain is complete mush, otherwise well. Glad to be done. Results out Wednesday, until then I’ll be busy packing and spending time with friends. Fondly, Angel," she scrawled. She looked over her hurried note, feeling the slightest twinge of guilt. Mostly it was true—all but the part about spending time with friends. It seemed a trifling detail, but Damien had been so happy to hear she was doing well socially that she couldn’t tell him how lonely the last few days had been, or how lonely the next few promised to be.
She’d only seen Vanora and Antigone during the Care of Magical Creatures exam, the only other class Gryffindors and Slytherins shared besides Potions. Not that it really mattered; it seemed after their little discussion Monday morning Antigone wasn’t speaking to Angeleigh. And Lance, the only person in Gryffindor who did not think she was a complete reject, was preoccupied with end of term Prefect business. She had no idea what to do with herself for the next five days, now that classes were out for the term. She supposed she could get a start on her work for next term, but then what would she do over the two weeks of holiday? She sighed and rolled up the short note. At least for now she’d go up to the owlery; at least there her owl could keep her company.
She wrapped her heavy outer cloak around her shoulders and fastened the silver clasp. She dragged her heavy school bag to her corner of her dormitory, then exited the Gryffindor tower. It was amazing how much easier she was able to maneuver her way through the maze of corridors without the constant extra weight of her schoolbooks. She rarely ever left the tower without them. The hallways were empty aside from the occasional passing ghost. Most of the students were still down in the Great Hall celebrating the end of term.
She got up to the owlery and pushed through the heavy oak doors. It was chilly in the open-air owlery, and she tugged her cloak around her a little more tightly. Hundreds of owls roosted on perches, their amber eyes half shut, soft cooing filling the air. It was really rather peaceful. She scanned the perches for Nim and found the tawny colored barn owl perched near the window. "Hey, Nim," she said, scratching the owl behind the wing. "Can you deliver this to Damien for me?" she said, even as she tied the letter to her owl’s leg. Nim turned her head to the flat gray sky, and then back to Angeleigh. "I know, it looks like snow, but… please?" Angeleigh’s amber eyes, so like her owl’s, took on a pleading glance. Had Nim been human she would have sighed distastefully. She seemed to roll her eyes as she stretched her wings and fluttered off her perch, onto the stone sill, and out the window.
Angeleigh watched her owl fly off until she blended into the color of the sky, then turned and stifled a surprised gasp as she nearly walked into Cyrus. "Oh my gosh," she stammered, "I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there." Because you sneaked up on me again, her irritated subconscious tacked on. Why do I keep apologizing to him? She also wondered.
"My apologies," he said in that annoyingly blasé tone of voice. "I needed to owl home; I thought I was alone up here, and then I heard you talking to your owl."
She shrugged. "No one else around to talk to." She shivered a little in the chill air.
"I noticed you seem out of Antigone’s good graces," he observed with a slight twist of his lips that could almost be called a smile. "At least so long as she’s not speaking to you she’s not harassing me about you."
"I suppose so," Angeleigh said, feeling her cheeks burn in embarrassment.
His lips twisted a bit more into a full-fledged grin. "It’s a bit nippy up here; let’s walk and talk." He held his arm out, gesturing for Angeleigh to pass him. As she did he ambled beside her. "So your term has gone well, I’ll assume." He was answered with a slight nod. "No odd occurrences or assassination or kidnapping attempts?"
"None," she said tersely, all the while wondering what he wanted. "It’s gone as well as can be expected; better, if the Ministry was expecting attacks," she added sarcastically.
"Indeed," he said, flashing her an amused glance. He pushed open the door and held it for her. "I’m glad to hear your safety has been ensured."
"Um, thanks," she said awkwardly. What else did one say to a comment like that? She wished, not for the first time, that Cyrus could talk to her like a normal person rather than a political matter. "It was a little awkward, but I’m finding my way around well enough—literally and figuratively. Aside from the fact I can’t seem to do anything right," she added. "Everyone expects me to make friends, yet no one does anything remotely friendly toward me, and then I randomly piss off one of the few people I was beginning to consider a friend. So aside from the obvious, yes, my first term went surprisingly well." She took off as quickly as her mangled leg would allow. She could hear his footsteps behind her, but didn’t turn. Why did it matter to him if she had friends? She was little more than a political incident he’d been asked to "keep an eye on", in her opinion.
"Angeleigh."
She kept going.
"Angeleigh," he said again, and this time she became aware of his hurried pace behind her. Cyrus never hurried. "Angeleigh, please slow down. I realize I wasn’t exactly tactful, and I apologize." He didn’t sound very sorry. It sounded like a practiced speech he saved for special occasions. She slowly turned to face him and saw him standing, looking a little awkward. "Listen, I don’t want to fuel Antigone’s fire, but we’re all free this weekend to go into Hogsmeade. I haven’t seen you during any of the other excursions. Would you like to go?"
She blinked a little uncertainly. In the months since she’d arrived at Hogwarts Angeleigh had never really thought about what lay outside the vast grounds. The few Hogsmeade weekends had been weekends she had been buried alive under mounds of homework. Also, she’d never been told before whether or not this would be allowed. She wondered if the permission form had been among the papers Uncle Damien had received ages ago on her first day in England. Was Hogsmeade within the jurisdiction of Hogwarts or the Ministry and thus part of the safe zone she could be in? "I’d like to…" she started, voice trailing off.
"Lovely, then I’ll wait for you after lunch tomorrow. If security is your concern, I’m certain this won’t be causing any breeches. And if it does, such is life. Excuse me," he said, passing by her and disappearing into the crowd of students leaving the Great Hall, returning to their dorms to prepare for the holiday break. 
~*~*~*~
Shortly after Saturday’s lunch Cyrus met Angeleigh in the main entryway of the school. "Alright there, Angeleigh?" he asked in greeting. He pushed the doors open and they stepped out onto the grounds. Snow lay in drifts over the grounds as they meandered to the main gate; large flitting flakes of snow fell from the steely gray sky and littered the dusky grounds.
"Are you sure it’s safe for me to go out?" she asked nervously, breaking the wintry quiet. They’d checked in with the caretaker, Mr. Filch, and now trailed the crowd of students going into the village.
"You should be fine. I spoke with my father recently and he doesn’t seem to think there’s much of a threat at this time," he said casually. "But if you’re still nervous we can just grab a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks and call it an afternoon. Fair enough?"
Angeleigh nodded and inhaled sharply as they neared the gate. Her active imagination pictured at least a dozen Death Eaters crouched on the other side, ready to snatch her or kill her. Even the presence of Cyrus, swaggering so confidently beside her, did not ease her fears. He was so casual about her precarious situation that she doubted he’d be able to do anything to help her; hell, they’d probably kill him, too. She gritted her teeth as they came to pass through the gate. This was the moment of truth…
Nothing happened.
She let out her breath and tried to relax. Everyone over in America thought she was dead, and British Death Eater spies would be looking for that Harry Potter. They would be more concerned with bringing the Boy Who Lived to their form of justice than they would with delivering the Girl Whom Everyone Thought Was Dead back to America. The thought, while sardonic and grim, was slightly comforting. It was also comforting to enter the bustling of the Three Broomsticks; the air was warm and full of laughter, and Angeleigh caught glimpses of a few of the school’s Professors. She glimpsed Wildeve delicately sipping red wine beside Professor Flitwick, who was drinking what appeared to be a cherry soda. She relaxed a little bit more as she made her way to an open table and sat down while Cyrus ordered at the bar. She ignored the distant yet curious gazes turned her way and determined to have a good time.
Cyrus approached and handed her a butterbeer before sitting down across from her. He raised his mug to her. "To the end of the term. Cheers." She raised her mug, then sipped at her drink, eyes on the foam. Cyrus smiled casually. "Is this to your liking?" he asked.
She looked up. "Yes, it’s nice here. Fun. It’s a good change from studying all the time."
"Indeed," he commented. There were several moments of awkward silence. Finally he said, "Next term should be better for you. The material will get more difficult, but you’ve gotten past the transitional period and are accustomed to the routine."
This time it was Angeleigh’s turn to say, "Indeed." She took another sip of butterbeer before biting the bullet and asking, "Cyrus, why do you keep watching everything I do?"
"I told you. When we found out from the Ministry that you’d be here my father wanted me to keep an eye on you. Nothing more, nothing less."
She was not convinced. "I’m able to keep an eye on myself," she assured him. "It’s alright, really."
"I was told you were feisty."
"If that’s what they’re calling it these days," she retorted, irritated by his relaxed attitude.
He smiled lazily, a mildly amused glint in his eyes. He reached across the table, into her sphere of personal space, and grabbed hold of one of her wrists. Surprised, she tugged, but his grip was too tight and eventually her arm was stretched onto his side of the table. His eyes no longer looked amused, but grim as he examined the scarring. Finally, after a very long, very still moment, he looked her in the eye. "Scars speak of horrors endured when wounds are inflicted," he said seriously.
Her heart skipped a beat as anger roiled in her. "So Magic Cyrus is a poet as well," she snapped. "Did you read that in a book somewhere? Or did your mysterious father tell you to remember to say that to me? Are you sending him reports of what I do? ‘She ate toast and tea for breakfast this morning—no assassins in the Great Hall, but who knows who could be lurking in the cauldrons during potions class? I’ll continue to keep my eyes open,’" she mocked. She tugged her arm again just as he let go, and it shot back into her, nearly knocking over her butterbeer.
"I understand a good deal more than you want to give me credit for," he said, glowering across the table at her.
"Well I’m glad one of us does." She drained her mug of the last gulp of butterbeer. "I’d like to go back to the school soon; I need to pack up." It was a lame excuse and sadly the only one she could come up with, but frankly it was better than telling him to his face what an arrogant ass she thought him to be right at that moment in time.
He sighed and finished his drink as well. "I’m sorry you felt threatened. I’ll escort you back to the school."
The walk back from Hogsmeade village was silent and tense. "Happy Christmas," he said to her back as it retreated in the direction of the Gryffindor tower.
"Happy Christmas," she called over her shoulder in response.  “You arrogant ass,” she added under her breath.  She cursed herself the whole way up to the tower and all but spat the password out at the Fat Lady. "Well I never…!" she huffed as she swung open to allow Angeleigh into the Common Room. She ignored the looks a group of second and third years turned her way as she sat in a chair in front of the fire. Just a few hours ago she’d sat here, glad to be finished with classes for the term; now as she stared into the leaping orange flames, she would have given anything to be focusing on classes and exams again. They were just so much easier than friendships. At least exams had definite, objective answers.
Chapter 12: The First Holiday
Angeleigh avoided most of the public areas of Hogwarts for the last few days of term. The trip down to Hogsmeade had stirred up feelings in her that she would have preferred to keep quelled. For the last six months she’d coached herself to remain emotionless, but in one night Cyrus had forced her to consciously consider her circumstances. His cold, matter of fact personality aggravated her to no end. He had no idea of the setback his careless comments had caused, especially now that term was over.
Without classes, homework, and Quidditch mates Angeleigh found her mind unoccupied. She no longer collapsed in bed, exhausted from research and the physical exertion required in carrying herself all over the school. Instead she stared up at the dark of her canopy, fighting flashbacks that would not cease. Most of the time her mind replayed that horrible June night her parents were murdered. The worst thing about this was that every time she found a different way she might have been able to save her parents and herself. It was always a little thing: if she’d taken an extra step, if she’d tried to run out of the house instead of into it when Jezebel grabbed her… if she’d just turned back in the first place the moment she realized something was terribly wrong on Thatcher Street. But she never did any of these things. Like watching a film, Angeleigh viewed herself with a curious dramatic irony. Her present self screamed at the figure in the past, "Don’t go! It’s dangerous, go back!" But the figure never wavered from its doomed course, and the film always ended with the same flash of hideously green light.
She also dealt with extreme paranoia. When classes were in session she’d felt safe and anonymous in the crowd of identically black-robed students in the corridors. Now that students ventured out alone or in small groups she felt especially vulnerable. Her damaged mind always envisioned danger lurking in every shadow, around every wall, in any blind spot. She felt like a mouse, always on edge, incapable of defending herself, prey to a cat that enjoyed toying with her rather than killing her outright. She always felt eyes watching her every move, and every creak or groan of the castle caused her to spin around, heart racing, and ready to either fight or take flight.
These feelings weren’t exactly something she could share with anyone. She didn’t think anyone could really understand. Well, maybe Vanora could; her boggart, after all, was a Death Eater. But with times now as dark as they were Death Eaters had to be a common fear among lots of people. And though she was being nicer, Antigone still had an aloofness to her that ensured distance between herself and Angeleigh. There was no way of knowing what would set Antigone off on any given day and the last thing Angeleigh wanted to do was strain the tentative friendship by expressing her paranoia. Lance, though kind and concerned, wasn’t close enough to her, and besides, Angeleigh would have felt guilty repaying his kindness toward her with an emotional outburst.
She felt very much alone.
At least the holidays were fast approaching. The lighter atmosphere and new fallen snow emptied the Gryffindor tower so quickly Monday morning that by the time Angeleigh woke from her troubled sleep she was the only girl left in the dormitory. She slid out of bed and dressed in jeans and a sweater and pulled thick socks onto her chilled feet. Though she had two days before taking the Hogwarts Express to London, where Uncle Damien would meet up with her, she wanted to pack. If nothing else it would keep her mind occupied. She heaved her trunk away from the foot of the bed and hefted the lid open. She appraised the contents: some casual warm-weather clothing, her gauzy crimson dress robes, and a spare set of work robes. The casual clothes and spare robes could stay at school. She tossed them onto her bed in a heap, then stopped and stared at the bottom of the trunk, her breath hissing through her teeth and her bottom lip trembling.
A leather-bound album with a delicately tooled cover lay on top of another pile of clothes. Her icy hand shook as it reached in to grasp the book as if it were a poisonous snake ready to bite her. She bit her lip as she gently lifted the thin volume from the trunk. She sat for a very long moment, staring at the tooled designs on the cover, forefinger stroking the edge, debating whether or not she should open it. In the end curiosity and the desperate desire to feel close to her old life, if only through the photos in the album, won over her better judgment.
A quarter hour later she had curled up under her sheets, the pile of clothing shoved to the floor and her photo album lying open and askew at the other end of the dormitory, where she’d thrown it. She buried her face in her down pillow, torn between screaming in rage and sobbing in anguish. A cancerous lump of emotions was lodged in her chest, choking her, constricting her, and her body had no ideas of how to expel it. It oozed through her blood turning her hands and feet to ice, leaving a bitter taste in her throat. She wanted to hurt something or someone; she wanted to scream until she was empty.
She felt conflicted on her feelings; she felt rage, hatred, self-pity, and anger. In the darkness of her pillow her mind’s eye conjured the images in the album. Her mother’s face, so like her own, yet with the harsh glint of self-righteous determination in her brown eyes… her father’s kind gray-blue eyes, looking down on evil, but gleaming with love for his family. The similar blue-gray eyes of Janus, her father’s younger brother, her uncle and godfather, as he held Angeleigh in a side hug while she held up a plaque proclaiming her a division dueling champion, her eyes the same gleaming gold as the plaque. In every picture the faces and gazes were untroubled, relaxed and invincible; they’d all been so foolish and arrogant in the face of danger. If only they could’ve known. That was her new mantra: if only.
~*~*~*~
The train ride from Hogsmeade station to Platform 9¾ in London was dull and quiet. Angeleigh had a compartment to herself; Vanora and Antigone had opted to remain at school for the holidays, and Lance, though he’d helped her with her trunk at the little station, would remain waiting at the village pub for his parents to fetch him. But as she stared listlessly out at the rushing countryside, eyes painfully dry from crying, she was glad this time to be alone. More and more she felt that being alone suited her; her situation had set her apart from other kids her age, at least in her mind.
At King’s Cross station in London Angeleigh disembarked with the other students, eyes scanning the crowd for her uncle. She bit her lip hard, wondering how quickly she could drop her crutches, grab her wand and hex anyone who tried anything on her. She didn’t have to worry long, though; she’d not been off the train more than two minutes when she spotted her uncle pushing through the crowd. His considerable height and brilliant smile made him easy to spot.
"Angeleigh!" he called, breaking through to the front. He was holding a bouquet of roses. His unruly hair fell into his eyes from where he impatiently pushed it away as he approached her. "Alright, there, love?"
Angeleigh knew his display was drawing stares, but she didn’t mind. It felt so good to be welcomed. She felt herself smiling and hobbled to meet him. "I’m alright," she answered him. "Glad to be back." She allowed him to hug her, and then took the bouquet he offered her. "Thanks, they’re beautiful."
"My pleasure." He stepped away to grab her trunk and Nim’s cage and loaded them onto a trolley. "Come along love, we’ll take another train—a Muggle one—back to Bath Station, like we did in August. Good term?" he asked as they started walking.
"Oh, yeah," she said. "It was tough at first but once I got into the swing of things everything went smoothly." She omitted telling him about Cyrus and his ‘mission’ to keep an eye on her. She herself still did not know what to think about the boy and still was not certain of his motives; besides, she didn’t want to worry Uncle Damien. "My marks were pretty high," she added brightly. "I think my worst subjects so far are Transfiguration and Care of Magical Creatures. Transfiguration is just difficult, and as for Care of Magical Creatures, I just don’t like animals much."
"Good, sounds like you’re adjusting well enough." He paused and looked down at her. "How about Defense Against the Dark Arts? Are you learning anything useful?"
"A few things. Not a lot that AIM didn’t cover, or my mother didn’t teach me on the side. It’s a lot of theory and memorizing, like which charm deflects which group of hexes, and specific countercurses. Professor Wildeve says we’ll begin practicals next term."
"Wildeve? Riddley Wildeve?"
"Yes," she said cautiously. "You know him?"
"We were in Ravenclaw together. He’s very intelligent. You’re lucky to have him for a professor," he said seriously. 

Angeleigh refrained from telling him hers and Antigone’s thoughts about the man.

Damien smiled down at his niece and asked, "Ready to go through the barrier?"
~*~*~*~
The ride from London to bath passed quickly. The countryside, which had been so brilliantly green in late August, was now a rolling down quilt of white. Uncle and niece sat in silence. Angeleigh stared out the window at the passing countryside, wondering what was going on in Salem now. Were her Muggle aunts and uncles setting up for the holidays? How were they coping without Simon? She briefly considered owling at least one of her family members—Uncle Janus, maybe, as he was her godfather, and all. She still felt badly about pushing him away back in the summer. They had never gotten it straightened out.
Damien was watching Angeleigh watch the countryside and thinking that this was one of those moments his life-long bachelor status had not prepared him for. His niece was deep in thought, that much he could read. The silence felt rather awkward but what did he do or say to break it? Asking "Knut for your thoughts?" seemed not only too cliché, but also too invasive. He didn’t want her resenting him for prying into her private pain.
In a way though, they shared a similar pain in the death of Emmalynn. Though for twenty-three years they’d kept little, if any contact, mostly for political purposes, they’d still been brother and sister. It had hurt when Em, six years older than he, had left at age eleven to attend school in America. It had been even worse when she’d announced she’d be staying there. But, when Em’s first–and only–child was born and she explained her reasoning for cutting off nearly all communication… that had been almost unbearable. He’d spent a fair share of years resenting her, especially when their parents had died within a year of one another and Emmalynn hadn’t offered anything except indifferent condolences.
But now it seemed like Emmalynn was back. Angeleigh was the very incarnation of her mother, but a lighter, brighter version. Emmalynn’s chocolate brown hair and smoldering brown eyes were replaced by Angeleigh’s golden features. Damien had never known nor seen pictures of Simon St. Martin, but just looking at Angeleigh there was no question whose genes she favored. She was definitely a Dervish.
He finally cleared his throat and Angeleigh turned to face him. "Christmas will be a little quiet," he apologized. "But New Year’s Eve will be smashing. Have you dress robes?"
"Yes, I packed them," Angeleigh replied.
"Lovely. I always celebrate a quiet Christmas. It’s the way when you have no family," he explained with a bemused smile. "For unknown reasons the Dervish family has always stayed small, and they have a most unhappy habit of dying rather young, for wizards at least."
Angeleigh felt her stomach go hollow. "That’s pleasant," she commented wryly. "Gives me something to look forward to."
He smiled apologetically while inwardly cursing himself. "How tactless of me."
She shrugged. "It’s ok. I need to stop being so sensitive." They sat in silence the remainder of the ride and only spoke again when they’d taken the Portkey to the manor and stood on the stone steps. Damien slipped out his wand. "Alohomora!" he exclaimed, and a click sounded. He pushed through the door, still dragging Angeleigh’s trunk.
Angeleigh followed him inside, still impressed as ever by the splendid entryway, this time decorated with pine sprays and pearly white candles that levitated and glowed softly. There was a sheen over the hall as though it had been dusted with fresh snow that did not melt. She dragged herself up to her room. Though far larger than her lodgings at Hogwarts, just having her own space was much more inviting. She contentedly imagined evenings spent falling asleep without overhearing her housemates giggle and talk, sometimes about her. She collapsed on her bed, sinking into the soft mattress. It wasn’t Salem, but it was decent. She pushed herself back up again and went to her trunk, which Damien had bewitched to follow her up to her room. She popped it open and rummaged for a different sweater and less ratty pair of jeans. For the second time in almost as many days she felt her fingers brush against the smooth leather of her photo album. She felt the familiar warmth behind her eyes, the same old swelling in her throat.
"Don’t cry, you baby," she softly, yet fiercely hissed to herself, pulling out the clothes she wanted and slamming the lid down. She blinked her eyes rapidly and swallowed. It was Christmas, a happy time. The last thing she should be doing was crying, especially when Damien was looking forward to a holiday with family, even if it was family he’d only recently found out he had.
Angeleigh spent the couple of days leading up to Christmas mostly in her rooms, working on the assignments due upon her return to Hogwarts, and having Libby the house elf bring her meals up. Damien left her alone for the most part, occasionally peeking in on her but rarely disturbing her. Finally on the afternoon of Christmas Eve Angeleigh realized her sneaking suspicions that Damien was being as cautious around her as she was around him. And why not? She asked herself. What does he know about me? Only what the American department has told him. They were family now, in effect the only blood relation either of them had. If they couldn’t face each other now, in the two-week Christmas holiday, what would they do in the summer when holiday was almost four times as long?
She decided to take her lunch downstairs that afternoon. She made her way down the hall, ignoring the curious scrutiny of the portraits that watched her. "She’s got her mother’s eyes," said an elderly woman, adjusting her eyeglasses to get a better look at Angeleigh. "Almost, but not quite," rebuked a staid gentleman, adding, “Color’s off. Closer to her uncle’s looks.”
"Yes, she’s definitely a Dervish," piped up a younger woman who looked almost exactly like her, to the point that is was eerie. Angeleigh picked up her pace, still not comfortable with the way the portraits of her ancestors liked to analyze her. Besides, she was used to hearing about her resemblance to her mother by now; there was no real need for them to constantly remark upon it.  She slowly descended the grand staircase and made her way to the dining room. She’d been there only twice before, back in the summer. Then, like now, Damien had sat at the head of the table, engrossed in a thick text, his lunch sitting untouched beside him. She bit her lip, not wanting to disturb him.
"Miss Angel!"
The squeaky voice of Libby startled Angeleigh. She gasped loudly, and Damien looked up. If he was surprised to see either of them he didn’t show it. Instead he smiled and closed his book and rose from his chair. "Angel, lovely to see you. Would you join me?"
"Sure. I mean, yes, that’d be nice," she stammered, heading over to the table, Libby in tow. The elf dragged out a heavy chair for her.
"Can I get you eats, Miss Angel? Lunch? Something?" the elf asked, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, eager to do Angeleigh’s bidding.
"Um, sure, something light is good," she mumbled, flushing, still not quite used to being waited on like this. Even though she knew now that house elves were only happy when serving she still felt odd being waited on hand and foot like this. Libby had disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving Angeleigh alone with Damien.
There was silence for a moment. "All your schoolwork done now, love?" Damien finally asked.
"Yes, I had a few essays to write. I’m nearly finished my last one. Potions; I’ve been saving that one for last," she said with a grimace. "I may pick it up in a couple of days."
He nodded. "Potions is an area of study that is studied by many yet mastered by few. That’s why potions masters are in such high demand." There was silence. It seemed potions was not the best topic of conversation, so Damien cleared his throat and tried again. "We’ve been invited to London for New Year’s Eve. I have an old school acquaintance I recently came in contact with again."
Angeleigh’s eyes widened. "It’s not Wildeve, is it?" Her mind reeled at the very funny, very ironic idea of stern, uptight Professor Wildeve throwing a party. She barely managed to stifle a giggle.
Damien laughed. The idea of his old classmate hosting a party was as incongruous to him as it was to his niece. "No, it’s not. But I just thought I’d keep you abreast of our plans for the holidays. It should be a gala event… her parties usually are. I understand you may not be in the mood for celebrating at this time, but…" he seemed flustered and started again. "As you’re my only family now I think I’d like very much to introduce you to my small circle of friends."
She managed a smile, touched by his consideration. "Thank you; who knows, a good party could do me some good," she commented, making her smile brighter. The last thing she wanted to do was dress up and meet a bunch of people she didn’t know, especially feeling the way she did now. But Damien was excited, and besides, what was the harm in being shown off like some princess? Here, in the large Cotswold stone manor house, with its tapestries and velvet drapes and lush Oriental carpets it was easy to feel like royalty, especially after the much smaller, average house in Salem. She felt a slight pang of reproach in her stomach, angry with herself for dismissing her old life so quickly. Her family had had a nice house and they had lived a nice existence in the old town. She took a deep breath, quelling the rush of emotions and managed a smile. "That sounds like a lot of fun," she said again, trying to break the awkward silence.
"Her flat is are on the Floo Network, as is this house, so if at any time you feel uncomfortable you are free to Floo back here."
"Thank you," she said, truly appreciating this gesture.
He looked at her with a slightly sad glimmer in his eyes, so much like her own, then managed a slight grin. "It’s the least I can do, love."
~*~*~*~
For Christmas Damien gave her a beautifully wrought gold chain on which swung a golden topaz pendant. The color matched her eyes almost exactly. She admired it in a silver hand mirror, loving the way it looked against her white sweater, and planned to wear it with her dress robes on New Year’s Eve. "That used to be Emmalynn’s," he told her, but did not explain why it was still in England. "And it was her mother’s before that. It’s been in the family for a few generations, at least." He also gave her a leather bound diary with gilt-trimmed pages and a rich, shining cover and a velvet scabbard or pouch, embroidered with strange, yet interesting symbols, and the perfect size for her wand. Finally there was a silver-backed brush with an anti-frizzing charm set on the bristles. "The shop girl said they were the latest rage," Damien said nervously. "If you couldn’t tell, I’ve never really had to shop for a teenage girl before."
Angeleigh was moved, and blinked a little. "Thank you so much, everything is lovely. I appreciate it, I really do."
His face relaxed a little. So did the rest of him. "Good. I’m glad. Again, it’s the least I can do to try and make this a little easier for you."
She looked to the large window, which framed falling snow. A fire crackled in the fireplace and the scent of pine wafted from the huge, magically decorated tree. One of the elves had popped up and set down a steaming cup of hot cocoa at her side, and she sipped at it, feeling content for the first time in months. If she couldn’t be back in Salem, at least she could be here in this fairy-tale manor, playing the part of princess.
New Years’ Eve was snowy and blustery, but the Dervish Manor was rather warm and comfortable. Angeleigh finished the last of her holiday assignments, and then changed into her gauzy crimson dress robes and fastened the topaz necklace around her neck. She used a garnet-studded barrette to fasten her long and wavy hair up in a twist. She felt she would have looked absolutely perfect if not for the fact that she still needed a crutch to hobble around. She sighed; there was no use worrying about that now.
She made her way down the hall; for once the portraits were blessedly silent, because most of them were visiting a portrait of a ball that hung in the foyer. It struck her as odd that her mother may have done the very same thing years ago. She descended the grand staircase and hobbled to the formal sitting room, from where they would floo to the London house of Damien’s friend. She shyly hovered about the threshold, chewing on her lip. 
Damien turned, and his face lit up. "You look lovely, Angel," he said, and then laughed. "How embarrassing, we’re wearing the same thing," he said, and indeed, he too had chosen a deep garnet shade for his robes. "We coordinate perfectly. There’s no debating we’re related." He stepped over to the fireplace. "We’ll need to Floo over there, but Lady Cairnes has attendants who will dust us off." He guided her into the fireplace, spacious enough for the both of them. He gave her quick, encouraging smile before taking a handful of powder from the receptacle on the mantle. Angeleigh felt his arm tighten around her as he said clearly, "Cairnes House!" and tossed the powder to their feet. There was a feeling of being tugged through time and space, whirling crazily; she feared she’d be sick, but suddenly it was over.
She stepped out of another grand marble fireplace, her head still whirling as her inner ear adjusted. She blinked the floo dust out of her eyes. A butler in black robes attended to her and Damien, then walked them to the entry way of a large, high-ceilinged room in which levitated candles with multicolored flames. "Damien Dervish of the Dervish Estate, and his niece Angeleigh St. Martin," the butler announced stiffly, and Angeleigh felt her face flush to the same shade of red as her robes as all the heads in the room turned to see them enter. She took a deep breath and tried to relax as they entered the room. She felt like she was being presented to wizarding high society, and she felt a sudden surge of fear. She was aware of her awkward, halting gait next to Damien’s fluid stride, of her naVve eyes wide with fear, and of her scars that started to peek out from the sleeves of her robe.
"You’re doing beautifully," he murmured to her. "Just smile and relax, love. No one is thinking anything poorly of you."
She steadied her breathing and lifted her chin a little more, trying to blink the naivete out of her gaze. As they neared the bottom step attention shifted to the next couple being announced. With the eyes off her, Angeleigh felt she could relax more. A woman of medium height with glossy dark hair and deep, indigo eyes approached them. "Damien, darling, wonderful to see you. I trust the holidays were well by you?"
"Of course, Lady," he returned. "My niece, Angel—" he began, but Opal had wordlessly excused herself to attend to party business. Damien shrugged and then shuttled her around to groups of wizards and witches sipping wine and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. He introduced her, but tactfully kept the conversation turned away from her circumstances. She was asked how she enjoyed Hogwarts, how the British system of education differed from the American, and what she thought of recent political happenings. She couldn’t recall a single thing she said, only that she managed not to make a total ass of herself. Once she thought she glimpsed Professor Wildeve, draped in midnight blue, but she wasn’t sure. The evening passed in a blur, and when midnight came she whispered to her uncle that she’d like to return to the manor.
"I’m a little sapped myself; let me bid the hostess farewell, and we can be on our way."
He led her through a throng of people and parted the crowd surrounding Lady Opal. This woman had the appearance of being ageless, though, with the familiarity with which she and Damien kissed farewell Angeleigh guessed she was around her uncle’s age. She turned her deep blue eyes onto Angeleigh, and for one very strange moment she hauntingly reminded Angeleigh of someone else, though Angeleigh couldn’t place whom. The Lady regarded her for a moment, her gaze pensive but otherwise unreadable. Angeleigh squirmed. At last Lady Opal Cairnes turned her eyes back to Damien. "The daughter of your sister?" At his nod the Lady nodded in return, mouth fixed in a sad smile as though she knew something they hadn’t told her. Unease made Angeleigh’s stomach writhe. After a horribly long moment Lady Opal said, in a brusque and efficient manner, "Thank you for coming, Damien, and it was lovely to meet you, Angeleigh. You both have my wishes that this year may find you better than the last."
Then Angeleigh watched, vaguely entertained, as they regarded each other with a kind of wistful amusement in their eyes, giving them the appearance of school children. In spite of the intimidating awkwardness Lady Opal instilled in her, she felt herself grinning and it struck her, later that night that her uncle, aside from being a powerful land owner or intelligent historian, was still a human. The thought gave her a renewed faith, making this strange relative much less strange to her, and grounding her a little further into her new world. 
Chapter 13: The Acts of an Irresponsible Child
While most students found the Christmas holidays a welcome break and returned to Hogwarts refreshed, Angeleigh returned feeling more hollow and in lower spirits than ever. Even though Christmas, and New Years’ Eve, had gone pretty well considering, they had still felt slightly strained and awkward. Angeleigh returned to school feeling desperate for something familiar to cling to, something—or preferably someone—she could come in contact with. It had now been seven months since her life had drastically changed. She felt there was unfinished business in her old life, and maybe if she could figure it out and finish it she’d feel the separation more. 
She skipped dinner her first night back and remained up in her dormitory unpacking.  Once her robes were hung neatly in the armoire by her bed and her casual Muggle-style clothes were folded on the shelves, she purposefully set her photo album on the bedside table, then took out a quill, parchment, and her inkwell.  She headed to the empty Common Room and took a table in the corner, her back to the fire.  She tapped her quill against her chin for a moment, deep in thought and fighting an internal moral battle.  Finally she clamped her teeth on her bottom lip and began writing.

Dear Uncle Janus,

I hope your holidays treated you well.  Mine were quiet, but still nice.  But the real reason I’m writing is because I still feel bad about what happened over the summer and want to apologize.  I’m sorry I pushed you away; I was upset and hurting.  I feel bad and hope you accept my apology.  I can’t tell you where I am (in fact just owling you is dangerous!) But where I am is safe, so you don’t have to worry about me.

Love,

Angeleigh 

She reread the short note several times, and before she could lose her nerve she hobbled through the deserted corridors to the owlery.  She was taking a huge risk to her own safety and to national security; her conscience nagged her as she searched for a school owl to take her letter to the Hogsmeade postal office.  “But I never mentioned where I was and Janus is my uncle,” she reasoned under her breath.  “Even if my letter could be traced he’d want me to be safe...”  Roderick Mooreland told you all contact was to cease, the conscience said.  “But Janus is family,” she reasoned, finishing knotting the letter to the owl’s leg and sending it on its way.

She watched it flap southeast in the direction of Hogsmeade, feeling a momentary prickle of uncertainty.  Besides, she thought, if I’d owled Mr. Mooreland about it he’d have gotten upset with me for contacting him.  At least this way I’m not going against his wishes totally...

She made her way back to her dormitory deep in thought and slept very uneasily.  She dreamed about Damien kissing Opal, who looked uncannily like Antigone for some reason.  When she strode up and tapped his shoulder, demanding he stop kissing her friend, they split apart and Angeleigh was faced not by Damien and Opal but her mother and father.  “How could you do it?”  Emmalynn demanded, face white with rage.

Angeleigh woke to a cold gray dawn before she could find out what the dream apparition meant.

She shivered and pulled the crimson down comforter over her head and tried to shake the image of her mother from her mind.  She yawned and burrowed deeper under the comforter, but try as she might she couldn’t get back to sleep.  She sat up, pushing away the comforter, and dressed as quietly as she could manage.  One or two of her roommates stirred, but neither woke.  Angeleigh clasped her topaz necklace around her neck and stuffed her books and parchments into her book bag, grabbed her crutch and shuffled out the door.  She let it click quietly behind her.

It was too early for breakfast, so Angeleigh decided to review her homework from the holiday break.  She made her way to the Common Room, which, at this early hour, was empty.  A House Elf had just finished stoking the fire, so she settled in the over-stuffed chair nearest the hearth, enjoying the contrast of dancing orange warmth inside to the flat, gray cold outside.  She pulled out her Transfiguration work and reread her essay on the ethics of human transfiguration.  Her argument seemed solid and she’d used several sources to back her point up, so it would probably be fine...

“Looks good to me,” said a familiar voice, and Angeleigh jumped, startled.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to startle me?” she asked Lance, who stood over her.  She smiled though, and willed her thudding heart to slow down.  “Did you have a nice holiday?”
He shrugged.  “It was nice enough.  We went to Spain where it was a little bit warmer.  Yourself?”

“It was fine; we stayed home mostly, went to a party for New Years Eve–some old Ravenclaw friend of my uncle’s.  It was alright, kind of awkward though.”

“I hear that.  I had to endure the usual barrage of questions from my distant relatives.  I see them once a year, and they think they have permission to interrogate me.”  He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner.  “It’s actually a relief to be back at school.”  He grinned, dazzling her with his smile. “Look, the rest of Gryffindor is stirring, why don’t we beat the breakfast rush?  Then maybe we can make it to Transfiguration early and get on McGonagall’s good side for the new term.”

His imploring grin was so charming Angeleigh could not say no, so she packed her book bag again and stood up.  Lance took her bag and slung it on his other shoulder and escorted her through the portrait hole.  The walked quietly through the chilly empty corridors.  They passed Mrs. Norris batting at something behind a statue–she paused long enough to yowl at them–but no one else.  

The Great Hall was nearly empty as well.  Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were discussing something at the Head Table.  A couple of Ravenclaws were slumped over their books, yawning, while a trio of Hufflepuffs sipped pumpkin juice and pored over Famous Witch and Wizard cards.  The Slytherin Quidditch team was eating breakfast over a diagram of the Quidditch Pitch, no doubt talking strategy for their upcoming Ravenclaw match.  They were the only two Gryffindors.

They enjoyed a quick, quiet breakfast and arrived early to Transfiguration.  The classroom was chilly, and Angeleigh shivered a little.  Lance, sitting next to her, reached over and gave her shoulder a little squeeze.  “All right, there, Angeleigh?” he asked with a smile.

“Just cold, is all,” she mumbled, blushing a little and focusing on her notes, still aware of Lance’s solid presence beside her, the feeling of his hand lingering on her shoulder.

“If that’s all then,” he said, still watching her.

~*~*~*~

A week passed, then two.  Angeleigh had gradually calmed down and relaxed and almost forgotten about owling her godfather.  Classes were picking up again, which meant Angeleigh blessedly had too much to do to think of anything else.  But one day during lunch one of the school owls swooped in and dropped a nondescript parchment envelope in front of her.

Curiosity made her take the envelope and paper at it while her fingers worked at undoing the wax seal on the back.  “Who’s that from?” Lance asked, leaning across the table.

“I don’t know.  No one ever writes me, and if it were from Uncle Damien he’d use Nim,” she said.

“Ange has a love letter?”  asked Vanora loudly, dashing over from the Slytherin table, Antigone in tow.  “Wow, you go girl.”

“No one would write me love letters,” Angeleigh said with a chuckle and a roll of her eyes.

“Give yourself some credit,” Lance murmured, cheeks flushing pink.

Antigone and Vanora snickered, drawing Angeleigh’s embarrassed glare, though secretly she felt a warm glow inside her.  She pulled out the letter and unfolded it.  She stared a moment in confusion, as did Lance, Antigone, and Vanora.  “Who’d send you a blank love letter?” Antigone finally asked flatly.

“Yeah, that’s so romantic,” Vanora added dramatically, clutching her fist over her heart and staggering backward, making everyone, even Antigone, giggle.

“Nah, there’s something more to this,” Angeleigh said, turning the paper over a couple of times.  It was just a plain piece of creamy-colored parchment.  She furrowed her brow in thought.  What was that charm she’d learned second year at AIM?  The teacher had taught them the charm when he’d caught them passing notes written in invisible ink.  “Right!” she murmured, digging for her wand.

“What are you doing?”  Vanora asked curiously.  

“Charms in action,” Angeleigh replied.  She flicked her wand at the parchment as she exclaimed “Aparecium!”

“The Invisible Ink Charm.  Clever,” Antigone said with a glimmer of her appraising glare flashing in her eyes.  “I guess Charms is useful for something,” she added in a bored, long-suffering voice.

But Angeleigh was not watching Antigone.  She was watching the parchment.  Black spiky letters had begun slicing across the paper.  When the whole message appeared she stared at it, her insides cold and hollow and a tingling sensation spreading all through her.  The little food that was in her stomach was now threatening to come back up.  She didn’t know what to do; her friends were watching her.  It seemed like everyone was.  Not only that, the walls of the expansive Great Hall were starting to close around her like a cage.  “Oh unholy fuck,” she murmured shakily.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Lance and Vanora looked on with concern, not used to the usually shy and quiet Angeleigh cursing so vividly.  Antigone remained calm and reached over, plucking the parchment from Angeleigh’s limp hands.  Her violet eyes scanned the message.  “This is five words long,” she said.  “It means nothing to me.”
“No, it wouldn’t, would it,” Angeleigh snapped through her clenched teeth.  “Let me have it back.”

But Antigone did not give it back.  “What does it say?” Lance asked, his midnight blue eyes glancing from Antigone to Angeleigh.

“Antigone, please,” Angeleigh said, voice growing hysterical.

“It says ‘Enjoy it while you can’,” Antigone read.  Her gaze was impassive.  “Some love letter.”

Angeleigh jumped up and lunged at Antigone, grabbing the parchment.  A corner of it tore off in Antigone’s hand; Angeleigh jammed the letter into her book bag, gathered her things, and hurried out of the Great Hall as fast as she could manage.

Antigone started to rise to follow her, but Lance grabbed her arm and held her back.  “Let her go,” he said.  “I’m sure we’ll find out what it means in her timing.”  But his eyes strayed to the exit, and he had to work very hard to restrain himself from following her as well.

Angeleigh was making her way through the upper floors of the castle, praying she could make it to either Gryffindor Tower or a lavatory before she vomited.  Panic stirred her insides like a cauldron full of volatile potion.  She looked around frantically and spotted a lavatory door.  She pushed through the door and made her way to a cubicle, where she collapsed on the tile floor and vomited in the toilet.  This could not be happening to her.  How?  How could they find her here?

In a split second she knew, and she leaned over to throw up again.  “Shit.  The owl.  Merlin, no,” she mumbled.  Her mind was whirling; there was no thinking straight.  She shakily flushed the toilet and huddled against the door, the room spinning around her.

Where do I go?  What do I do?  Do I tell anyone? She thought frantically.  And then, if she did tell anyone, who would it be?  None of her professors, certainly.  And if the Headmaster was anywhere to be found she had never been told.  She didn’t even know where Dumbledore’s office was.

She couldn’t face her afternoon classes.  She’d probably get detention from Wildeve for skipping double Defense Against the Dark Arts, but compared to what she was now facing detention would be fun.  She spent the whole afternoon in the cubicle, staring at the wall, the sour aftertaste of bile eventually fading from her mouth.  She couldn’t think at all.  The only thing her brain could clearly process was that it was because of her own irresponsible stupidity that she was now in this predicament.  And as a result of her actions Uncle Janus was probably in trouble.  For all she knew he was being tortured for information on her whereabouts.  So not only had she jeopardized herself, but also her godfather...

Nausea roiled in her stomach again, but it was too empty to vomit.  Instead tears of fear and guilt filled her eyes and spilled onto her pale cheeks.  A helplessness she had not known in months filled her.  It was like being in the Reaper Dungeon again.  Only this time, instead of chains and cloth, she was bound and gagged by fear.

Chapter 14: Mr. Mooreland’s Visit

Cyrus Dumontia had skipped lunch that day in favor of research in the library.  He’d been doing this more frequently after the holiday break.  After all, he was now of age in the wizard world.  He had a lot of work to do, if he was going to be ready to go out into society.  The rest of his afternoon passed in a similar, uneventful manner.  He’d gone to his afternoon classes and thought it strange how Antigone Windemere and Vanora MacGrear kept trying to catch his attention–usually the Slytherin Duo (as the pair was commonly called) avoided their Prefect at all costs.  Well, unless they were harassing him.  But what piqued his curiosity was that their glances weren’t smug, and they weren’t smirking or giggling whenever they threw him said glances.

He avoided them anyway until dinner, supposing they needed him to cover for a prank gone awry.  But no sooner had he taken a seat at the Slytherin table than the two girls sat on either side of him.  He set down his fork, which had been poised to dive into a slice of steak and kidney pie, and looked from one girl to the other.  “Yes?”

“Have you seen Angeleigh at all?” Antigone asked.

“No.  Why?”

“She got a letter at lunch that upset her,” Vanora said.  “No one’s seen her all afternoon.”

Cyrus finally gave the girls his full attention, but coached himself to not look too interested. “Perhaps she’s up in Gryffindor Tower,” he suggested casually.

Antigone shook her head.  “No.  We cornered a fifth year Gryffindor who said Angeleigh hasn’t been up in the Tower.  And we overheard Wildeve bitching about her skipping class.”
											
“Why ask me then?  Seems you’ve covered your bases,” Cyrus said carefully.

“Because you have this freaky thing about watching her,” Vanora commented.  “Merlin’s toes, you’re nearly as bad as Lance.”

“Cute, Vanora,” Cyrus said coldly, rising from his seat.  “Do you know where she was heading?”  He asked, walking toward the exit with the girls in tow.

“Cyrus, love,” drawled Antigone, “if we did we’d have already found her.”

She was correct, of course, but Cyrus wouldn’t let her know that.  He began striding through the halls, deep in thought, wondering where Angeleigh could be, what had led her to run off, when he would owl his father about this...
On the fourth floor nearly an hour later Antigone finally stopped.  “This is ridiculous.  We’re doing this ass-backwards.  Let’s think: where would a girl not go when she’s upset?  Answer, most of the damn castle.  Where would she go?  Her dorm or a bathroom.  And since we already know she’s not in her dorm, let’s try the bathrooms.”

“She could be outside on the grounds; lots of opportunities for solitude out there,” Cyrus pointed out stubbornly.

“Oh come on,” Antigone snapped.  “Can you honestly picture her sitting out on the freezing grounds all day long, much less after dark?  There’s something about her—she’s even scared of her own shadow.”

“She’s got that deer-caught-in-lumos look,” Vanora piped up.  “And you know something about why,” she added suspiciously, narrowing her eyes at Cyrus.

He glowered at the two.  “What I know and how I know it is not important.  What’s important now is figuring out where Angeleigh is at.”

“I’m voting to check the bathroom,” Antigone announced, stalking off before Cyrus or Vanora could follow.  She scanned the various doors along the fourth floor east corridor and spotted a ladies’ lavatory.  She pushed into the tiled room.  “Ange?” she called.  Her gaze scanned the gap between the cubicle doors and the floor.  In the stall at the end she spotted what looked like a heap of black robes.  She tiptoed over and tapped on the door.  “Angeleigh, it’s Antigone.  Come on out.”

Angeleigh shifted her cramped body, turning her itching, bleary eyes in the direction of Antigone’s voice.  She looked down and saw Antigone tapping the toe of her black leather boot.  So even in the confines of the fourth floor girls’ room someone had been able to find her.  She sighed and reached up, undoing the latch and letting the door swing open, though she remained sitting.  “Hey,” she croaked, glancing up at Antigone.

Antigone’s expression remained blank and unreadable, though she was in actuality surprised by the other girl’s appearance.  Angeleigh’s amber eyes were glassy and bloodshot, red-rimmed and puffy.  All color had drained from her face, she seemed to have drawn blood from her lower lip, and her tangled hair fell around her hunched shoulders.  In one white hand she clutched the letter, now tattered and wrinkled under her freshly bitten nails.  Overall she looked limp and helpless.  Snapping into older-sister-mode, Antigone strode to the sink and wet one of the clean hand towels, then returned to the zombie-like Angeleigh, sitting next to her and wordlessly handing her the damp towel.

After a moment of silence during which Angeleigh buried her face in the towel, Antigone turned her eyes on her.  “So.  Anything you need to talk about?”

“I can’t,” she mumbled into the towel, shuddering a bit.

Antigone sighed.  “Do you want to go somewhere a little more comfortable at least?  You’ve been stuffed in here all day.  We’ll find a better room with a fire and you can warm up and... stuff,” she finished, firmly taking hold of Angeleigh’s upper arm and helping her to her feet.  “Vanora and Cyrus are outside looking for you.  They can take your stuff.”

Shit, Cyrus, Angeleigh thought, allowing herself to be led out.  The Ministry wouldn’t like his latest report...

A quarter of an hour later the four students were in a room on the seventh floor.  A fire crackled in the fireplace and a house elf had brought tea and light sandwiches.  “Eat something,” Vanora encouraged gently, holding the plate toward Angeleigh, who was huddled in an overstuffed chair.

“I can’t,” she mumbled, staring into the fire.

Cyrus, however, wasn’t about to waste time with pleasantries.  He’d pried the letter from Angeleigh’s fist and read it several times.  “So they must know where you are then.  This is obviously a threat.”

“No kidding,” Antigone snapped, sitting on the arm of the chair.  She reached into her robes and pulled out a silver flask.  “Take a swig or two; it’s Ogden’s,” she said, pressing the flask into Angeleigh’s cold hand.

Angeleigh numbly did as directed, coughing as the fire whiskey burned down her throat.  The alcohol trickled through her, gradually warming her fear-chilled hands and feet, and snapping her brain into gear again.  She looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time.  “Where are we?”

“A room where we won’t be bothered,” Cyrus said impatiently, eyes narrow and arms folded over his chest.  “Now, you have to tell me how they could know you’re here.”

“I–I sent an owl,” Angeleigh murmured, dazed.  “To my godfather, I thought–I thought...” she broke off, feeling a fresh wave of tears pound the back of her eyes.  “I thought it would be okay,” she finished miserably.  She turned frightened, pleading eyes on Cyrus.  “Please, please don’t tell this to the Ministry,” she begged.

“The friggin’ Ministry’s involved?” Vanora asked incredulously.  “I knew you had issues, but... geez.”  She tousled her dredlocks, a new expression of concern on her face.

“Would you rather save face or be safe?” Cyrus asked, his jaw tight.

“I fucked up royally,” Angeleigh said dully.  “Frankly I want to just disappear right about now.”

“Which is not an option,” Cyrus reminded her.

“And thank you Captain Obvious!” Antigone exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air.  “How about we say ‘screw what we already know’.  What is going on?  Why is Angeleigh so freaked out and why is the Ministry involved?”

“It’s a matter of confidential international security,” Cyrus said stiffly.  He sighed and read the letter again.  “While it lasts,” he read aloud.  “Nothing to really suggest when anything could happen, or what... I’m sorry, Angeleigh, but this can’t go without attention.”  He turned to the door.  “I’m heading to the owlery if you need me.”

Angeleigh, exhausted and defeated, only watched him leave.  She turned to see Antigone and Vanora watching her, and took another swig of the fire whiskey, handing the flask back to Antigone.  “You girls don’t have to stay,” she said with a sigh.  “I’m sure you have other things to take care of.”

Antigone shrugged.  “I do, but they’re not important.”  She took a deep breath.  “I’ll admit I wasn’t sure about you at the beginning, and even now I have no idea what to think about you.  But it looks like you’re going to need allies to watch your back.  And... well, you can count on me to be there.”

“Me too,” said Vanora with a nod, picking up a half sandwich and offering it to her.

Angeleigh gave them a small smile and took the half sandwich.  She could feel tears again, but this time they were tears of gratitude.  At least she wasn’t completely alone.

~*~*~*~

The incident with the letter had happened Wednesday.  Angeleigh spent her Thursday classes in a daze, snapping back to reality long enough to be amazed that Wildeve did not give her detention for cutting classes, nor did he request her to make up work as soon as possible.  When she was not in classes she relegated herself to Gryffindor tower, trying to focus on school work, or staring blankly into the dancing fires or gray skies outside.  She did not owl Uncle Damien at all, but figured if Magic Cyrus followed through on his word, Damien would know soon enough... as would the top officials of both the British and American wizarding governments...

Thursday evening was sleepless.  She stared into the dark canopy over her four poster bed, buried under mounds of blankets, but unable to keep warm.  Her brain was compensating for spending the better part of Wednesday in a mindless trance, and was now working overtime trying to process everything.  The one thing she did understand completely was that she’d broken the cardinal rule her mother had taught her: Never get too comfortable.  She’d been so glad to finally feel safe and like she fit in that she’d forgotten the sheer danger she was in.  She’d gotten careless.  And now she was reaping the consequences.

She skipped breakfast and arrived to Transfiguration Friday morning white-faced, with dark purple smudges under her eyes.  She felt like she was swimming.  Lack of sleep blurred the edges of reality until she was no longer certain if she was awake or just in a very vivid dream.  Not one word of Professor McGonagall’s lecture made it to her brain; she stared at the chalkboard where the Professor had written down a formula for predicting transfiguration in animate objects, but could not for the life of her copy it down into her notes.  It was a relief when they were dismissed.

“Miss St. Martin,” called Professor McGonagall over the din of students leaving.  “I need to speak with you.”

Angeleigh made her way over to the Professor.  “I’m sorry, I know I look half dead and like I wasn’t paying attention, but it won’t happen again...” she mumbled.

“Thank you for your apology, Miss St. Martin, though that’s not why I need to speak with you,” Professor McGonagall said.  Her tone was serious, though not as severe and stern as it could often be.  “I’ve received word that the Headmaster would like to see you in his office at the start of lunch today.”

Angeleigh tried to sound casual.  “Oh, sure thing.  Anything wrong?” she asked, painfully aware that her offhand manner sounded forced.

“There is a guest from America who would like to meet with you, the Headmaster, your guardian, and a few of the staff members,” the older witch said, without so much as a hint of whom it might be.

“Oh, alright then,” Angeleigh said awkwardly.  “Um, where should I go?  I’ve never been to his office before...”

“Meet me in this classroom.  As your head of house I was asked to be present as well.  Be here at the start of the lunch hour.”

Angeleigh made her way to potions class.  If she thought Transfiguration had been a nightmare she hadn’t been counting on potions.  She could feel Cyrus’ eyes on the back of her prickling neck, and Antigone and Vanora, seated on either side of her, were trying to be upbeat, but the jest couldn’t take her mind off the upcoming lunch hour.  And the smug, knowing glare of Professor Snape was almost more than she could handle.  When the bell rang she got out of the classroom as quickly as she could, bound for Charms class.  It was a practical lesson, one she didn’t really have to think about much.  She mumbled the incantations and flicked her wand, half-heartedly performing the charms that the Professor wanted them to learn, all the while her eyes on her watch.  The minutes until lunch ticked away mercilessly.  When the bell rang she felt her heart leap into her throat and fought off a momentary wave of dizziness before making her way back to the Transfiguration room.

She followed Professor McGonagall through a few different hallways until they reached a statue of a phoenix set in an alcove.  Professor McGonagall said in a clear voice, “Chocolate frog.”  The phoenix began to elevate, bringing with it a spiral staircase.  She shakily stepped on and tried not to collapse on the rising staircase.  Within seconds they were paused outside the door of the Headmaster’s office.
Professor McGonagall rapped once, sharply, to announce their arrival, then pushed the door open.  Angeleigh wondered if her knees would support her.  She followed her head of house into the office and gave a sidelong glance at the people assembled there around a mahogany table.  Uncle Damien, Professor Wildeve, and Percy Weasley sat on one side of the table.  At the head sat the kindly looking Albus Dumbledore.  And on the other side of the table sat Roderick Mooreland, Secretary of Magic, next to two empty chairs.

Angeleigh lowered her eyes and took the seat across from her uncle.  He reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand, a gesture meant to comfort her, that only resulted in making her more miserable.  All the people in this room were working for her safety and she’d gone and ruined it...

There were a few moments of awkward silence.  Then Mr. Mooreland spoke.  “Your uncle tells me you had a nice holiday, Angeleigh,” he said.  His voice was calm, with no trace of anger in it.  “Your professors have told me you’re doing well and have made the adjustment pretty nicely.”  She didn’t respond.  “And the Ministry tells me you got a pretty good scare the other day,” he finally said, jumping straight to the heart of the matter.  “According to their sources you sent an owl to America.”

Angeleigh nodded numbly.  “I... I wasn’t thinking.”

Roderick nodded as well, expression grave.  “I was afraid something like this might happen.”

The tears came unbidden.  Before she knew what was happening her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably, and hot tears streamed down her cheeks.  “I didn’t realize...”

“You needed to be more responsible,” interjected Percy pompously, prompting more tears, and a nod of agreement from Professor Wildeve.

Again, Angeleigh felt she was playing the part of the helpless prey animal.

“Gentleman,” Damien’s soft voice interrupted.  “One thing we need to keep in mind is that my niece is sixteen.  She’s still very much a child.  Not only that, but she was raised with tremendous amounts of pressure put on her.  She grew up looking over her shoulder, and not only that, she’s already suffered huge losses and traumatic experiences.”

“I told her last summer there was to be no contact with the States,” Roderick stated.  “Family related communications were included.  In fact, family was probably the most dangerous contact she could have made,” he said seriously.  He gave Angeleigh a pointed look. “Janus has gone missing again, Angeleigh.”

The little color left in her face drained entirely.  “It’s because of me, isn’t it.”

“Well, yes.  But not for the reasons you think”.  Roderick sighed.  This had been hard enough for him to accept; he wondered how Janus’ god-daughter would take it.  “We’re starting to realize that Janus has a convenient pattern of disappearing right when you are in a precarious position.  Then he manages to resurface, a little beaten up, but otherwise well, just in time to rescue you.”  He took a deep breath.  “Angeleigh, we have very good reason to believe that your godfather sold you out the first time around, and wasn’t afraid to do it again–or was too afraid to not do it again, after that little stunt he pulled ‘saving’ you,” Roderick spat out.  “So by sending a letter confirming that you were alive, it trashed the original fleece that you’d died of your injuries.”  He sighed. “I know you’re sorry.  I know you’re just a kid who’s been dealt a lousy hand.  But you’re also too important to our security to risk.  We need to figure out what to do here.  If you were my daughter I’d pull you out of school right now.”

Damien shook his head, drawing the surprised stares of everyone else, including Angeleigh.  Was this uncle a possible double agent as well?  “No.  That’s what they’ll be expecting.  If they have spies here they’ll be keeping tabs on her movements.  They’ll be listening for the gossip, waiting to hear that she’s leaving.  That could set us up for an ambush at any point along the road to the Manor.  We need to keep her here.  Make it look like everything is as normal as possible, like nothing came of this.”

Wildeve nodded.  “But we’ll need to increase security.  I can put a call into Magical Law Enforcement and see what they can give me for guards.”

“And of course the staff is watching,” Professor McGonagall said.  “Not to mention the Dumontia boy.  He seems to be the eyes and ears of the Ministry,” she commented wryly, with a hint of cynicism in her voice.

Roderick Mooreland did not look terribly convinced that the plan would work.  But he couldn’t help but have his doubts; after all, Damien was Emmalynn’s younger brother.  Emmalynn, while good at what she did, had had a slight reputation for being impulsive.  He hoped that Damien’s normalcy strategy would work.  He sighed and looked over at Angeleigh.  She was huddled in her chair, tugging the cuffs of her school robes over her hands.  Her eyes were glassy from crying, face pale and smudged with dark shadows under her eyes.  Sympathy edged into him.  Damien had a point; there was so much pressure on this girl, so many expectations to bear the weight of this when she’d already lost so much just at the age of sixteen... he found himself offering her a kind smile.  “Angeleigh.  We just want you to be safe.  There are a lot of people out there who want to hurt you, and we want to protect you,” he told her gently.

He rose from his chair and stretched.  “I’ll be heading down to the village and Apparating back to Washington now,” he said.  “Paperwork calls.  I’ll be deploying some Aurors to check out what’s going on with the Reapers, and see if they can locate any information on Janus.” He bowed and exited the office, casting one last, almost sad glace at Angeleigh.

“Damien, pleasure to see you, as always,” Wildeve said.  “I need to go prepare for my afternoon classes now.  I’ll be in touch,” he said, shaking Damien’s hand and exiting the office.  Professor McGonagall and Percy Weasley, who had come on behalf of the Minister, left as well, leaving Angeleigh and her uncle alone with the Headmaster.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled again, eyes on the floor.  “I just wanted to resolve things with him, and then that would have been it.  I didn’t realize this would happen.”

Damien moved around to her side of the table and pulled her into a hug, gently stroking her hair.  “It’s alright, Angel.  I know you didn’t mean anything bad to happen.  We’ll fix this.  You’ll be okay.”  His grip on her tightened as she buried her face in his chest and sobbed uncontrollably.  “Shhh, love, I’m here with you, you’ll be alright,” he cooed gently.

Angeleigh tried to believe him.  She tried desperately to force herself to believe that things were going to be fine.  But she just couldn’t.  She felt her lower lip beginning to tremble again, felt her shoulders start to shake uncontrollably.

“Why don’t you take the afternoon off from classes,” Headmaster Dumbledore suggested.

Chapter 15: Sowing and Reaping

He paced, hands clasped behind his back, his lips curling into a pleased sneer.  The letter, so sweet, so innocent, with its rounded script, lay on the shelf.  He could almost picture her writing it: The amber eyes glinting in the candlelight, her brow furrowed in thought, her teeth gently biting her lower lip... the delicate hand grasping the quill that scratched over the parchment.  The image was so clear in his mind it was as if he could reach out and touch it.  Sometimes, if he focused his normally scattered thoughts, he could almost recall the scent of her skin and hair.  The recollection made his heart pound and blood roar through his veins.

There was something intoxicating about her.  She was beautiful in a golden, angelic way.  But there was more to her than that, which he’d realized when he took her beauty, replacing it with bruises and swelling and blood.  He saw that, beneath the creamy porcelain skin and shimmering features, there was a strength that amazed and fascinated him; it was this strength and determination that intoxicated him far more than her delicate beauty.  She had a will that could not be broken.

And oh, how he had tried; he’d succeeded in making her ask for death–livid and bloodied, she’d asked for the Killing Curse.  But while that was a small triumph, it had not been the ultimate goal.  She wasn’t completely broken; she just wanted a release from the intolerable pain.  He chuckled.  The wounds he’d inflicted probably were enough to kill a person; any other person except Angeleigh.  He had a gift for knowing how much a person could take, and he’d known from the start she could take more than anyone would give her credit for.  Thus, he’d been rather disappointed when one of his men brought him the news that Angeleigh had succumbed to her injuries.

“I knew you were made of stronger stuff than that,” he fondly whispered to the image in his mind.  And now he knew for certain.  He had physical proof that she was alive.  She was probably emotionally damaged, and certainly physically scarred.  But she was alive and unbroken, and the brutal scarring he’d inflicted somehow made his vision of her all the more beautiful.
However, this also meant that she still concealed the secrets he needed to learn if he were to ever wipe out his foes.  He wondered if this time around he’d succeed in breaking her, if he’d finally see defeat in the amber depths of her eyes.  He wondered if he’d be able to extract her secrets from her in the process.  He resolved to be more subtle, more creative with her this time.  But first he had to track her down and get his hands on her.  And he couldn’t be the one to do it—half the Magical Law Enforcement special task force was looking for him.  This made him sneer again; the task force was also looking for his most “trusted associate”.  It was because of this “associate” that he did not have Angeleigh safely locked away now.  And only after providing certain painful incentives had he been able to persuade the associate to help his cause.

He paused in his pacing and touched the letter gently.  He felt badly sending her the threat letter; he recalled quite vividly how wide those golden eyes could get whenever Angeleigh was panicked or afraid.  But he also remembered how well she understood his position: that he did what he had to do to get the results he needed to get.  And he could always apologize later, when he at last saw her face to face.

Step by step, he reminded himself.  Find her first.  Then play with her.  He flung open the door, causing the Death Eater sentry to jump.  “Janus, I want our account books,” he ordered, watching as Janus, a twitchy, nervous man, scuttled into another room and returned with a stack of books.  “Come in,” he ordered, returning to his rooms and sitting in a slightly tattered chair. “Janus,” he began casually, making the other man jump again, “how much would it cost me to have you bring me your niece?”

“I—I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Lord Reaper.”

Silas Reaper sighed and spoke very slowly.  “How many thousand galleons would I need to offer to persuade you to hunt her down and bring her to me.”  He registered Janus’ blank stare and disgustedly snapped, “Bounty, Janus.  I’m offering a bounty on her pretty golden head.  What say we to 10,000 Galleons to the one who brings her back alive?”

“Oh.  Oh, yes, certainly,” Janus said with a jerky nod.

“Excellent.  Put the word out to our British associates.  Let them know the offer; I don’t care what they have to do, just as long as she is alive.”  He waved Janus out and leaned back in his chair again, eyes closed, a secret grin touching his lips.

~*~*~*~

Oblivious to the plots and plans of Silas Reaper, who was literally half a world away, the Slytherin and Ravenclaw Quidditch teams played one another the last weekend of January.  Angeleigh caught glimpses of the action from the windows in the library, figuring Lance or Antigone would fill her in later.  She’d wanted to go to the game, but just had too much makeup work to get done.  She’d spent a couple of days after the meeting with Mr. Mooreland in hospital, and would have been content to stay there forever.  But after the supper hour on Tuesday Madame Pomfrey gently but firmly shooed her out.  “You need to get back into a routine,” the nurse said.  “Huddling down here drinking all my sleeping draught won’t do either of us any good.” She’d handed Angeleigh her things, eyes lingering on the girl’s bad leg.  “Come see me again, though,” Madame Pomfrey said.  “I may be able to do something about that.”

Now, ten days later, Angeleigh was still catching up on her work and hadn’t had the chance to go back to the hospital wing.  All the professors piled on the work, and still politely requested that she hand in her makeup work at her earliest convenience.  But the onslaught of school work had its advantages.

Angeleigh no longer had the spare time to be afraid.

She’d slipped back into her first-term routine of working hard on school from early morning until late night, then collapsing in bed and falling asleep almost immediately, too exhausted to dream.  She was cautious again, but not paranoid; there had been no further letters or warnings to indicate she was in more immediate danger, and she’d started catching glimpses of Hit Wizards stationed around the castle and the grounds.  It was a little embarrassing knowing they were there for her, but it helped quell her paranoia.

Then, along with Lance, Antigone and Vanora had become more constant companions.  The three students were almost always near her, laughing, joking, yet keeping a watchful eye.  She now felt less alone and vulnerable.

But today Lance and Antigone were watching the game, and Vanora was playing in it.  She’d have to make the trek from the library to the great hall on her own.  With a sigh she packed her book bag and left the library, eventually joining up with the throng of red-cheeked, shivering students returning from the Quidditch Pitch.  She held back a moment, eyes scanning the black-cloaked crowd for her friends.  Eventually she spotted Lance and made her way over to him.  “Good game?” she asked.

He draped his arm over her shoulders.  “Any game Slytherin loses is good,” he said with a grin.  “Although I can’t say Antigone and Vanora are going to be too much fun to be around tonight.”

Angeleigh shrugged, aware of the warm weight of his arm on her shoulders.  It felt nice, sort of protective.  She quelled a smile and said, “They’ll just have to get over it.”

Lance chuckled slightly and steered her toward the Great Hall, where they took seats at the Gryffindor table for dinner.  Over a goblet of pumpkin juice Lance asked her, “So how are you?  I was kind of worried a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, I’m fine now,” she told him brightly, grabbing a roll from the basket.

“Did it have to do with–“

“Yeah, but we’ve worked things out,” she said, effectively ending that tangent of their discussion.
He watched her carefully, but she was preoccupied with her roll.  He focused on a slice of ham, occasionally glancing at her.  Finally he cleared his throat slightly.  “Um, Ange, they just announced the next Hogsmeade weekend for the second week of February.  Would you like to go?  Or are you not allowed?”					

She set the roll down.  “As far as I know I’m just leading a day to day existence, doing what I’d normally do.  And I went on the last weekend back in December, so I probably can go.”

“But would you like to go,” he asked pointedly, meeting her eyes a little shyly.

Angeleigh understood, and felt herself blush a little.  “Yes, yes I’d like to go,” she said, trying not to smile to widely.  They finished their meal in comfortable silence and headed back to Gryffindor Tower, where Lance helped her catch up with her potions homework.  The next morning at breakfast she was approached by a gloomy Vanora and rather unhappy looking Antigone.  “We’re the happy patrol,” Vanora announced, taking a breakfast pastry and nibbling at the corner.  “You look too happy.  So we’re here.  We want to know why you look too happy.”

Angeleigh looked up from her coffee, hoping she wasn’t blushing too deeply.  “No reason... it’s a nice day.  What can I say.”

“More than that,” complained Antigone, yawning and rubbing her eyes.  “You look exponentially happier than you’ve looked in weeks and yet you claim it’s because of a nice day.  I’m not buying it.”

There was uncomfortable silence; Antigone and Vanora were suppressing grins as they tried to stare Angeleigh down.  Finally the Gryffindor girl giggled a little.  “I’m going on the next Hogsmeade weekend,” she confided.

“So are we.”

“With Lance.”

“Ooooh,” Vanora said, blue eyes widening.  Both she and Antigone looked suddenly wide awake.  “When did he ask?”

“Last night at dinner.”

“He spent the whole Quidditch game in the Slytherin stands rehearsing that little speech to me, you know,” Antigone pointed out.  “So make sure you thank me.”

“You’ll be my maid of honor,” Angeleigh said sarcastically, draining her coffee cup.  “Last time I was in Hogsmeade I didn’t get to see anything; I got a butterbeer at the tavern and that was it.  So what else is down there?”

“Oh, there’s Honeyduke’s, the candy shop,” Vanora said excitedly.  “And Zonko’s, the joke store.  I could live in there.  And Gladrags is the clothing store.  There’s some pretty decent stuff in there besides your standard robes.”

“We’re discussing the more salient features of Hogsmeade, I take it?” asked Cyrus, passing by.

“Ugh.  Can you try your own conversation for once, instead of butting into ours?” Antigone whined.  “Just because you’re a Prefect doesn’t mean everything is your business.”

“Everything concerning her is,” Cyrus said haughtily, jerking his chin in Angeleigh’s direction.

Offense and rage made Angeleigh’s temper start to boil.  She’d had enough of Cyrus: his following, watching, reporting... it was all enough.  The fact that he treated her like she wasn’t even human was so degrading on top of everything that she’d already been through that she snapped.  “Cyrus, mind your own business.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.  “This is my business.”

“No.  It’s not your business, it is my life.  I’m tired of you butting in and spying on me.  I’m tired of your mysterious father with his mysterious mission, and I’m sick of you thinking you have the right to tell me what to do when you barely know me.  All you know is what I’ve been through; all you know is what’s on paper.  You know nothing about how I was affected.  So stop acting like such a know it all,” she finished, slamming her cup down on the table.  Antigone and Vanora stared at her in silence.   Cyrus watched her from under his raised eyebrow.  She turned calmly away from him and focused on her friends again.  “So what should I be sure to see down there?”

“Oh, the Shrieking Shack–“ began Vanora, but Cyrus interrupted.

“I’m not so sure it’s a good idea for you to go down to Hogsmeade,” he said.

“And I’m not so sure I really care what you think,” Angeleigh said calmly.

“Look.  Think, here.  Look what happened the last time you didn’t care.  You put yourself in danger.  Leaving the castle and the grounds could put you in a worse position.  All I’m saying is you reap what you sow, so think about it before you go gallivanting off unprotected,” he finished, spinning on his heel and heading for the Slytherin table.

“Reap this,” Angeleigh muttered, flipping her middle finger up at his retreating back.

“I think we’re a bad influence on her,” Vanora said.

Chapter 16: The Hogsmeade Weekend

Self-righteous anger was an emotion Gryffindors did well.  Accepting defeat was not something Slytherins did well, particularly if they were named Cyrus Dumontia.  Cyrus was accustomed to being listened to and respected, and his icy, official demeanor usually got him that.  But this St. Martin girl was different, and it vexed him.  He’d have thought the mere fact she was a Secret-Keeper would have been enough to make her reconsider her behavior.  He was only trying to be practical when he suggested she not go into Hogsmeade.

Angeleigh, on the other hand, thought Cyrus officious and arrogant.  Besides, she had enough people telling her what to do; she didn’t need a self-important git her own age telling her, too.  
								
She’d gained a new level of status with Antigone and Vanora as a result of telling Cyrus off.  “Everyone’s scared of Magic Cyrus because he stalks around all day looking like he’ll curse the first thing that moves, not to mention his father’s mysterious work in the Ministry of Magic,” Vanora told her, rolling her eyes, on the way out to Care of Magical Creatures the second Friday in February.  “They’re scared of Antigone because she’s not afraid to tell him off.  And they’re scared of me by association,” she said with a grin.

“So they’ll be afraid of me too,” Angeleigh surmised, mirroring Vanora’s grin.  It was actually funny to her to think people would be scared of her, the girl afraid of her own shadow!

“Eventually.  Right now you’ve just started the ‘Reap This’ movement.”

Angeleigh’s face and ears burned.  “People saw that?”

“Merlin’s beard, yes!” exclaimed Vanora, laughing.  “That was the funniest thing I’ve seen yet.  The best part is you were the one doing it.  If Anee or I had done that it would have been expected.  We’d get a huge laugh and that would be it.  But you—look at you.  No offense but you’re so meek and innocent looking, then you go flipping off a Prefect and not just any Prefect: Cyrus Dumontia!!”

Seeing it from Vanora’s perspective did make Angeleigh see and appreciate just how funny it really had been, and she felt proud for standing up for herself.  She had Wildeve’s hit wizards watching out for her; she did not need Cyrus.  She nudged Vanora and hissed, “Speak of the devil!”

Cyrus stalked by them, a sour expression on his face.  His cloak swished about him, and he purposely kept his eyes forward, in effect ignoring them.  “What an ass,” Angeleigh whispered, making Vanora giggle.  They took their places with the class, leaning against the fence in the feeble afternoon sun.

Class passed quickly, a miracle considering it was the final class on a Friday.  Angeleigh headed inside with Lance, Vanora, and Antigone, laughing about the rogue salamander in class.  Antigone and Vanora headed to the Slytherin table.  Lance sat down opposite Angeleigh and started filling his plate.  “Everyone heads out after lunch–to Hogsmeade,” he added around a mouthful of shepherd’s pie.  “We’ll go shopping and then go to the Three Broomsticks.”

“So you are really going through with this?”

Angeleigh slammed down her fork and glared up at Cyrus.  “You have a bad habit of showing up when I don’t really care to see you,” she said coldly.

“Just be responsible, is all,” he replied, voice equally cold and stiff.

Lance stood up, and was at least a hand taller than Cyrus.  “She’s not a baby, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he said.  “She’s our age; I think she can handle herself.”  His dark, midnight blue eyes stared into Cyrus’ icy pale blue ones.  He leaned closer to the Slytherin Prefect and lowered his voice so no one could overhear.  “If you think I would let anything happen to her you are sorely mistaken,” he said darkly.

“Accidents happen,” Cyrus said, glowering back at the taller Gryffindor.

“We’ve looked into it and she can go tomorrow if she chooses,” Lance informed him.  “And I think she’s thinking about her situation enough without your constant reminders.”  With that Lance sat down, flashing a reassuring smile at Angeleigh, and reaching under the table to give her hand a small squeeze.

“Thanks,” she said, rubbing her temple, trying to erase the beginnings of a headache she felt forming there.

“He means well, he just needs to trust you a little more,” Lance said, reaching around a bowl of mashed potatoes to give her hand a quick squeeze.  “Just make sure you get some rest tonight and dress warm tomorrow,” he added with a smile. “I expect it will be chilly.”

~*~*~*~

After lunch on Saturday the third through seventh years who wanted to go to Hogsmeade trickled out onto the grounds, checked in with Mr. Filch, and headed down to the village.  Lance suggested they hit Gladrags first.  “I have to pick up some tailoring I owled down last week,” he explained as they entered the store.  He made his way to the desk while Angeleigh flipped through the racks of dress robes near the back; Antigone and Vanora had made a beeline for Zonko’s.

She gently fingered a chocolate brown robe cut from heavy yet soft velvet.  The color and the way the material absorbed the light reminded her of her mother’s eyes.  She hurriedly swallowed the lump in her throat and moved to a rack of silk robes.  A robe that looked like the night sky hung in front, rippling slightly as she passed by it.  She paused to finger the fabric.  “Wow,” she murmured, her brain tacking on, this would look great on Lance.

The very thought made her face burn crimson and she turned away from the direction of Lance and busied herself with admiring a fine brocade formal robe.  Where had that thought come from?  In the midst of everything else on her mind, how had the very idea managed to sneak in?

“Ange, I’m all set,” called Lance.  “Let’s go over to Zonko’s.  The girls will be wondering where we’re at.”

Zonko’s was down the street; they had to weave in and out of the crowd of students coming out of Honeydukes and past the Hog’s Head Inn.  “I didn’t realize there was another pub here,” Angeleigh commented, craning her neck to see around Lance.  “Do any of the kids ever go there?”

“Not really,” Lance said darkly.  “It doesn’t have the best reputation around the school.  It tends to attract a more unsavory crowd.  Apparently Hagrid once bought a three-headed monster dog from someone here, and there’s a rumor heavily based in fact that a few years back he got a dragon egg out of a game of cards played at the Hog’s Head.”

“I see,” Angeleigh said, squinting to see if she could see through the dim windows, vaguely fascinated by the idea of dangerous people.

Lance moved his arm in front of her, all but forcing her to move back by his side.  “Probably a good idea for you to keep a low profile around here,” he muttered down to her.  “You never know who may be around.”

“They’re not going to attack me in broad daylight,” she said, slightly irritated.

“I promised to keep an eye on you, so I’m following through.”

“You’re in league with Cyrus and the Ministry too?” she asked dully.

“No.  I promised myself.”

“Oh.  That’s sweet.”  Angeleigh willed herself to appreciate the gesture rather than take offense at it.  Lance wasn’t out to get her; Lance was on her side.  This weekend was supposed to be fun.  She smiled up at him.  “Sorry, I tend to be on the skeptical side.  I know you mean well.”

They were quiet the rest of the way to Zonko’s, which was just as busy, if not more so, as Honeydukes.  “Filch has been petitioning the store owners to shut down,” Lance told her over the din of the crowd.  “Every Monday after a Hogsmeade weekend sees an influx of pranks that just make his life miserable.  Not that he doesn’t deserve it the way he harasses the students sometimes,” he added, flashing her a brilliant smile she couldn’t help but return.

“We got dung bombs to put in Cyrus’ sheets,” Vanora confided, swerving through the crowd to meet up with them.  “And Anee’s off getting something or other for a personal prank.  She wouldn’t let me in on it, and threatened to hex me if I pried.  What have you guys done so far?”

“Just hit Gladrags,” Angeleigh said.  “They had some nice stuff.  Although, I think I appreciate this store a whole lot more.”

“It is entertaining, isn’t it,” commented Antigone, sidling over, tucking a small parcel into her bag and looking at them innocently.  “It’s a playground for the illicit,” she added with a slight grin.  “Do you guys need anything in here?  If not I want to get to Honeydukes.  I’m making care packages for Aidan and Lanta,” she said, the tone of her voice challenging anyone to make fun of her seemingly out of character maternal remark.

“I’ll browse, but I’ll make it quick,” Angeleigh promised.

Nearly an hour later they left Zonko’s, laughing and plotting.  Angeleigh had never seen so many crazy joke artifacts, and had certainly never laid eyes on Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. She abandoned all inhibitions (and a few sickles as well) and allowed Antigone and Vanora to be a bad influence on her, much to the chagrin of the upstanding Lance.  “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to being a bad girl soon enough,” Vanora chirped merrily.  “Honeydukes?”

They made their way into the sweet shop and split up, each one going off to their favorite candy.  Angeleigh headed to the sherbet balls, shouldering past groups upon groups of students.  A cluster of Gryffindors waved to her; as she passed the “Unusual Tastes” display a tall Slytherin was feeding candied flies to the overweight toad perched on his shoulder.  She edged into the throng of students choosing pastel colored sherbet balls and began her own selection.

As she reached for a bag a weighty hand dropped on her shoulder, clamping into her clavicle, making her knees buckle from the force.  She caught herself on the counter and turned to see a man she did not recognize.  Her heart pounded in her chest and she felt her blood go cold.  Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Angeleigh saw a gleam of malice that frightened her.

“Hey Ange!” called Lance, visible over the tops of other students’ heads.

She sagged in relief, and the grip on her shoulder released.  “Sorry.  Mistook you for someone else,” he mumbled, turning away quickly and shoving his way toward the exit, leaving Angeleigh clutching the counter.  What had that been? She wondered.  No one else around her seemed too concerned.

“Who was that?”  Lance asked, approaching her and staring darkly after the man.

“N–no one,” she said, busying herself with her candy, forcing her hands not to shake.  “He thought I was someone else.”

“Oh.  Well then,” he said, but didn’t believe her for a moment.  There was no way Angeleigh could be mistaken for someone else.  She was too distinctive-looking, and that was not just his personal bias talking.  “Let’s pay and go over to the Three Broomsticks.  We have about an hour and a half until we need to start back to the school, but I assume it’ll get busy in there pretty quickly.”  They paid for their sweets, passed the Hog’s Head Inn again, and headed down the street to the Three Broomsticks in silence.  As they passed over a small hill Angeleigh caught a glimpse of a dilapidated house.  “What’s that?” she asked, trying to make conversation.

“The Shrieking Shack,” Lance told her.  “Only it doesn’t shriek so much anymore, at least not that the locals have mentioned.  It’s been years since there was any activity, but no one goes near it just in case.  They say it’s quite haunted.”

“By a poltergeist or something?”

He shrugged.  “No idea.  It’s more of a legend now than fact.  The older students like to tease the younger kids about it—try and scare them, you know?”

She sniffed at the boarded up windows and chained, padlocked front door.  The house didn’t look remotely frightening, and she found it funny that third years would be taken in by such tales.  “Yeah, real scary,” she said, rolling her eyes and chuckling.

“Hard to impress, I see,” Lance teased as the approached the Three Broomsticks.  “Get a seat and I’ll get drinks.  Save a couple of seats for the other girls, will you?”

“Sure,” she said, making her way to a table with four empty seats.  She sat and dug out her bag of sherbet balls and popped one in her mouth and looking around the pub, which was starting to get busy.  Several groups of students were jostling in, cheeks pink and eyes watering from the February chill.  Angeleigh caught sight of Antigone and Vanora and waved them over.  “Lance and I saved you seats,” she said with a gesture to the empty chairs.

“And where is our gallant knight at now?” drawled Antigone, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

“Oh, off getting drinks,” Angeleigh stammered, Antigone’s look disconcerting her.  “What?” she demanded, face getting redder.  “Okay, just... stop looking at me like that,” she said, flustered.

“Awww, is the widdle Gwyffindor embawassed?” taunted Vanora good-naturedly.

“Shut up,” snapped Angeleigh, her face now a perfect shade of Gryffindor scarlet.

“Who’s picking on you this time?” asked Lance, approaching them and taking a seat.  He set down the drinks and looked from Antigone to Vanora expectantly.  “Oh.  Just you guys.”

“Yeah, just the chopped liver over here,” said Vanora with a yawn.

“Oh, be still,” Lance told her, but he was grinning.  “You guys want drinks?”

“Brought my own, thanks,” Antigone said, reaching into her robes and pulling out her silver flask.

“But I didn’t.  I’ll take a butterbeer, easy on the foam,” Vanora interjected.

Lance rolled his eyes and turned back toward the bar, which was now starting to fill up rapidly.  “He’s such a sucker,” Vanora lamented.  “Nice guy, but easy to wrap around your little finger.  I bet if you asked him to lick the floor clean before you stepped on it he would,” she said, pacific blue eyes trained on Angeleigh.

“Whatever you girls are getting at you can quit while you’re ahead.”

Antigone took a lazy swig from her flask.  “We only tease you because we like you.  You do realize if we didn’t like you we just wouldn’t talk to you at all.  It’s time to loosen up with us, dear.  You can relax, we like you well enough.  Honestly.” She handed over the flask.  “Here.  Drink long and deep.”

Angeleigh took the flask and poised it over her lips to drink.  “Um... what am I drinking to?”

“Friends?” suggested Vanora brightly.

“That’s so cheesy,” Angeleigh and Antigone said at the same time, causing them to crack up with laughter.  “Ok, fine, cheese or no, I’ll do it.  To friends!” Angeleigh exclaimed, taking a long, deep swig, and forgetting almost entirely about the incident in Honeydukes.

Chapter 17: Defense Against the Dark Arts

Whatever fun Angeleigh may have had during the Hogsmeade weekend quickly dissipated Monday morning when she woke up with a very painful hangover.  Antigone had said around a bout of hiccups that it was her new goal to corrupt the shy Gryffindor as much as was possible, which made a very rapidly drunken Angeleigh convulse with laughter as she drained more Ogden’s Firewhiskey from Antigone’s seemingly bottomless flask.  It was all very illicit, and without a doubt the most fun Angeleigh had had since arriving at Hogwarts.

But now, as she stared at her bedside clock and desperately willed the numbers upon its face to come into focus, she realized she would pay dearly for her fun if she did not get up and out of bed now; she was on the way to being late for Transfiguration, and certainly a detention if she didn’t hurry.  The problem was, the way her room kept spinning made hurrying difficult.  She managed to find a clean set of robes and drag a brush through her hair.  She rushed to the Gryffindor girls’ washroom and splashed cold water on her face, and hoped that no one would notice her bloodshot eyes.  She brushed her teeth to get the aftertaste of bile and whiskey off her breath, grabbed her books, and hustled off to class, her head pounding and her stomach roiling.

She was still a bit late, as she had expected she would be.  Professor McGonagall had already begun her lecture, and fixed Angeleigh with a stern glare as she sidled into the classroom.  She took a seat at the back, on an end seat near a half-asleep Ravenclaw boy, and exited the room as soon as the class was over.  She figured it would be best not to give Professor McGonagall any extra opportunities to grill her about her tardiness.

Her head spun as she made her way through the sea of robed students.  Merlin, she needed to sit down.  She headed down the staircase, afraid she would topple over, and made her way to a stone bench on the landing.  She collapsed, rubbing her temples.  The sound of students talking and laughing and shuffling by her was deafening to her overly sensitive ears.  “Make them go away,” she murmured to no one in particular, squeezing her eyes closed in a vain attempt to shut the world out.

“Wow, look what the cat dragged in!” said a familiar, overly cheery voice.

“Damn Vanora... do you have to be so loud?” Angeleigh asked, squinting up at her disgustingly exuberant friend.

Vanora stuck out her tongue.  “Not my fault you’re hungover.  Anee warned you, but nooooo, you had to go be the showoff and chug the last of the—“ she cut off abruptly and nodded respectfully to a passing professor, then sat down quickly next to Angeleigh, dropping her voice volume a bit.  “I’ve never seen someone puke as much as you did last night,” she added with a giggle.

“Ugh, just stop talking,” Angeleigh complained, covering her ears.

“Someone’s hungover,” said Antigone, approaching and prying a hand away from Angeleigh’s head.  “You really did yourself in.  It was a pain in the ass getting you back to your tower last night... I had to pull some strings with Lance not to tell about this.”

“You mean you threatened him,” Angeleigh interpreted.

“Call it what you will,” she said, dismissing it with a regal wave of her hand.  “Either way, you were pissed.  You were pretty funny.”

“Glad to be of entertainment value,” Angeleigh grumbled.  “Merlin... I was late to Transfiguration... and I’m starving, but feel like if I eat I’ll throw up.  Is this normal?”

“The first couple of times, yes.  Then you get to be like us and have tolerance,” Vanora said with a wide-eyed nod.  She rummaged in her pack and pulled out an apple.  “It’s not a lot, and it won’t do much to get you through til lunch, but it may help.  Eat up.”

Angeleigh took the apple with a slight groan.  “Thanks.  Where am I supposed to be now?” she asked, straightening up on the bench and pulling her hair back with an elastic.  “I think this is Monday, but I’m not sure.”

“It is Monday and you’re due in DADA with us,” Antigone said.  “Wow.  You even forgot your schedule.  You’re badly hungover.  I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone this bad... Vans, you were, but nothing compared to--”

“Yes, yes, I’m bloody hungover already,” Angeleigh interrupted, managing to stand.  The stairwell began to spin around her and she feared she’d fall over.  “Little help here,” she said, stumbling over toward the railing for the east staircases.  “Nevermind... so long as I hold on I’m okay.”
“Hey, wait til Wildeve sees this!” Vanora said brightly.

“Shit, I forgot about him.  He was a hitwizard and sees everything that goes on,” Antigone said darkly.  “Um... stick with us.  We’ll all sit in the back of the classroom, lie low during his lecture, and leave right after to get you sobered up.”

The three girls picked their way through the dissipating sea of students and headed for the last room in the fourth floor east corridor.  They had nearly made it when the chimes sounded, signaling the end of passing period.  They were late.

“Damn.  Two classes in a row.  I’m doing well,” Angeleigh whispered as they approached the heavy oaken door.  “You are both such a wonderful influence on me.”

“Just shut up and play cool now,” Antigone snapped.  “I was hungover once in class and he made it hell for me.”  She grabbed the iron knob and twisted.  The door did not yield, and Antigone swore under her breath.  “We’re officially late,” she announced.  “He locked the door.”

“So we get to skip now?”

“No,” Vanora explained.  “We knock three times.  He comes to the door and makes some form of harassing comment meant to embarrass the pants off of us, and then lectures us about being on time for class.  Then he lets us in, but we have to sit in the front row of class.”

“I take it you’ve been late before,” Angeleigh said.  She gulped; she’d seen him give the third degree to the students relegated to the front row.

Antigone knocked three times.  It seemed an eternity before the stern, icy professor opened the door and stood, surveying the latecomers.  Angeleigh bit her lip and stood as still and straight as possible, even as the hall swam about her and her head pounded mercilessly.  Vanora was wide-eyed innocence, and Antigone was completely impassive.

Professor Wildeve was eerily silent for what felt like an eternity.  Nerves combined with the hangover to make Angeleigh dizzy, and she realized she was holding her breath.  She let it out and tried to breathe normally, though the pressure of Wildeve’s harsh, probing stare made that difficult.  At long last the corners of his mouth turned up in what was unmistakably the signature bemused grin he bestowed upon troublemakers.  It was a mockery of a smile, meant to instill complete and utter discomfort.  It was currently doing its job well.

“Ah.  The Misses Windemere, MacGrear, and St. Martin,” he finally said smoothly.  “Class began five minutes ago.  But I’m sure you already knew that, being sixth years and all,” he continued in his patronizing tone.  “Did you feel the need to extend your weekend by another five minutes?  Or perhaps you just felt like wasting valuable class time.  This is Defense Against the Dark Arts, you know.  And there is war brewing outside these walls.  Every moment counts.  And you have wasted several.”

If guilt was Wildeve’s aim, he was doing a good job of it on Angeleigh.  She felt her cheeks and the tips of her ears burning with shame.  She cast a sidelong glance at Antigone and Vanora.  Antigone did not seem affected by his harangue, and Angeleigh recalled her pre-Christmas holiday conversation with the Slytherin, when she’d flatly told her her mother was a Death Eater.  Of course she knew war was brewing, better than most students here.  Vanora also seemed curiously unaffected, which was odd when Angeleigh remembered her Death Eater boggart from the otter incident back in December.

“I’ll not have any more time wasted,” Wildeve finished.  “All three of you.  Front row, now.”  They shuffled past him and he let the door slam behind them, making Angeleigh jump slightly.  “And to think I expected better out of the Slightly Tarnished Threesome,” he added softly, but loud enough for the rest of the class to hear and snicker at.  Angeleigh heard an irritated sigh as she passed, and caught the disapproving glare of Magic Cyrus.  She looked away quickly, but found herself secretly glad she’d done something else to irritate him.  The self-important git needed to learn that he had no business controlling her.  The thought somehow made her latest situation seem a bit lighter.

“Now that we’re finally ready to begin class,” Wildeve said with a pointed glare at the three girls, “today’s discussion: curse deflection and reflection.  Comments?”

Notebooks came out of book bags, and quills scratched furiously as the discussion began.  Angeleigh listened as attentively as she could, but her throbbing head wasn’t making it easy on her.  She scrawled as much as she could in her notebook, wincing as the words blurred before her eyes.  Most of the comments were coming from Cyrus.  What a know it all, she thought, finally setting down her quill and listening to him drone on about deflection versus reflection, and the pros and cons of each.  A small corner of her consciousness wondered how much more she would have to drink to develop tolerance and wake up without a hangover.

“A lovely explanation, Mr. Dumontia,” Wildeve finally said, and Angeleigh emerged from her thoughts–or more appropriately, boredom-induced coma– to be secretly glad that his voice retained its patronizing tone.  “Anyone have a rebuttal to his excellent points?  Miss Windemere, you always have something to say,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Antigone expectantly.

“I fully and wholeheartedly agree with all Mr. Dumontia has said,” Antigone said flatly.  “I have no reason to disagree.  At least no reason that wouldn’t get me kicked out of class.”  She fixed Professor Wildeve with her own stare, her dark eyes gazing at him coolly, challenging him to a battle of wills and words.

Apparently Wildeve was accustomed to this, because he only raised his eyebrow at Antigone, smiling ever so slightly.  “At least you’ve learned one lesson in my classroom, Miss Windemere,” he said, even as his eyes roved around the class for another victim.  They didn’t have to look far.  “Miss St. Martin.  Please enlighten us with your doubtlessly unique perspective.”

Angeleigh felt herself go cold as ice water flowed into her veins.  Her heartbeat was abnormally loud and she didn’t know if it was the hangover or the nerves making it seem that way.  “M–my p-p-p--perspective?” she stuttered, her mouth feeling like it was full of cotton, making it difficult to get the words out correctly.  “Well... I... Um... what he said?” she finished lamely, with a slight jerk of her chin in Cyrus’ direction.

Wildeve wasn’t amused, nor was his appetite for ego destruction satiated.  “What he said.  What. He.  Said.  Did you even hear what Mr. Dumontia said?”

“Yes, sir, yes, I did,” she mumbled, biting hard on her lip.

“At least you’re paying some semblance of attention,” he growled.  “So your perspective is the same as his?”  She nodded miserably.  “He holds to a method of reflection being the best bet in a dual.  You agree?”  She nodded again.  “Why?”

Angeleigh blinked.  “Why?”  She thought as quickly as her fuzzy brain would allow.  Why did she agree with what Cyrus had to say?  Or did she even agree?  “I agree... to a degree.  Mr. Dumontia has given us excellent examples from the textbook,” she said slowly.  She heard people inhale all around her, Wildeve included.  She took a deep breath.  “The theory is everything is good in theory,” she said.  “We can discuss countercurses, and hexes, and jinxes, and talk about what’s best to use when, but when you’re in a situation you don’t think like that.  You just... react.  Sometimes it’s not the best reaction, and sometimes it is, but you’re in the moment and you do what you do and decide if it was a good choice later.  Hindsight is good like that.”  She paused, shocked she’d said quite so much, and scared at how many points he would deduct from Gryffindor for her comments.

“And you’ve been in situations?” Vanora asked suddenly, fixing her intense gaze on Angeleigh.  The tone in her voice was hollow, yet challenging.  “You’ve had to use hindsight?”

Angeleigh was taken aback by this unexpected hollowness from her friend.  It felt as though the room had gone very, very cold, and she actually shivered.  “I’ve... had to use hindsight before,” she responded lamely.

“So you have been places and seen things,” Vanora stated.  “Care to share?”

“Are particulars necessary?”  Asked Magic Cyrus from a few rows back, coming to Angeleigh’s rescue.  “The point of this discussion isn’t—“

“Can it, Magic Boy,” Vanora snapped.  “I’d really like to hear some of these particulars.”

Angeleigh felt the room start to spin again.  She felt nausea knead at her stomach.  Vanora’s eyes, normally so friendly and sparkling, had darkened and now appeared almost threatening as she stared long and hard at Angeleigh.  “No,” she said quietly, around the choking feeling in her throat.  She looked helplessly to Wildeve, who was fixing her with a stare of his own, though it was more curious or intrigued than anything else.  He seemed to be wondering how she’d handle this sudden, ominous turn of events.  It almost seemed he was saying, you got yourself into this.  Now get yourself out.

“It—it isn’t important to the discussion,” she mumbled, sliding down in her seat.  She wanted to disappear entirely.

“You brought it up,” Vanora said in a silky voice, reclining in her chair.  “Please, entertain us.”

The atmosphere was stifling.  The walls were closing in on her.  Angeleigh hugged her arms to her chest, hoping for any sort of protection she could get at this point.  Rarely had she felt this threatened since the fiasco with the letter.  She had the same gnawing, icy hollowness in her abdomen as she’d had with the letter, and on the night her parents were killed, as well.  Fear.  Primal, instinctive fear, oozing throughout her, telling her to leave this room and the dangers within it that threatened her safety and sanity.

“Leave me alone,” she told Vanora in a strangled whisper.  The rest of the students watched with horror-struck fascination, but Angeleigh was unaware of their presence.  Even Wildeve seemed to have disappeared, leaving Angeleigh alone with this sudden deranged version of her friend.  “Just leave me alone,” she said again.  She had to get out.  She needed an escape, any form of escape from this place.

“No,” Vanora said simply, a sadistically pleased grin on her face.

“Stop it.”

“No.”

“Cut it out, now!  Vanora, stop it...you’re scaring me.”  Hysteria rang clearly in her voice.  Angeleigh felt she was drowning.  She couldn’t breathe...

“I know I’m scaring you.  You scare so easily,” Vanora said, sounding bored.  “But you’d never tell anyone would you.  You’d never tell... anything.”

If she’d felt cold before, it was nothing compared to the way Angeleigh felt now.  A block of ice settled within her.  Her extremities tingled and her nausea became a reality.  She gagged on a wave of dry heaves, all shame and dignity tossed aside as she retched emptily in the front row for all sixteen year old Gryffindors and Slytherins to see.  She shoved her chair back, slamming into Eva Grossman’s desk, making the Slytherin girl huff angrily, and reminding Angeleigh suddenly that there were other students in the room.  She grabbed her book bag and leveled a hard, cold stare of her own at Vanora.  “You know nothing,” She hissed, standing up quickly.  “Nothing,” she repeated more loudly, for the rest of the class to hear.  “And you don’t know anything either!” she just about shrieked at Wildeve.

If he was shocked or offended by her behavior, he made no indication of it.  He merely watched her gather her things and storm out of his classroom.  The rest of the class held their breath.  To the best of their knowledge no one had ever told off Ridley Wildeve, and if they had, they certainly hadn’t lived to tell about it.  All eyes now darted nervously between Wildeve and Vanora, who still sat casually in the front row, leaning back in her chair as though nothing had happened.

She looked over at Antigone.  “Hey, where’d Ange go?”

Antigone’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “She left,” she said flatly.  If she was shaken by Vanora’s sudden behavior, and indeed she was, she didn’t let on.  She stared at Vanora for a moment, then turned her gaze to her notebook page, pretending to study the few notes she’d written.

Vanora shrugged.  The mist seemed to have cleared from her eyes.  She looked around the class, a smile pasted on her face, and then back to the professor.  “So.  What were we talking about again?”

Chapter 18: Demons

“What happened in class?”

Angeleigh looked up to see Lance staring down at her.  Even hiding in the Arithmancy stacks she could not get away from prying eyes.  She sighed.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Lance sighed as well and sat down next to her without waiting for an invitation.  “Look, it was pretty freaky for everyone, not just you.  I’m not sure even Vanora knows what to make of it.  And Cyrus wanted to have an emergency Prefects’ meeting, but the Head Boy had to remind him who was in charge,” he said with a chuckle.  “But the real question isn’t what happened, I guess.  That’ll come in time.  It’s how are you,” he said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

Angeleigh chewed at her bottom lip, touched by his concern, but still shaken by what had happened in class.  “I’m... I dunno.  I’ll be ok,” she said with a shrug.

“I’ve heard that one before,” Lance gently teased.  “Look, Anee told me you were hungover, and given your record you can’t really skip classes this afternoon.”

“I don’t want to go to them,” Angeleigh said simply.

“Come on... don’t let it get you down.  Be normal, act like nothing happened.”

“Easier said than done.”

Lance sighed and rose to his feet, reaching out a hand to help Angeleigh up as well.  “Come on, lunch will be over with soon.  You’ll feel better if you eat.”

There was never a point in arguing with Lance Shadowcrest, so Angeleigh took his hand and laboriously rose to her feet.  They exited the library in silence.  The halls were fairly quiet, aside from the occasional passing ghost.  Several times Lance smiled down at her in an attempt to comfort her, and once he nearly patted her shoulder reassuringly, but withdrew his hand quickly.  They neared the Great Hall when Angeleigh stopped in the middle of the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” Lance asked, concerned.

“I want you to know... I wasn’t always like this,” she told him.  “Nervous.  Scared of everything.”

Lance regarded her curiously.  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in feeling fear,” he said.  “It’s a natural response to threatening situations.  And times being what they are...”  His voice trailed off.

Angeleigh gave him a small, slightly sad smile.  “Yes... I suppose you’re right, there.  But still.  I was different.  And it kind of hurts that I won’t have that back.”  Why was she telling him this?  

“Ange,” he began awkwardly.  “You are now who you are.  Whatever you were then... well, I know and care about the Ange you are right now.  Even if you do get hungover and storm out of classes,” he added with a wink.

She blushed, both from his kind remarks and his jibe at her less than appealing behavior within the last twenty-four hours.  “You’re kind, Lance,” she said.  “Thanks.”

He escorted her into the Great Hall.  By that point just about everyone had heard about Angeleigh’s outburst in class, and conversations halted mid-sentence as all eyes turned to her.  But almost immediately conversations resumed, only with a different topic: Angeleigh St. Martin.  The rumors had to be delicious, Angeleigh mused as she made her way to the Gryffindor table.  Rarely did she attract anywhere near this much attention.  She felt her ears burning again, and wished she had an Invisibility Cloak to hide under.

“This is so embarrassing,” she whispered to Lance, who steered her toward the Gryffindor table.  She took a seat and closed her eyes, feeling the familiar pulsations between her temples.  Only this time the headache wasn’t from the hangover.

“Don’t think about them,” Lance said, sitting down next to her.  “You only have about ten minutes until your next class.  So use them well.  Eat,” he ordered, and a plate filled with food appeared at Angeleigh’s place.

She was sure eating would bring back the sick feeling in her stomach, but to her surprise it actually did help.  And she realized she was ravenous.  She wolfed down what was on her plate, washing it down with a glass of juice.  Lance watched the petite girl, amazed she could fit that much food into her body, and particularly in that short a period of time.

“Much better,” Angeleigh finally said, sighing contentedly, and putting out of her mind the fact that most of the school was talking about her even as she sat there.  “I didn’t realize I was that hungry.”  She grinned at Lance, but her grin slowly dissolved into a frown.

“What’s wrong?” Lance asked, turning in the direction of her frown.  “Oh...” he said slowly.

Cyrus stalked through the Great Hall, causing younger students to shrink back away from him and older students to turn their heads in a combination of fear and resentment.  His destination was quite clear, and he not only stopped when he reached it, but sat down as well.  Half the Gryffindor table jumped up and left immediately, while the other half hurried to finish their food so they could join those who’d left before them.  Angeleigh wished desperately to be with the first group, but now she was cornered.

Lance would not go down without a fight, though, and he gave Angeleigh a slight nod and encouraging smile, as if saying I’ll handle this.  “Cyrus,” he began with forced cordiality.  “Lovely of you to grace us with your presence.”  He turned his stare on Cyrus, no friendship—real or feigned—evident in his expression.

Cyrus sniffed haughtily.  “This doesn’t concern you, Shadowcrest,” he said.  “I came to talk to the girl.  You can leave now.”

“I’m not leaving, and especially not my own house’s table,” Lance said between his clenched teeth.  “Anything you have to say to her you can say in front of me as well, Dumontia,” Lance spat.

“Be that as it may—”

“Just say it already, Cyrus,” Angeleigh said, exasperated, though rather tickled pink by Lance’s quick defense of her.  “Like he said, anything you have to say can be said in front of him.”

Cyrus narrowed his pale blue eyes at Lance, obviously not trusting the stoic Gryffindor, but at last swallowed his pride and gave in.  “Something odd happened in class today,” he began.

“No, really?”  Angeleigh said sarcastically.  “Damn.  I must be among the 1% of this whole school who hasn’t heard about it yet.  Do share details.”

“This isn’t the time to be flippant,” Cyrus said.  “Something odd happened, and we need to get to the bottom of it.”  This time it was his turn to frown.

Angeleigh and Lance both turned in the direction of his frown and caught sight of Antigone weaving her way past a knot of scared first year Hufflepuffs, on her way to their table.  Now the rest of the Gryffindor	table made their quick getaway, leaving Angeleigh and Lance alone with the two imposing Slytherins.

Antigone sat down on Angeleigh’s left side, facing Cyrus.  It looked like a showdown, three against one.  “If you’re going to talk to her about this morning you have to get through me first,” Antigone announced.  “I don’t know what’s going on or what happened this morning, but since it was between my two best friends I have every right to be in on whatever you’re planning, you self-important git,” Antigone said crossly.

Cyrus was about to say something in retort, but changed his mind as the last of the students filtered out, on their way to the first of the afternoon class sessions.  “You I’ll deal with later,” he told her.  He sighed.  “Since this is the best I can get, I want us to all meet on the seventh floor this evening... the room we used the last time she was in trouble,” he added, nodding at Angeleigh.  He stood.  “Right after dinner, I expect to see you there,” he told them, but it was really directed at Angeleigh.  With that, he stormed off, headed for his class.

Angeleigh realized it would be good to at least be on time for something today, so she gathered her things and stood as well.  “Has he always been this annoying?” she asked Antigone and Lance as they headed out of the Great Hall.

“Yes,” Lance said, but Antigone was pensive, a small grin playing on her lips.

“He’s always been an annoyance, yes, but some things ripen with age.  Like fine whine,” she said, giggling and pulling out her flask, even despite Lance’s stern, disapproving glare.  She rolled her eyes.  “Come on, Sir Shadowcrest, this deserves celebration.  Angeleigh is slowly manifesting signs of my efforts to corrupt her.”  She took a hearty, though surreptitious swig, and handed the flask to Angeleigh.  “Come on, Ange, drink deep.”

Angeleigh smiled, but refused the offer.  “The last time you told me that–which was no more than 24 hours ago, mind—I wound up waking up with the worst–er, first–hangover of my life.  I should be sober for at least a few classes today.”

Antigone pouted, but hid the flask again.  “Suit yourself.”	

______________________________________________________________________________

After dinner that night Lance and Angeleigh headed up to the seventh floor.  They walked in silence, Angeleigh not caring to speak, and Lance not wanting to bother her.  Antigone was already there, and much to Angeleigh’s discomfort, so was Vanora.  The blond Slytherin was her usual, chipper self, though, her blue eyes clear and sparkling as the Pacific ocean.  She waved cheerily to Angeleigh and Lance, who were both too puzzled to do much else by half-heartedly wave back.  Antigone paced, her eyes narrowed and flicking between Vanora and Angeleigh and they approached.

“Looks like Magic Cyrus wanted to have a secret meeting,” Vanora piped up, shaking her dredlocks and grinning.  “And we all know, when Magic Boy says jump, we say how high, O Great One?”

Angeleigh managed a grin, still remembering the dark events of earlier that day.  “Yeah, that’s Magic Boy for ya,” she mumbled, moving slightly so she was half hidden by Lance.

“Jump,” came a bored voice, and Cyrus appeared out of the shadows.
Vanora giggled and rolled her eyes.  “How high, O Great One,” she said, and stuck out her tongue at him.  “But seriously, I have a boatload of Potions homework I forgot to do over the weekend, and it’s due first thing tomorrow.  We’re not all anal smartypantses like you.”

“My hope is that this will be brief, but if it has to last all night it will,” he said and flicked his wand at the wall.  A door appeared.  “Come on in... no one will find us here.  We’ve got business to attend to.”

The five students entered the room, which was set up with overstuffed chairs.  A fire crackled cozily in the fireplace.  Angeleigh immediately sat down.  Lance sat at the arm of her chair, Vanora sat upside down in her chair, Antigone leaned against the fireplace, and Cyrus paced.  “You all wonder why I called you here,” he began.

“Because when you say jump, we say—“

“I’m not joking this time, Vanora,” Cyrus snapped, making the girl’s grin fade and the sparkle in her eyes dim.  “Things are happening.  Something is at work here.  I can sense it, and I don’t like it.”

“So what do you sense, Great One Who Only Passed Divination Because His Daddy Works For The Ministry And Could Get The Professor Fired?” Antigone spoke up.

Cyrus rolled his eyes.  “You don’t have to be a Seer to feel magical undercurrents,” he said in a superior tone.

“No shit, Sherlock.  What are you sensing?” Antigone said.  “Be quick about it, because like Vanora, I didn’t do my Potions homework.  I wasn’t expecting a secret meeting of the Cyrus Society.”

“Let me begin by asking you what you’re sensing,” Cyrus countered with a cool glance at Antigone.  “You’re the Big Bad Almost Seer.  Yes, I can throw around childish insults with the best of them,” he added blandly.

Antigone glared at him, her eyes hard.  She crossed her arms over her chest, her body language clearly closing her off.  She raised one eyebrow in a delicate arch.  “I’m sensing things aren’t quite right.  I feel that there’s something conspiring to do someone harm.  I feel that that someone may be Professor Snape.”

The other four students all swivelled their heads to look at Antigone in shock and confusion.  “Professor Snape?” Lance said doubtfully.  “I know you don’t like him, but—“

“Snape is conspiring against me if I don’t get to finish my damned homework.”

“Antigone this is serious,” Cyrus snapped, his frustration leaking past his emotionless exterior.  “I hate thinking I’m jumping to conclusions, but something happened in DADA that can’t go unaddressed!”

“Yeah, what did happen in DADA?” Vanora piped up.  “Everyone’s talking about it, but no one’s telling me.  One minute Ange was shooting down Cyrus’ explanations, the next she was gone.  Poof!  Didja learn to Apparate?” Vanora asked.  “Are you corrupted yet?”

“I left class.  I didn’t feel comfortable there,” Angeleigh said, squirming, and feeling very uncomfortable now.  “You... really don’t recall what happened.”

Vanora rolled her eyes.  “Duh, I was there, I think I’d know, but somehow I don’t.  Did I turn into an otter again?  Or did Wildeve just bore me to sleep?  Maybe that was it...”

Angeleigh was at a loss.  She didn’t want to remind Vanora of the ominous feelings she’d felt, but at the same time it was hard for her to believe she didn’t remember any of it.  “Yeah,” she said dully, “Wildeve can get boring, and class can get irritating...”

“You know what’s really irritating,” Antigone began.

“Yes, wanting to finish your homework.  You’ve said so before,” Cyrus nearly shouted.

Antigone fixed him with a very cold, hard glare.  “No.  Try listening.  Before assuming.  Emphasis on the ass.”  She calmed herself slightly before continuing.  “We all know something is up.  Some of us more than others.  But we’re all friends, or so I’d like to think.  Well, with the exception of you, Cyrus, who does not make friends with anyone.  But you’re in on this no less.  My point is, I don’t forge friendships easily.”  She stared at each individual in turn, as if driving the point home.  “If I have made a friend, I make a point to be honest.  Pretenses will get you nowhere.  If you want me as your ally, I suggest we start being honest here.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, but no one spoke up.

“Don’t all jump in at once,” Antigone snapped.  “Fine.  I’ll get things started.  You all already know this about me–you too, Ange–but it’ll give you an idea on what I mean about honesty.  My mother is a Death Eater.  I’ve spent most of my life being a mother to my younger brother and sister and trying to protect them from her utter lunacy.  She’s involved in underground networks and is wanted for killing an Auror.”  Her gaze, and her very stance, challenged anyone in the room to confront her about it, but she met silence.  “Someone else go.  How about Magic Boy,” she said.

“You have it out for me tonight,” Cyrus grumbled.  “I don’t know what there is to tell.”

“How about why you keep following Ange around and making her miserable, treating her like a First Year and all?” Lance suggested caustically.

“My father is head of International Magical Law Enforcement,” Cyrus said with a shrug.  “She’s an international student.”

“The bloody head of the International branch?” Vanora broke in, her face pale, despite her hanging upside down.
“Yes,” Cyrus said, sparing her a curious glance.  “Before I go I think Angeleigh should do some explaining.  Since she’s the one I’m stalking and all.”

All eyes focused on Angeleigh.  She felt a momentary surge of panic and doubt, wondering if her friends were really what they seemed.  She knew she doubted Vanora, even though the blond girl was looking pale and very confused about the earlier events.  But she trusted Antigone, and Lance... and even Cyrus, and they all trusted Vanora.  She cleared her throat.  “Um... I’m from America, as you all know,” she began awkwardly.  “You know my parents were Aurors and they were killed.”  Everyone nodded solemnly.  “What I didn’t tell... haven’t told much of anyone, not even my uncle... I was almost killed.  I... spent some time with Silas Reaper, one of the big You-Know-Who supporters in my country.”

“Define ‘spent some time’,” Antigone said.

Angeleigh bit her lip, then slowly rolled up the cuffs of her robes.  She displayed her wrists.  “You’ve heard rumors, you’ve seen these... and now you know the truth.”

“Tell us the truth already,” Antigone said, exasperated.  “God.  Having you confirm rumors isn’t the same as telling us the whole story.”

“The truth shall set you free,” Lance said quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

With all eyes expectantly upon her, Angeleigh felt she had little choice.  She began with the basics, about her parents being Aurors, and protecting some of the major Auror families from Silas Reaper.  She left names out, and firmly kept the lid closed tightly on the secrets she concealed.  She quickly touched on her parents’ murders, chocking up briefly as memories of that horrid night threatened at her consciousness.  And then she told about Silas.  She was shocked how vivid the images of him still were in her brain, and how clearly she remembered every curse, every kick, every broken bone sustained under his torment.

“...And then I wound up here,” she finished simply, biting her lip again and looking around.  Whatever reaction she’d been expecting, it was not this.  Lance’s eyes seemed brighter in the firelight, and he bravely tried to blink back tears.  Antigone seemed impressed, and the way her indigo eyes swept over the petite Gryffindor, it was clear she hadn’t expected the girl could take that much and survive, let alone with a sane personality.  Even though Cyrus had probably already heard about the torture, hearing the details gave him a whole new perspective on things.  Angeleigh nearly giggled to herself when she realized that this was an education for him, realizing that as much as he knew, he still didn’t know everything.  She then spared a cautious glance at Vanora.

Vanora stared back at her coolly.  “So you’re telling us you survived, only to be haunted by demons the likes of which no mere mortal can fathom,” she said flatly, but there was no missing her sarcasm.  “Well, poor you.”

“We all have our demons, Vanora,” Angeleigh said through clenched teeth, avoiding the other girl’s darkening gaze.

“I suppose we do.  Some of us just know how to control them.”

“So what are these demons you keep such a tight rein on, Vanora?”  Angeleigh challenged.  “Are you going to share and give us some understanding, or just keep cutting me down?”

“It’s not pertinent to the conversation,” Vanora retorted, evidently mocking Angeleigh’s nearly identical comment that morning.  “Though I must say, you’re quite the interesting person...”

“She’s highly protected by the Ministry, for the sake of international security,” Cyrus said, his hand tightening around his wand.  “Purely because she’s so interesting.  I’ve been told to report odd goings on to my father.  What happened in class this morning qualifies.”

Vanora sneered at Cyrus.  “Well then run and tell Daddy, Magic Boy.  Don’t let us keep you.”

Antigone strode over and grabbed Vanora by the front of her robes and dragged her to the stone floor.  “What’s gotten into you?”  She snapped.  She pinned Vanora down with a boot to the chest.  “This is the second time today.  What’s going on?”

Angeleigh watched, frightened, as Antigone attacked Vanora.  Vanora was one of the very few people Antigone trusted, and now she was physically attacking her?  “Antigone, stop,” she said feebly.

But Vanora only laughed and rested her hands behind her head.  “You know, Magic Boy, you’re lucky I don’t run home and tell my Daddy every time something like this happens.”

Antigone jumped back, as if Vanora’s robes had suddenly stung her.  She regarded the mildly crazy witch on the floor.  “You wouldn’t,” she hissed, a spark of panic in her eyes as she looked, desperately, to Angeleigh, Lance, and Cyrus.

“I’m in close contact with my demons,” Vanora said simply, sitting up and facing Angeleigh.  “We communicate well.  Maybe you should try the same thing.  Tell your demons everything.”

“Not everything,” Angeleigh said, voice shaking with terror.  “There are some things that just aren’t meant to be known.”

“But we’re all friends here.  We trust each other.  C’mon, I’ll even pinky swear!” Vanora exclaimed.  She got to her feet and made her way over to Angeleigh, step by slow, painstaking step.  She grinned.  “The truth will set you free...”

“Stop it!”  Angeleigh screamed, the same moment Cyrus and Antigone drew their wands and aimed at the still-advancing Vanora.  Lance flung himself in front of Angeleigh, nearly smothering her in his robes.  She could not see anything, only hear Cyrus and Antigone cry out incantations, and Vanora shriek with surprise.

Eventually Lance peeled himself off of her.  “You okay?” he asked, genuine, terrified concern written all over his face.

Angeleigh trembled a bit and looked around.  Residual spell smoke still hung in the air.  Antigone and Cyrus were hunched over Vanora, their faces haggard and grim.  Vanora lay in a crumpled heap of robes and dredlocks, and for one horrible moment Angeleigh wondered if they had killed her.  But slowly the heap of robes began to stir, and then Vanora groaned.  Angeleigh looked wordlessly at Antigone, who only mouthed the words ‘stunning curse’, with a pointed glance at both her own wand and Cyrus’ wand.  Vanora took quite some time coming to, and Angeleigh found herself holding her breath and hoping Vanora would be alright.

“Merlin’s beard, what happened?” Vanora slurred, trying to sit upright.  “My head is killing me!”

Antigone and Cyrus were both, for once, stumped for the right words.  Angeleigh looked to Lance, who shrugged helplessly.  She sighed and came up with the first thing she could think of.  “Antigone and Cyrus started arguing, decided to duel, and you walked into the middle of it,” she said with a nod, praying the semi-coherent girl would accept her fib as truth.  It was pretty conceivable to think of Antigone and Cyrus dueling, even for someone completely lucid.

Vanora hauled herself back up to her chair.  “Flask,” she said to Antigone, who wordlessly obliged.  She took a swig and grimaced as it went down.  “Maybe I should go see Madame Pomfrey,” she thought aloud.  “First I space in DADA, and then I have the balls to waltz into the middle of a Cy and Anee duel!  Who won?”  She asked groggily as she handed the flask back to Antigone.

“It was a draw,” Antigone finally said, and Cyrus nodded in corroboration.  “Look, Cy... can we call it a night?  My potions homework...”

“Oh yeah, mine too,” Vanora piped up, still a bit stunned, but otherwise oblivious to the tension that crackled in the air.

“Ange and I had some Charms to finish up, didn’t we,” Lance interjected with a nod that Angeleigh emulated.  He helped her to her feet and draped his arm casually, though protectively, over her shoulders.  “Let’s head back to Gryffindor,” he said with a forced smile.

They left the room, leaving the three Slytherins to sort things out amongst themselves.  Angeleigh was grateful for Lance’s warm, reassuring touch.  They walked back to Gryffindor, again silent, both pondering the significance of this evening’s events.  There was no doubting that something was very much wrong, but what caused it or if they, as half-trained sixth years would be able to work through it, remained to be determined.  They at last approached the Fat Lady’s portrait, finally breaking their ponderous silence to speak the password that would admit them to the safety of Gryffindor Tower.

Lance escorted Angeleigh to the foot of the girls’ staircases.  “Are you certain you’ll be fine this evening?” he asked, worry evident in his eyes.

Angeleigh sighed and shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I suppose I will, but paranoia and all tells me I won’t.”

“Demons,” Lance spat venomously.  “Don’t let them get the better of you... I knew you were strong, but until tonight, I had no idea how very strong you’ve had to be.  Don’t let the demons get you now, when you’ve done so well.”  He smiled at her.  “If you need anything, the password to the boys’ side is ‘chivalry’.  I won’t tell anyone if you come over.”  With that he brushed his lips over her cheek and bid her head to her quarters, where Angeleigh’s roommates were in various stages of dressing for bed.  They would giggle and gossip, having no concept of being haunted by the demons that plagued Angeleigh’s nightmares, and now invaded her waking reality.

Chapter 19: Tuesdays with Riddley

Angeleigh made her way to the greenhouses for her Herbology lessons on Tuesday morning.  She felt tired and groggy, having not slept at all the previous night.  She stifled a yawn as she trekked out the front door of the school, squinting at the bright sunlight that seemed to mock her sleepiness.

“Miss St. Martin!”  She heard someone calling in a cheery voice that also seemed to mock her.  Angeleigh turned around and groaned audibly when she spotted Professor Wildeve striding her way.  She paused.  “Um, g’morning Professor,” she mumbled when he caught up.

“Good morning.  May I have a moment?” he asked formally.

There was no point in saying no, so Angeleigh dropped her school bag and waited, bracing herself for what was to come, now that she was suddenly reminded of her actions in his class yesterday.  “Sure, Professor.”

He smiled leisurely, which usually wasn’t a good sign.  “Miss St. Martin, your behavior in class yesterday was... how do I say... less than exemplary.”
				
“I’m aware, Professor.”

“I realize that there may have been some form of antagonism going on.”

“You could call it that, Professor.”

He nodded, his smile remaining plastered on his face.  “Well, personal recognizance is a sign of maturity.  But I can’t allow it to go unpunished, regardless of your reasons behind leaving the classroom.  You caused quite the disruption.”  His smile became a bit more real, softening his harsh features a bit.  “I’ve spoken to Miss MacGrear already, and even though she claims innocence, she’ll be serving a detention with me tomorrow night.  And I’m assigning you detention as well.”

Angeleigh’s head reeled.  It wasn’t so much the idea of having a detention.  She deserved it after yesterday, first being late and the storming out part way through the period.  But she couldn’t serve detention with Vanora.  What if that odd darkness enveloped her again?  What if this time it was more than silky threats and barbed glances?  Even in the presence of the ex-hit wizard the idea of it happening again was more than she should bear.

She thought quickly.  “Professor, I’m happy to serve detention after my actions yesterday.  But... I don’t want... I can’t... can I please serve tonight instead?” she finished quickly.  How could she explain to him what her discomfort was without putting him on the alert that something could be wrong?  And maybe nothing was wrong; maybe Vanora was just in a strange mood, and she was projecting her paranoia onto Vanora as a result of the abnormalcy.

Professor Wildeve regarded the girl before him, and then nodded.  “That’s possible, and in fact more convenient.  I’ll expect you in my study promptly at seven o’clock then.”

Angeleigh nearly sank to her knees and kissed his robe hems in gratitude, but figured she ought to maintain some of her rapidly depleting dignity.  “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled, flooded with intense relief.  Not only did he seem fairly understanding about the situation, but this made two nights in a row she would not have to try to avoid Vanora in the study rooms, and then deal with accusations of Gryffindor snobbery from her friends.

Herbology with the Hufflepuffs went pleasantly enough, and even though Angeleigh’s essay on the Venemous Tentacula received a splendidly horrid grade, Vera Thomas, easily the best Herbologist Hufflepuff had to offer, paired up with her for their practical lesson that morning.  It redeemed her grades for the class a bit, and though Angeleigh had been in little danger of failing the class, the essay grade certainly wouldn’t help her at all.  

She had her Arithmancy class with the Ravenclaws, and was secretly glad to know that they were as stumped as she was by the equations and graphs Professor Vector explained.  He outlined all the steps on the chalkboard, but it still didn’t make much sense, and she was grateful when the lunch hour rolled around.

“Feel like studying for potions?” asked Lance, falling into step beside her as they headed to the Gryffindor table.

“Tonight?” she asked, and he nodded.  “I have detention with Wildeve for yesterday,” she told him, blushing slightly.

He grinned.  “So you’re finally corrupted.  Antigone will be so proud; it’s been her mission since day one.”

Angeleigh huffed, but wasn’t surprised to hear it.  “Well, at least now I’m worthy,” she said with a shrug, and dove into her lunch.

~*~*~*~

“Come in, Miss St. Martin,” Wildeve called, and Angeleigh entered through the heavy oak door to his classroom.  She nervously stood before his desk, chewing on her lip.  “At ease, Miss St. Martin; this is detention, not an inquisition,” he told her, cracking a rare grin.  

Angeleigh entered uncertainly and took a seat across from his desk.  She’d never served a detention before, let alone with Riddley Wildeve.  She had no idea what to expect.  What was Wildeve’s idea of suitable punishment for her actions?  What would he have her do to atone for her sins against him and his class?  Biting her lip, she raised her eyes to see Wildeve still grinning at her, which puzzled her.  “Um... sir?” she asked uncertainly.  “What will my detention entail?”

Wildeve’s grin faded and his face returned to its normal serious expression.  “Well, Miss St. Martin, I suppose I could have you clean the desks and sweep the floors and engage in other unsavory tasks.  Or I could have you copy lines over and over until your hand is about to fall off.  There are many options.”  Here he paused, his deep eyes surveying her closely.  “Though those can wait until another time.  Now, I’m most interested in you explaining what the hell happened in class yesterday.”

His voice was tight, as though he were working to restrain himself from outright shouting at her.  Angeleigh bit on her lip even harder, focusing on that pain rather than the sudden fear that had sprung upon her.  It would almost have been easier to bear if Wildeve had shouted at her.  But this bridled rage was downright frightening.  Wildeve was truly angry about the incident.  She had a fleeting moment of sympathy for Vanora, who would be serving the same detention tomorrow night.

Wildeve saw Angeleigh go pale and read the fear in her eyes.  He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to soften his expression and his tone.  “Miss St. Martin... I don’t think I’ve been very clear with you, have I..”

“N–n–no, sir,” she stammered.

“My apologies then.  Let me start fresh.  Did you feel uncomfortable during the incident yesterday?”

Angeleigh nodded.  Of course she’d felt uncomfortable, between being hungover, and then being late to class.  Vanora’s odd behavior had just iced the cake, to use the Muggle phrase.  “Yes... yes sir, yesterday wasn’t all that comfortable.”

He nodded knowingly.  “Miss St. Martin, has Miss MacGrear ever told you anything about her family history?”

“No.  And I never asked,” she added, feeling a responsibility to defend her friend.

“Perhaps it’s better that way,” he said solemnly.  “But given the circumstances, I feel the need to betray Miss MacGrear’s confidences slightly.  Her father is a Death Eater,” he said flatly.

Angeleigh felt herself go cold.  “I... I knew Antigone’s mother is one,” she said, her voice a mere whisper in the roaring in her ears.  Her tongue felt thick, her mouth felt stuffed with cotton.  Was everyone she trusted connected with her enemies?

“Miss Windemere’s mother is certifiably insane, though,” Wildeve said, as casually as if this were the most common conversation piece.  “She pledges support to He Who Must Not Be Named, but really just does her own thing.  Lord MacGrear, however, is very politically active and willing to do what he must to remain in the good graces of whomever is in power, or looks able to usurp power.”

Angeleigh nodded, only half-processing what her professor was telling her.  “So you think Vanora...”  She let her voice trail off, too dismayed to say what she was thinking.

Wildeve heard what she left unspoken.  “It’s a possibility.”  He felt a slight flicker of sympathy seeing how her eyes welled up with tears.  “But only a possibility,” he added hastily.  “Your position is precarious.  Behavior such as Miss MacGrear’s toward you gives me cause for concern.”

“He Who Must Not Be Named is in power, though,” she said, fumbling for something to hold onto.  “And he doesn’t care about me—it’s the Potter boy he wants,” she said, unconsciously using her mother’s disdainful term for the Dark Lord’s enemy.

“Lord MacGrear will also support anyone he thinks has the power to usurp that position,” Wildeve reminded her.  “There are few dark wizards who have that sort of power.  MacGrear doesn’t have it himself, but he can spot the ones who do.  The Ministry here has kept an eye on potential individuals.  Only a handful around the world possess the dangerous combination of power and ambition that Lord MacGrear supports.”

Information began to piece together in her head, a montage of images and memories that suddenly fit together into a cacophony of sense.  Vanora’s boggart... her recent less-than-sunny disposition... her withdrawals...the frightening behavior in class.  And now Angeleigh’s own mistake in telling Vanora she protected the very people who could destroy a very powerful, very ambitious dark wizard.

“You know of whom I speak,” Wildeve said flatly.

There was no use denying it.  “Reaper,” Angeleigh muttered, fighting back tears.

“So now you understand why your position has just become more delicate.”

Angeleigh was silent a moment.  “I...I trusted Vanora...” she said quietly.

“You could trust Miss MacGrear,” Wildeve affirmed quickly.  “It’s her father you couldn’t trust, and without her revealing his status to you outright, you had no way of knowing.  Do recall it took me telling you he was a Death Eater just now,” he reminded her.  Wildeve stood and began to pace, tapping his chin in thought.  “Something is about to happen, something big.  MacGrear is becoming more bold, and is revealing his hand to us.  This means two things.  Something is going to happen, as I said, or MacGrear is just being sloppy.  Though, having dealt with him in the past, I can say that he does not usually get sloppy.”  Wildeve offered a grim grin.

Still concerned for her friend, Angeleigh persisted, “But what about Vanora?  What’s he doing to her?”

Wildeve paused his pacing, turning to face Angeleigh.  “Until I speak to her, I can’t say for certain.”  He read the frustration on her face.  “I’m very sorry.”

“Vanora could be in real trouble, and all you say is sorry?” she spat at him.

“You’re in real trouble,” he snapped back.  “May I remind you of the very precarious edge you balance on?  Miss MacGrear could be in trouble, yes, but right now international security stands on the edge of a knife.  My duty to my government is to preserve that, and if it’s through protecting you, so be it.”

Angeleigh sighed, galled by knowing he was right.  “So what am I supposed to do?  Abandon my friends?  If everyone I trust is going to betray me, that’s really the only option.”

“You don’t need to abandon your friends,” Wildeve told her, grinning again.  “Your friends are on your side.  Even Mr. Dumontia,” he added humorously, seeing the skeptical expression on her face.  “Do not abandon your friends,” he repeated.  “But guard yourself in their presence because you do not know who may be listening.”

“Vanora,” she said glumly.

“No... I daresay not quite her,” he said in a queer tone.  “I have suspicions, but I can’t verify them until Miss MacGrear’s detention tomorrow night.  Be careful what you say... and try very hard not to be alone with Miss MacGrear,” he said seriously.  “There is strength in numbers.”  He took his seat again.  “You’re free to go now, Miss St. Martin.  Not bad for a detention, eh?” he asked with an even rarer wink.

Angeleigh rose to leave.  “In all honesty sir, I’d rather have scrubbed desks.”  She sidled out the door, hearing Wildeve’s laughter following her.  She certainly had never heard it before, and she wondered if anyone else had, either.

She worked her way through the maze of corridors leading from Wildeve’s office to the Gryffindor tower.    New fear had begun to grip her again, and she imagined hooded figures crouched behind the statues lining the halls.  She found herself longing for the groomed, safe grounds of the Dervish Estate, the unplottable, protected place she now called home.  There she didn’t have to worry about friends betraying her, or the ambitions of Silas Reaper.  Well, it would soon be Easter break, and then it was a matter of weeks until she could leave the twisting halls of Hogwarts that promised to be safe, but weren’t.  It would only be a matter of weeks until she could go home.

She stopped abruptly.  Until she could go... home?  Had she just considered the Dervish Estate home?  She felt plagued by a curious combination of confusion and curiosity at this realization.  Now that she thought about it, she also didn’t remember when her last nightmare was.  Even the incidents with Vanora hadn’t infiltrated her sleep.  And while her heart was still heavy with a sense of grief and loss, she was feeling less and less guilty about the horrible events of last summer.  She knew she’d probably always feel the nagging emptiness; her parents had died unexpectedly and violently, leaving Angeleigh a battered and scarred survivor.

She shuffled over to one of the windows lining the corridor.  Through the wavy glass panes she could barely make out the turrets and parapets of the far towers.  Back in September, the medieval spires of Hogwarts had been foreign to her, but now, she felt at ease among them.  She had adapted fairly well, and even made friends.  And now her friendships were forced to disintegrate by circumstances neither she nor her closest friends had any control over.

They were all mere pawns, dispensable, disposable pieces of someone else’s game.

Chapter 20: Galleons and Guardians

The man before him was not a large man.  He was of average height and lean build.  He walked with perfect posture and exemplified immaculate grooming.  There was nothing imposing about him physically.  Even magically, Mephisto was nothing to take a second glace at.  Silas Reaper supposed the smaller man had done fair enough in his schooling years, and knew enough to do the work the Dark Lord often required of his loyal followers.

Yet even though he was not an imposing man in size or ability, he was dangerous.  The Dark Lord required absolute loyalty, and many Death Eaters had fallen in the name of Voldemort.  Many more pledged their services to him, as a testimony to their belief in his abilities to triumph.  Silas was one such follower.  While his Lord had not seen fit to dispose of him, or send him into a situation where death was possible, Silas was fully aware of the risks associated with serving Voldemort.

He embraced those risks.

The man before him had never embraced risk, and for that, Silas had very little respect for him.  Even Angeleigh, the sweet, golden daughter of Aurors, earned more respect in his mind than Mephisto ever would.  Absolute, unquestioning loyalty was Voldemort’s requirement.  That brand of loyalty was the one thing Mephisto was unable to give.

“...What I’m still having trouble with is understanding why you of all people would be interested in the ten thousand galleon bounty,” Silas finally said in his velvety voice, which dripped with sarcasm and amusement.  In reality he knew why Mephisto had such an interest; he just wanted to hear him say it aloud.

“Are my reasons really all that relevant?” Mephisto asked casually, his pointed features trained cautiously on Silas.  “You offered ten thousand for her.  I do my part, and you do yours.”

Silas smirked, seeing past the mask Mephisto put on.  “If you want the ten thousand your reasons are relevant.  I want to know what you’ll waste my money on once you have it.”

Mephisto’s ice-blue eyes narrowed, and he stroked the tip of his pointed mustache, brow slightly furrowed in calculating thought.  “It boils down to what you want, Reaper,” he finally said.  “If you want the girl, and quickly, you’ll place your trust in me.  I’ll certainly follow through.  Hasn’t some careless buffoon already botched an attempt?  Don’t you want success?”
Reaper had to grudgingly admit to himself that he admired Mephisto’s cunning.  The man had a talent for dodging questions and avoiding unpleasant attention.  The latter talent was probably the reason he’d lasted so long in Voldemort’s services, and had thus far avoided an Azkaban sentence.

The unfortunate thing was that Reaper also had to admit that Mephisto had a point.  The sooner he had Angeleigh back, the sooner he could set about breaking her, and the sooner he could come out of hiding and defeat the Aurors so bent on his destruction.  It was a battle of wills now, his against theirs against hers.  And time was of the essence.  Voldemort was readying his forces; he had already delegated responsibility to his most loyal international followers—which included Silas.  While he enjoyed his power in the American wizarding realm, he knew he was subject to the wrath and judgment, or just plain wicked caprice, of Voldemort, should the smallest thing happen to throw him out of the Dark Lord’s graces.

And right now, the smallest thing was the secret kept by Angeleigh St. Martin.

He refocused upon Mephisto.  “How do you intend to succeed where others have not?” he asked casually.  “You’re not in our Lord’s favor lately, so to openly declare yourself would be suicide.  And last time I checked, you lacked the courage to face death in any form, let alone self-inflicted,” he added, twisting the knife a bit further.

Mephisto grimaced, and Silas knew he’d hit a tender nerve.  He decided to twist just a bit more.  “Again I ask: What are you going to waste my money on?  Another ill-fated political venture?”

“I’d never—“

Silas waved his hand, dismissing the half-statement.  “You’re infamous for your political misadventures.  You are skilled at lying to yourself if you think no one can see what you do.”

“Silas, I—“

“The only reason Lord Voldemort has spared you is because you are not significant enough to warrant his wrath in this desperate time,” Silas said flatly, his inky, unreadable eyes meeting Mephisto’s cold, quickly calculating ones.  “The Dark Lord is aware of the doings of his followers.  He knows when there is dissension in his ranks.  You are a fool if you think he does not notice you.  You should be thankful he doesn’t perceive you and your lack of loyalty to be a threat to his reign.”

“Let me explain,” Mephisto burst out, his cool finally shaken.

Silas chuckled to himself, though is face remained hard and impassive.  The nostrils of Mephisto’s sharp, pointed nose were flared abnormally wide, and a faint, sickly flush of pink touched his high, angled cheek bones.  His normally narrow icy eyes were now wide, the imploring expression betraying the calm he unsuccessfully tried to maintain.  His lips were pressed together, tight and bloodless as he waited, suddenly awkward , seeming unsure of what he had to explain, or how he was going to carry off explaining it.

Two silent, tense minutes passed.  Silas stared at Mephisto the entire time, his face emotionless and his posture alarmingly relaxed.  Mephisto seemed to coil tighter and tighter, barely breathing, eyes darting around the dimly lit room, looking anywhere but at Silas.

“I’m waiting,” Silas said at last, and stifled a satisfied laugh when Mephisto jumped, the coil releasing and causing him to nearly spring from his seat.

Mephisto’s face resumed its normal expression of stiff, cold calculation, but Silas knew better now.  He seemed to have a bad habit of attracting the twitchy, disloyal types.  First Janus, now Mephisto.  “I see you have nothing to explain,” Silas said in an efficient, all-business voice.  “So if you’re quite through wasting my time—“

“I have an in,” Mephisto said.  “A way to get your precious doll that no one else, including you, has.”

There was something about the trembling intensity and seriousness in his voice that piqued Silas’s interest.  Slowly he asked, “Is it worth my ten thousand?”

Mephisto nodded, his thin lips curling into a cruel grin.

Still too wary to believe it, Silas said, “She’s very well protected at that fancy old school of hers.  I really don’t think you have the resources, let alone the mental skill, to get yourself or someone else in there.”

“Someone else is already in there.”

Silas cursed under his breath; one glance into Mephisto’s eyes told him this was the truth.  The rodent-like bastard had him.  He sighed.  “Fine.  I give you three thousand up front and the remainder upon delivery.”

Mephisto laughed in a high, cold laugh that was poor imitation of the Dark Lord’s signature laugh.  “I want all ten thousand up front.”

Shit, Reaper thought, clenching his jaw.  This was his chance, the opportunity he’d been waiting for since the summer.  If he denied Mephisto’s demands, he might as well wave farewell to any chance of having Angeleigh in his possession again.  “Half up front,” he challenged.

“All or nothing, Reaper.  For someone so big on taking risks, suddenly you’re very cautious.”

“You’re a fine one to talk, you obsequious bastard,” he retorted.  “Seventy-five hundred.”  He paused a moment.  “And if you won’t take that up front I’ll find someone else.”

Mephisto faltered for a second.  “There is no one else!”

“There are others, you just happen to have the most convenient way,” Silas said dismissively.  “But I’m sure others will be a bit more reasonable when it comes to agreeing upon the terms of the contract.”  He could see Mephisto’s mind at work, thinking through and weighing the options.  He opted to twist the knife even more.  “You need the money,” he said in a soft, mocking voice.  “Your estate isn’t what it used to be... hasn’t been since you became the laird, has it?”

“You know nothing of my affairs, Reaper.”

“I know enough.  Enough to know that this isn’t just ten thousand galleons of play money to you, Mephisto.  This could help you with your debt to the Dark Lord.  One galleon for every time you’ve stabbed him in the back.”

“I repeat, you know nothing,” Mephisto said, but the way the pointed ends of his mustache quavered, it was pitifully clear that Reaper did know, and knew too much.

Reaper changed tactics now.  He didn’t want to push Mephisto too terribly far at one time.  And he also was not ready to relinquish even seventy-five hundred galleons to the weasel up front.  “If I were to contract you, when could I expect to see my darling Angel again?” he asked.

Mephisto daintily shrugged a thin shoulder.  “The school’s Easter holiday is upcoming.  I can make arrangements then and you could expect to see the girl no later than the close of the school year.”

Without taking his eyes off Mephisto, Silas reached for a leather bound book on the shelf near his chair.  He peeled open the cover and finally averted his eyes from the pointy-featured Death Eater to survey the parchment pages.  “The close of school?  Why that’s... six weeks away!”  He had to admit he felt surprised by this fact.  “I’d never think you’d be capable of moving this quickly, Mephisto.  It pains me to say, but I think I’m impressed.”

Rather than retort with a clever quip, Mephisto simply glowered at Silas.  “I can accomplish in six weeks what you’ve failed to do in six months.”

“That hurts, Mephisto, really it does,” Silas said, brushing off the minor sting.  “May I remind you that our Lord Voldemort has entrusted me with the care and keeping of this part of his vast and growing empire?”  He smiled lazily at the seething Mephisto.  “To you it has been six months–just a passage of time, merely half a year.  To me it has been organizing covert operations to initiate new Death Eaters, the next generation of those loyal to my–sorry.  Our Lord.”  He shot Mephisto a knowing, pointed look.  “The past half hear has been more to me than skulking about trying to find ways to stab others in the back in an attempt for self-advancement—or preservation, as the case may be.”

Mephisto said nothing, merely fixed Silas with a cold glare.

Silas grinned.  “Ah, the glare you like to give me when there’s nothing else to say and it pains you to know that I’m right,” he said.

“Silas, your candid caprice is not wise,” Mephisto said in what Silas supposed was a threatening voice.

“Five thousand up front,” Silas said.

Taken aback, Mephisto nearly agreed.  “Wait.  You were offering seventy-five hundred,” he exclaimed indignantly, nearly pushing his lower lip out in a pout.

“And you didn’t take it when I offered it,” Silas reminded him casually.  He gave Mephisto a knowing look.  “Think what you could do with five thousand galleons.  And then the other five thousand in six weeks.  Ten thousand would just burn the worst holes in your perfect pockets,” he teased.  “This way you can space out your failed ventures...”

Mephisto was obviously trying to control his desperation, while ignoring Silas’ obvious barbs.  “Six thousand...?” he challenged weakly.

“I could go back to my original offer of three thousand or I’ll get someone else,” Silas said matter-of-factly.  “Do not be so quick to overestimate your usefulness to me.”  The truth was, at this point, Mephisto would be immensely useful to him.  The thought of Angeleigh’s silky golden hair and sparkling topaz eyes set in her creamy porcelain face was almost more than he could bear.  He had to have her, and his most convenient means of acquiring her sat before him with a quivering mustache and sad attempt at stubbornness.  And he would only grow more stubborn if Silas allowed himself to reveal his sheer importance.  Silas grinned and laid out the terms of the bounty.  “Five thousand up front.  The other five when I have Angeleigh,” he said firmly.

Mephisto wasn’t happy with it, but he sighed grudgingly.  “You won’t go above five thousand...” he ventured in a pitiful last ditch effort.

“Not by a sickle.”

“...a knut?”

“Your sense of humor needs work,” he said flatly.

Mephisto sighed, which clearly told Reaper the man had been serious.  “Five thousand it is.”

“Splendid,” Silas said, forcing an affable smile.  Pathetic! His mind interjected, but he kept the smile pasted upon his face.  He stood and beckoned to one of the robed sentries that guarded the doorway.  

The guard glided over and bowed his hooded head, then genuflected briefly.  “Yes Lord Reaper?”

“I’d like you to withdraw one thousand galleons for my friend.”

“Yes, Lord Reaper.”

“You said five thousand up front!” Mephisto interjected vehemently.

Silas spun around to see the pointy-featured wizard on his feet, brandishing his wand in a shaking hand.  “You really are ignorant, aren’t you,” he said coldly.  “I suppose though I can’t expect much from a backstabbing rodent such as yourself.”  He spoke very slowly and clearly, as though to an obstinate child.  “Do you know how it will look if one of my men takes five thousand galleons from the same account all at one time?”  He stared at Mephisto, the expression on his face making it very clear he thought Mephisto a bumbling, greedy idiot.  Well, that’s not too far from the truth, Silas thought with bitter disgust.  “So?” he persisted.

“I just want my money, and none of your double crossing,” Mephisto said in a shaking voice.

“That’s rich.  You are worried about me double crossing you.” Silas let out a forced, exaggerated guffawing laugh that made it clear he was mocking Mephisto.  “Of the two of us here, I’m the only one who hasn’t done any double crossing.  I’d think you’d trust me before you’d trust yourself.”

Mephisto was silent, and at last lowered his wand.  “I knew you’d see it my way,” Silas told him.  “Now, before you so rudely interrupted my carefully laid plans, I was about to tell my man Pence here to withdraw the thousand, and when he’d gone I planned to call Mulleavey, and so on ad nauseam until you had your five thousand.  Honestly, Mephisto.  Your impatience could be your downfall,” he gibed.

Mephisto sneered at Silas.  “You are pushing it, Reaper—“

Silas raised an eyebrow at Mephisto, disgust evident in his face.  “I’m pushing it?  Under my own roof?  You get better and better at grasping straws each and every time we meet.  Give me three days, and you will have your five thousand.  And as soon as you deliver the girl–“

“The other five thousand,” Mephisto said grudgingly.

“Very good, man.  There is some form of gray matter in your skull... Travers will be impressed, and he’ll certainly owe me on our bet...”  He let his mocking trail off a bit, just enough to see Mephisto’s face turn a shade of purplish red.  Silas smiled and continued casually.  “Now... out of curiosity, just what sort of ‘in’ do you have at that school?”  he asked, too curious and too desperate to continue not knowing.

Mephisto’s scowl spread into a cunning grin.  He looked like he was poised on the edge, ready to say something deep and profoundly secretive.  His eyes shifted first left, then right, and then he said, “Have I ever told you about my family, Reaper?”

“No.”

“That’s because there is nothing to say about them.  They have always been worthless to me, until now.”  The corners of his mouth curved up slightly in what could almost be termed a smile, but reminded Silas more of a rodent’s twitch.

Reaper sighed, but humored Mephisto’s riddles.  “Why now?”

“Because now, my little girl is going to net me ten thousand galleons.”  He grinned.  “If I don’t have my five thousand in three days you can bank on our deal being off.”  With a flourish of his black velvet cape, he walked stiffly out the door and into the night.

Silas Reaper watched him disappear into the balmy, early spring nighttime.  “Arrogant bastard,” he muttered, feeling furious that his funding would go to Mephisto, of all people.  But if it took such an arrogant bastard to reunite him with Angeleigh, he would suffer it.  For Angeleigh, Silas would suffer anything, including the taunts and empty threats of the poverty-stricken, overly proud Mephisto MacGrear.

He glided over to the bookshelves and picked up a heavy gilded frame.  He had surveyed the picture countless times, and yet he never tired of it.  Something about the pale and glowing girl pictured beneath the glass gave him a strange sensation he’d rarely experienced.  If he had to associate one word with it, he supposed it would be hope.  Something about Angeleigh St. Martin gave him a sense of hope; it made everything he’d ever felt before—about Voldemort’s plans and goals, about his place in Voldemort’s empire—hope made those things seem like little more than grim determination, dull iron shadows that grew grimmer in the glowing light of Silas’ hope embodied.

“Even a Death Eater can have a guardian angel,” he whispered to the picture, his fingers lightly brushing over the glass, and a soft, tender smile touching his wan face.  

Chapter 21: A Breath of Fresh Air

“It’s just another weekend here, I don’t understand the big deal,” Antigone said with a bored yawn.

“A long weekend,” Lance pointed out.  “We don’t really get those at all, so that’s the big deal.  I take it you’ll be remaining here, then.”
							
“Of course,” Antigone said, shifting lazily in her chair.  “Aidan and Lanta don’t get a long weekend, and you think I’d actually go home?” she spat venomously.  “Home where my father’s a spineless, love-infected insect and my mother’s a complete psycho?  That’s assuming she is home, and not off on some inane venture.  Is anyone here doing anything?  If not we could go down to Hogsmeade and...” she pantomimed drinking out of a glass and grinned.

“My uncle’s coming,” Angeleigh ventured.  “It’s kind of a long trip for me to take back to the manor for just a long weekend, not being able to Apparate and all, so he’s going to come here.  Family bonding, and all,” she added.  “I think it’ll be nice.  What’re you doing, Vanster?” she asked almost hesitantly, turning her eyes on Vanora.

Vanora was not her normally bubbly self.  She sat against a wall, slouched down, focused on playing with the ends of her dreadlocks.  “Eh, it’s not important.”

“Come on, all we want to know is if you’re staying or going,” Angeleigh teased.
“Look, I said it’s not important.  Let’s just say not all of us are golden girls with rich uncles who adore and dote on us,” Vanora sneered.

Angeleigh was taken aback, and actually physically shrunk away from Vanora.  It shocked her that Vanora would suddenly express such jealousy when all year long (at least until recently) they seemed to get on well enough.  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“I didn’t think it was ever an issue,” Lance said cautiously, putting his arm around Angeleigh, who was trembling slightly.  “It’s just the circumstances, not something she can really help.”

Vanora jumped to her feet.  “Oh, there goes gallant Sir Shadowcrest leaping to the Lady’s defense!  But then again are any of us really surprised?  I for one am not.  Anee?  Surprised?”

“I’m... not going to comment,” Antigone said slowly, straightening up in her chair.  “I’m going to remain uninvolved.”

“So it’s everyone against me now, how typical!” Vanora shouted.

“No one’s against you, Vanora,” Lance said firmly.  “I just want to know where all this... anger or resentment suddenly came from.  Nothing personal,” he added, but his grip around Angeleigh’s shoulders tightened.

“Yeah, right.  Look, just leave me alone.  In fact I’ll make it easier on you and leave.”  She stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

Only after the echo of the slamming door had faded entirely did Lance ease his grip on Angeleigh and Antigone release her hold on her wand.  “That was... interesting,” she said, but there was little hint of her usual sarcasm.  “I knew she wasn’t looking forward to this break, but didn’t realize just how it was affecting her... I should have.  I mean, I’m her roommate and all and I didn’t...”

“Stop blaming yourself,” Angeleigh said softly.  “Look... it’s getting late... near curfew.  We should be getting back to our Houses anyway.  So, um... if I don’t see you, have a good weekend here, okay?  Don’t, you know... too much.”  She pantomimed Antigone’s drinking gesture and smiled half-heartedly and rose stiffly to her feet.  “Care to escort a lady?” she asked Lance, who smiled and jumped to his feet as well, and gallantly offered her his arm.

“Antigone?  Need an escort back to Slytherin?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she replied.  “I’m in the mood to break a few rules tonight.  I’ll see you two crazy Gryffs later.”

Lance and Angeleigh left the room and started on the winding trek back to Gryffindor.  For most of the walk they remained silent, focusing on their shadows in the moonlight, or on the echoes of footsteps in the corridors.  The many statues and sculptures that lined the walls cast odd shadows in the bluish moonlight and flickering orange torchlight, and without meaning to, the pair found themselves on the defensive, keeping away from the shadows and peering around darkened corners.  At last Angeleigh giggled, breaking their silence.

“I fail to see what’s so funny,” Lance grumbled, keeping his face averted from hers.

“I just think it’s funny,” she said by way of explanation, giggling even harder.  “We’re so paranoid.  Looking around corners.  Peering into shadows.  We’re in one of the safest places in the wizard world and we’re freaked out, and about what?”  By this time they’d reached the final staircase leading up to Gryffindor tower.  “Come on, Lance, smile.  It’s funny in a way.”

“Your sense of humor is puzzling,” he finally said, grinning down at her.  “But if you find this funny, so be it.  At least let me relish the idea that I’m protecting you?” he said.  “Do you remember the password?” he added.

“Password?” Angeleigh asked, suddenly finding it hard to think.  The moonlight, the silence of the darkened castle, and Lance, tall and strong beside her, turned her rational thoughts to mush.  “No.  You?”

“I forget what they changed it to over Christmas.  Funny, yes?”  He said, moving closer to her.  He released his hold on her arm and snaked his arm around her back, resting his hand at the small of her back, pulling her slightly closer to him.

“Very funny,” Angeleigh said, starting to feel dizzy, but in a good way.  She leaned closer to him and tilted her chin up so she could meet his eyes.  “You do have a sense of humor,” she murmured.  “I wouldn’t have figured you for a humorous one,” she teased softly, wrapping her own arms around him.

He rested his other hand on the back of her neck and slowly, oh so slowly, pulled her even closer to him, leaning his head down closer and closer to hers.  “I can be humorous when I want to be,” he whispered, and kissed her softly on the lips.

Fireworks erupted in Angeleigh’s brain.  She felt her heart pound against her ribs, the force threatening to shatter her bones from the inside out.  The tingling feeling moved from her head to her arms, hands, legs, feet, all over.  She was floating, suspended in an ocean of moonlight and emotion, held afloat by the strong, reassuring grip of Lance Shadowcrest.  She was aware of his hands on her body, his lips on her mouth, his breath warm on her face, the way her body pressed against his.

She kissed him back.

At long last Lance pulled away from her and smoothed her hair against her back.  “I... I think I remembered the password,” he said sheepishly.  “Thanks for reminding me of it.”

“Oh, no problem.  Glad I could be helpful,” she murmured dreamily.  She felt like she floated up to her dormitory, and when she climbed into her bed a wide smile plastered itself on her face.  She fell into a deep sleep, and if she had dreams she never knew.  She’d already forgotten Vanora’s odd behavior and in fact, anything bad that had been happening within the past few weeks seemed to drift away entirely.  Lance had kissed her and her uncle would be there in the morning, and if he wanted to adore and dote on her, that was his choice, and Angeleigh would not complain.  If anything, it would be a breath of fresh air after all that had gone on of late.

~*~*~*~

“Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do this summer?  Anywhere you’d like to go?” Damien asked, over a breakfast of eggs, sausages, toast, and fried tomato.  “We could stay close, maybe just go over to Ireland... but of course Paris and Rome are always appealing.  Or if you were really in the mood for something exotic... what about the Mediterranean coast?  Or is that too much sun for you,” he joked.

Angeleigh dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.  “Honestly, I hadn’t given it thought,” she said apologetically.  “School’s been... busy,” she said, choosing her words carefully.  She didn’t see the point in worrying him with talk of the things that were going on between herself and Vanora.  He’d only fret and fuss, and she just wanted to enjoy this long weekend away from school.  “I don’t really think about things that aren’t related to school.  You choose,” she suggested, seeing the way his face seemed to fall in disappointment.

“No... don’t worry, I’ll give you time to think about it.  We have time, it doesn’t have to all be done straight away.”  He stirred his tea and took a sip.  “How are classes?”

“Fine.”

“How’s Riddley?” he asked with a grin.  “He told me you had a detention with him a while back.”

Angeleigh dropped her fork and knife and felt the blood drain from her face.  “He told you?”

“Yes; we’re old friends, remember.  He was in London one weekend, and I was there on personal business.  We ran into each other, had a pint and a chat.  Conversation turned to you, of course, and he mentioned it.  Want to tell me what happened?” he asked, but his eyes twinkled and he smiled.

“Oh, it was nothing,” she said casually.  “I was late one day and didn’t have my homework done.”  It wasn’t entirely a lie, she told herself.  “He’s strict.  What can I say?  I’ve been better about it since then.”  She forced a smile, then took a bite of her breakfast so she could avoid having to talk more.  “Mmm,” she said, gesturing to the plate with her fork.

Damien nodded.  “Yes, Riddley’s strict.  So, how about today?  We can shop... or take a trip out to the countryside... it’s actually a beautiful day for once, so what do you think?”

Angeleigh swallowed and shrugged a bit.  “Either sounds fine... surprise me?” she asked with a smile.

He chuckled.  “Trying to avoid making a decision, I see.  So... since it’s lovely outside, we’ll take a sojourn into the countryside today, and as for tomorrow, we’ll take that when it comes.”
The day was perfect, the sky a cloudless blue with the sun shining down warmly.  There was a slight chill in the air, but it was bearable as Angeleigh and Damien made their way out of Hogsmeade that Saturday morning.  It was a fair bit cooler than Salem would have been at this time of year, but Angeleigh reminded herself they were much further north.  Damien had rented a horse drawn carriage and a driver so they could watch the countryside pass and continue in conversation.

“Angel, love, honestly you look better and better every time I see you,” he finally remarked.  “Like now.  You look, dare I say it: happy?”

Angeleigh grinned in spite of herself, remembering Lance’s kiss the night before.  The memory brought her right back to the spot at the top of the staircase, with moonlight and flickering torchlight shining on them... the feeling of his arms around her, the taste of his lips... She felt herself blushing under Damien’s casual scrutiny, and bit on her lip to keep herself from bursting into a huge grin.  “I guess I am happy,” she said, averting her face from him.  “It’s really beautiful up this way,” she said, trying to change the subject.  “I’ve never been past the outskirts of Hogsmeade.”

“Well, that’s for the best though,” he said sensibly.  “Merlin knows what you could run into outside of the village if you were to go off wandering by yourself.  So why so happy?”

“I just am,” she said, starting to squirm a bit, and trying not to giggle.  “Is it a crime for me to be happy now?”

He smiled affectionately and reached over to pat her hand.  “No.  Certainly not.  I’m just glad to see you smiling at last and am curious as to the reason for it.  Seeing as I know precious little about the ways of teenaged girls,” he added ruefully, running his long fingers through his hair.  “You have to remember my only experience with teenaged girls was with your mother, and she was, for lack of any other way to describe it, atypical.  And we rarely saw each other, and then she left the country for good at seventeen.  So I have to wonder what it is these days that makes a girl your age look so happy she could burst.”

Angeleigh had to admit to herself that he did have a point, and she could probably do a better job of making this easier on him.  She allowed herself a full grin.  “His name is Lance,” she said simply.  “He’s another Gryffindor, like me.  He’s... nice,” she finished lamely, unable to think of just the right word to describe Lance Shadowcrest to her uncle.  “And he makes me happy,” she added, giggling a bit.

Damien smiled and leaned back in his seat.  “Ah, I see, then.  What’s his family like?  Pureblood?  Mixed?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” she said with a shrug.  “Muggle maybe.  I know neither of his parents are wizards, but I don’t know how he got it.  Kind of like my dad’s side of the family.  Only he and his brother Janus were wizards.”  Her glowing feeling diminished at the thought of Janus.  She still hadn’t quite come to terms about him.  He was her only connection to her father’s side now, at least the only one who knew she was still alive, and yet they told her he was a traitor and a spy.  She’d grown up trusting her godfather like she would either of her parents, and now she was being told she couldn’t trust him.  The confusion was almost more than she could stand.  “Why do you ask?” she said, turning back to face her uncle again.

“No reason.  Just curious,” he said with a shrug.  “Angeleigh...” he began after a silent pause in the conversation.  “I don’t know how you’d feel about this, but I’ve been thinking and I need to know how you’d like to become mine legally.”

Angeleigh furrowed her brow.  “What do you mean?  You are my legal guardian.  My mom signed me over to you.  Wait, that came out wrong,” she said quickly when she saw his face fall a bit.  “What I mean is my mom gave you legal custody of me.”

“Yes... I am your legal guardian, but... well, I may as well be out with it.  Would you consider changing your name from St. Martin to Dervish and becoming my heiress?  I don’t know at this point if I’ll ever have an heir, and you’re as much a Dervish as I am.  In fact I think you’re far more Dervish than St. Martin.  Your looks, your abilities... I’d like nothing more than for you to accept my name.  You’re more like a daughter to me now than I’d ever thought you’d be,” he said, his eyes glimmering with emotion.

Angeleigh blinked, taken aback.  “I... I don’t know what to say, really.”

“Say you’ll at least think about it?  We don’t have to do anything right away.  We can wait until the summer months and you’d go back to school a Dervish.  We’d get your citizenship and all taken care of over the holiday.”  He took his niece’s hand.

Angeleigh felt a strange sort of feeling swell within her, a combination of gratefulness and love and acceptance.  She was accepted here.  She was cared for, and she was safe.  And much as she wanted to cling to her old life and her past, it was gone and over with.  Holding on did nothing more than weigh her down.  Besides, what did she gain by holding onto the St. Martin name?  Her father was dead, and her godfather was a traitor who only cared about how she could benefit him.  Damien cared about her and wanted the best for her.  He accepted and loved her.  Against her will she felt a lump in her throat and sniffled.

“Have I upset you?” Damien asked anxiously.  “I’m so sorry, I–“

“No, I’m fine,” she choked out.  “I just... well... Thank you.  For everything,” she said, impulsively moving to the seat beside him and throwing her arms around him in a hug.

He hugged her back, placing a quick kiss atop her head.  “You’re welcome, Angel.  And thank you.  This means as much to me as it does to you.”  He then laughed.  “Ah, I’d actually been quite nervous about all this, leading up to this weekend.  I feel far lighter now.  Like a breath of fresh air has come back into my life.”

It was the perfect long weekend for Angeleigh, and she arrived back at Hogwarts Monday evening ready to get the last leg of the school year over with.  However, not everyone had had such a perfect, refreshing time away from Hogwarts, and for one Vanora MacGrear, the return to school was her breath of fresh air.

Chapter 22: In The Dungeons

Antigone stopped abruptly as she entered the Slytherin common room after an afternoon spent training under the sunlight in a deserted corner of the courtyard.  She was one of the few Slytherins remaining behind over the holiday weekend, and had quickly grown accustomed to coming and going alone, and not running into any of her fellow housemates.  She had even memorized a mental list of when to expect the returns of fellow students in her year.  Three of them would be back during dinner, and to the very best of her knowledge Cyrus was due back an hour before dinner, and Vanora would not be back until after dinner, probably just prior to curfew.

But there sat Vanora, curled up on one of the dark, overstuffed sofas, reading a Daily Prophet.  For a brief moment Antigone had to do a double, then a triple take at the girl on the sofa.  The face was that of Vanora, but Vanora did not read the Daily Prophet, preferring instead what she called the ‘real news’ in the Quibbler—if she read anything remotely called ‘news’ at all.  And this Vanora sported not her usual dreadlocks, but the fine dirty blonde fuzz of a buzz cut.  Her usual casual, almost Muggle-style clothing was covered by a flowing black robe with the Slytherin crest emblazoned on it.

For one of the very few times Antigone could recall she found herself unsure of how to react to a situation.  She debated whether she should say something, say nothing, approach the other Slytherin girl, or just leave and come back again in hopes she was just hallucinating.  The indecision angered her, but the anger did not help her any.  Between the thought and the reality fell the shadow of indecision and hence, inaction.

Vanora made the decision for her, much to her further chagrin.  “Antigone.  Lovely to see you.  Have a good weekend?”  She neatly folded the paper and set it on the sofa cushion beside her, then folded her hands demurely in her lap.

“It was quiet,” Antigone answered cautiously, remaining on the steps that led down into the common room.  “Um... nice hair,” she said, not wanting Vanora to feel she had disconcerted her completely.  “You do that on a whim or something?”

“It was time for a change.”  Vanora’s blue eyes regarded Antigone flatly.  “Well, are you going to just stand there, or are you coming in?  There’s still time between now and dinner, perhaps we could catch up on one another’s weekends before going to the evening meal.”

Antigone took one slow step, followed by another, all the while her eyes upon Vanora and her right hand turned inward, fingers brushing the handle of her wand as it rested, ready, in the holster she kept strapped to her wrist and forearm.  She cautiously approached Vanora and perched on the edge of the sofa across from her friend.  “You’re back earlier than I’d expected,” she commented at last, meeting Vanora’s hollow eyes.

Vanora pondered this for a moment.  “Yes, I suppose I am.  I... realized I had forgotten to do an assignment and thought I’d come back early to complete it.”

“Vanora MacGrear, cut a weekend short to finish a forgotten homework assignment?  Now I know something’s up,” Antigone said with a mirthless smirk.  “And what’s up with this?” she asked, snatching up the Daily Prophet.  “You always said this was just a load of tosh, and now you’re actually reading it?”

Vanora shrugged lazily.  “Things change and people change,” she said simply, pasting on an affable smile.  “Perhaps I had an epiphany this weekend.”

An epiphany that completely changed everything about you, Antigone thought darkly.  It wasn’t just the change in Vanora’s hairstyle, or the fact she was reading the newspaper.  It was everything: her whole manner, the way she moved, the way she spoke.  There was something not quite right about Vanora’s mannerisms, something Antigone sought frantically to discern, but, frustratingly enough, could not.  Even her own innate ability to judge character and integrity could not breach the new icy layer of Vanora’s personality.

“Do you know if Angeleigh is back?” Vanora asked casually, the new question taking Antigone aback.

“No, I haven’t seen her.  I’m sure she’ll be back by dinner though.  Any... reason you want to know?”

Vanora rolled her eyes and chuckled.  “What, I can’t ask when one of my friends will return from holiday?” she asked teasingly.  “I think perhaps she may have been feeling left out lately, after all, you and I having so much more in common than she has with either of us.”

Antigone didn’t know what to make of this direction in the conversation.  All she knew was she did not like it.  It made her uncomfortable, which she did not like.  She’d trained herself to trust her instincts, and they rarely let her down.  And now those instincts that had protected her, and her younger siblings, from their mother for so long were now telling her to be careful with Vanora.  They were telling her that danger was here, sitting across from her, smiling amiably and behaving in an overly casual manner.  “I never thought about it in that way,” she said carefully.  “Ange has always just been one of us.  She knows where we’re coming from.  There’s not a lot of difference there.  I don’t think we’ve been leaving her out.”

Vanora’s face suddenly changed from calm and smiling to dark, and almost pouty.  “Well in that case I’ve been feeling left out.  If you haven’t noticed you’ve been spending more time with her, and avoiding me.  You’re always siding with her.  She’s a Gryffindor.  She’s not even pure blooded.”

“Vanora... you’re not either,” Antigone reminded the other girl.  “But it’s never really mattered, has it?  Why now?”

Vanora crossed her arms over her chest and frowned petulantly.  “What does it matter?” she asked.  “First in Wildeve’s class... then that night in Magic Cyrus’s magic room.. And, and... I’m sure there have been other times, but those are the ones that stand out.  We were a duo and then she came in and ruined it.  You know, I don’t care how her stupid holiday went.  I don’t even want to ever see her again.”

Antigone rose slowly to her feet.  “Vanora... I don’t know what you’re on about.  Look, did your weekend take a turn for the worst?”

“Suddenly you care?”

“Well, yes.  You’re my friend, Vanora, and like you said, we have things in common and... look, you’re acting very oddly and I just... I’m concerned.  Your father’s at the same place on the sanity scale as my mother, after all,” she added.

“Please don’t speak of my father like that,” Vanora said in a firm, soft voice laden with intensity.  “People, you included, have the wrong idea about him.”

“Oh, so was that your epiphany this weekend?” Antigone suddenly snapped.  “That your crazy Death Eater father isn’t all that bad a guy?” she sneered.  “I thought we were on the right side together.  I thought–“

“You thought wrong.  It’s not as simple as all that,” Vanora sneered back.  “Right?  Wrong?  What are any of those?  Is there ever an absolute right or an absolute wrong?  Why should one person be considered in the wrong while another is in the right?  What standard are you using?”

“The standard I learned from my experiences with Mother,” Antigone snapped back, glowering at Vanora.  “I’m going to dinner.”  She stormed out of the Slytherin common room before Vanora could reply, and headed in the direction of the Great Hall, but she did not go there directly.

She tried not to admit it to herself, but she was disconcerted by what had just transpired in the Slytherin dungeon.  That Vanora wasn’t herself was undeniable fact.  But why she wasn’t... well, that was up for debate.  Antigone knew for a fact that Vanora hated her father—almost as much as she, Antigone, hated her mother.  Vanora had never been comfortable being a Slytherin; her disposition always seemed more befitting of a Hufflepuff, and last year she’d made no secret of the fact that her father had been displeased she wasn’t chosen as a prefect, and that he didn’t approve of her choice in friends or classes.  Vanora was at odds with her father, but as an underage witch she had no say in choosing a new guardian, and he was not giving up custody of her.  Antigone had never really understood why this was so; if he despised his own daughter so much, why did he keep custody of her?

Perhaps she was to him what Antigone felt she was to her family: just a pawn, something around in the event that she was needed.  At least she had her younger siblings to anchor her.  Angeleigh had her uncle.  But who did Vanora have?  In any other circumstance, Vanora would have her friends, but with her inexplicably odd behavior lately Antigone, Angeleigh, and Lance had pulled away for fear of how the girl would react or behave around them.  So that left Vanora all alone, something that made Antigone feel guilty, but it was something she couldn’t really help.

“So do you have a destination in mind, or are you just wandering aimlessly?”

The question surprised Antigone for the second time that day, and she was surprised for the third time that day when she looked up and saw Cyrus sitting on a staircase.  He too had a Daily Prophet in his hands, but the difference between he and Vanora was he actually read it.  Antigone cursed herself for being so unaware and thus so easily surprised.  “I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until later,” she said by way of greeting.

“A clever ruse.  Which is why I haven’t been back to the Slytherin dungeon yet.”

“A good thing.  Vanora’s there.”

“She’s back early,” Cyrus commented.  “But why’s it a good thing I haven’t seen her yet?”

Antigone quickly related Vanora’s odd, moody behavior to Cyrus, who furrowed his brow deeper and deeper as Antigone went on.  “Well,” he said finally.  “She’s been acting oddly since well before now.”

“But not like this.  She’s gone from random bouts of creepiness to being a completely different person.  The questions she’s asking, the moodiness... It’s just not Vanora,” Antigone finished.  “You know what she’s usually like.”

“Yes, the bane of every prefect’s existence,” Cyrus concurred grimly.

“So...” Antigone took a deep breath.  She was about to do something she wasn’t accustomed to doing.  “Cyrus... I need to... ask for help,” she finished, averting her gaze from him and crossing her arms over her chest.  “You have connections that I don’t have on the national level and honestly I’m concerned for Vanora.”

“What about Ange?” Cyrus asked, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  “Do you think she’s in danger at all with this?”

Antigone sighed and sat down beside him on the stairs.  “See, that’s the thing.  I don’t know.”

“What do your instincts tell you?”

“They’re just instincts,” Antigone said.  “Not like facts and evidence like what you’re usually on about.”  She leaned back, elbows resting on the stair behind her.  She shook her head so her purple and aqua streaked hair spilled over her shoulders.  “See... I just don’t know anything right now, and that’s very frustrating for me.”

Cyrus nodded absently.  “I’ve never said this because it’d be bad for my image,” he began.  “But your instincts are usually just as spot-on as my evidence and proof.  I’ve just grown up trusting the facts, is all.”

“And I’ve grown up trusting my instincts.  So do you think Ange is in any trouble?  Do you actually care if she is?  And not because you’re Magic Boy or Mr. Eyes and Ears of the Ministry.  Because Ange is my friend, and I care what happens to her because of that.”

Cyrus smiled ruefully.  “Yes, I care.  But don’t tell anyone.  You know.”

“Bad for your image.”
They chuckled a bit.  “I get concerned for her,” Cyrus admitted.  “She seems so... I dunno, vulnerable.  She’s talked about curse deflection and stuff like she knows what she’s talking about, but I wonder if she could defend herself.”  He sighed.  “I mean, I’m sure she can but I can’t imagine it.”

“I know what you mean,” Antigone said smiling.  “Look at us.  We’re pretty... how does it go?  Badass,” she said, narrowing her eyes a bit, making her expression overall devious.  “We’ve been in the trenches.  And yeah, I know with all the torture and stuff Ange has too, but I can’t picture her fighting back the way we can.”

“So where do we go from here?” Cyrus asked.

Antigone fiddled with a lock of hair and raised her eyes to Cyrus.  “You’re asking me?  That’s rich.  Actually I was hoping you’d have a suggestion.  Vanora and Ange are my two closest friends and I don’t like being caught between them like this.  I don’t feel like I’m in any position to make a decision here.  You’re probably the most impartial guy here.”

“What about Lance?”

Antigone actually snorted with laughter.  “Do you have eyes that see what’s actually around you?” she asked incredulously.  “When it comes to Angeleigh Lance is probably the least impartial person here.  They’re all cutesy and you know, that kind of thing,” she said distastefully.

Cyrus actually snickered as well.  “Alright, alright, so I’m impartial.  I guess... hmm.  I’ll think about it,” he finally said.  “This isn’t a snap judgment sort of situation.” They were silent for a while.  “So this leads us back to my original question.  Do you have a destination?”

“I was heading to dinner, though I don’t know why.  I can’t say I have much of an appetite.  I suppose it’d be worth it just to scare a few firsties.”

Cyrus rose to his feet and tucked his newspaper under his arm.  “Well, I suppose I’ll see you down there, then.”

Antigone remained sitting, and pasted on a mock hurt expression.  “Oh, you’re not going to escort me?”  She stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout.

Cyrus raised an eyebrow and straightened up his posture.  “And ruin my image?  And yours?  Please, you’re talking to Magic Cyrus.”  He actually winked slightly and headed down the corridor toward the Great Hall, leaving Antigone on the cool marble stairs, alone with her thoughts.

Chapter 23: Two Girls, A Guy, and a Bathroom

What both Antigone and Cyrus knew to be true, yet neither would ever verbally admit to anyone, even under threat of death, was that their little conversation on the darkened stone staircase had changed their relationship.  Neither saw the other as aloof or cold, or really all that different.  Antigone was no longer just a troublemaking rebel, and Cyrus was no longer just a snobby prefect.  There was a new level to their opinions of one another, a level where they were just a couple of sixteen year olds trying to figure out their place in their quickly changing, ever-turbulent world.

What Antigone wouldn’t tell anyone, and especially tried to avoid admitting it to herself, was that she felt the need to have an alliance with Cyrus.  She couldn’t bring herself to call it a friendship just yet.  She claimed true friendship with very few people, but now one of those people was growing slowly alienated.  And while Antigone didn’t seek to replace Vanora as one of her closest friends and confidantes, there was absolutely no question in her mind that something was afoot that made Vanora unable to be trusted.  Antigone could not put her finger, or her wand, on it, but somehow she knew that she needed to maintain a careful distance from her estranged friend.  That distance brought Antigone closer to Cyrus, and she found herself establishing an unlikely alliance with the Prefect.

One evening, a few nights after their talk in the stairwell, Cyrus sat down next to Antigone in the library, where, for once, she was working on her Charms homework.  “Good evening,” he said formally.  “I hope this seat wasn’t taken.”

Antigone looked up and pushed her hair away from her face.  She set her quill down and grinned.  “I suppose it is now.  So now you’re Mr. Presumptuous in addition to Magic Boy.  You just have a way of getting all sorts of names from me.”

Cyrus actually grinned.  “I’m sure there are others on the list you don’t care to repeat,” he teased, which was something completely foreign to both of them, thus he was relieved when Antigone actually laughed.

“Magic Cyrus, poking fun at himself?  Now I’m absolutely positive the world is at an end,” she declared dramatically.  “So... what can I help you with tonight?  Or what are you going to help me with?”

Cyrus looked up from the charms text he’d taken off her pile of books.  “In all honestly, I could help you with Charms class, but I think it’s more fun to watch you struggle,” he teased for the second time that night.  “But really...” his voice dropped in volume and he leaned across the table, flicking his pale blue eyes about to make sure no one was eavesdropping.  “I saw Vanora this morning in Potions.  She’s gone from silly to suck-up,” he said.  “You were right that it’s more than just a physical change in appearance.”

“So now you see why I was so concerned,” Antigone told him, dropping her gaze to the open text in front of her.

“Yes.”

“Cyrus...” she began awkwardly.  “What do you think of it all?  You know.  First the odd behavior in classes... and now this.  I’m not sure what to make of it.  I’m...” she took a deep breath.  “I’m afraid that this is something that’s beyond our experience or ability,” she admitted.

Cyrus ran his hand through his blond hair and smoothed the folds of his robe before answering.  “It’s very possible,” he finally said in a noncommittal manner.

“What’s possible?” asked an innocent, familiar voice.

Antigone looked up, startled, to see Angeleigh standing at their table, an Arithmancy text clutched to her chest.  The pale, petite girl was smiling, but there was no mistaking the haunted look in her eyes.  And her face seemed to look more gaunt than usual, those amber eyes set into darkened hollows and the angles of her cheekbones even more sharply defined.  A moment passed, and Angeleigh bit her bottom lip.  “Am... I interrupting anything?” she asked uncertainly.  “I can just go.”  She dropped her eyes to the ground and hugged the book more tightly to her chest.

“Oh, no, join us,” Cyrus said, gesturing to the chair next to him.  “We’re just discussing some things that have concerned us lately, but you’re welcome to join us.”

“Oh, okay,” she said, taking the seat, and setting her book down on the table.  “I have an exam in Arithmancy tomorrow,” she said, shaking her head.  “Professor Vector’s hinted that it’s going to be hard.”  She grimaced.  “I suppose I was psycho when I signed up to take it, but hey, it’s better than like Divination or anything like that.”  When neither Cyrus nor Antigone responded, her forced smile fell.  “So... what’s going on?  What are you so concerned about?”

“Vanora,” Antigone said quietly.

“Oh... right,” Angeleigh said knowingly.  “Did she tell you what happened over her break?  What’s led to her... image changes?”

“No, but I’d put my inheritance on the fact that it has something to do with her father,” Cyrus said.  “And that’s no small amount of money,” he added.

Angeleigh stuck out her tongue at him.  “Congratufrickinlations,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“In all seriousness, Ange, we’re not dealing with just some controlling father figure,” Antigone said.

“I know.  He’s a Death Eater,” Angeleigh whispered.  “Wildeve told me, the night I had detention with him,” she told them, when she saw their surprised expressions.  “Look, I know things too, so don’t treat me like a child,” she hissed.  “Vanora is–was–is?  I don’t know anymore–she’s my friend, too, so don’t keep me in the dark,” she said.  “Something happened, and she’s definitely not the Vanora we know anymore–“

“Curfew!” Bellowed the voice of Madame Pince, the librarian.  “Return your texts and head to your Houses.  And pick up after yourselves!” she added.

There was a collective sigh from Angeleigh, Cyrus, and Antigone.  “It’s almost time for lights-out,” Cyrus observed.

“We need to continue this conversation right now,” Antigone said urgently, tucking her quill and parchment into her knapsack.  “But where?”

The three left the library, pondering silently, and meandering through the corridors.  Scared knots of First Years fled from the combined presence of Antigone and Cyrus.  The fourth floor, where the library was located, was actually quite expansive, and eventually, their wanderings had brought them full circle.

“Well this was pointless,” Angeleigh grumbled, wincing at the pain starting to shoot through her leg. Madam Pomfrey had been doing her best work on it, and she proved a talented Medi-witch, but there were still chronic pain episodes within the healing limb.  She wondered how she could keep up more wandering.  She grimaced.   “Really, where can we go?  It’s nearly curfew!”

“We can’t go to one another’s houses, that’s for sure,” Cyrus said.

“Why not?” Antigone asked sensibly.  “You’re a prefect of our house, and Angeleigh’s little boyfriend is a prefect in that house.”

“He’s not my—“

“Too many people around to overhear things,” Cyrus whispered, cutting Angeleigh off.  “I have an idea.  Come on.  Quick, before Filch catches us loitering.”  He led them to a marble staircase that led up to the fifth floor.  They ascended the staircase quietly, the tolling of a faraway bell telling them they were now late for curfew.  At the top of the stairs Cyrus put a finger to his lips, signaling silence, and led them on tiptoe to a statue of a befuddled-looking wizard.

“Who’s that?” Angeleigh whispered.

“Boris the Bewildered,” Cyrus told her.  “Here.  Lysol,” he whispered, and a door clicked, and swung open silently.  “Come on, we can be safe in here.”

At first it was dark, and their footsteps echoed on a marble floor.  Cyrus closed the door behind them, then waved his wand, lighting in the room with a soft, incandescent glow that illuminated linen curtains to the floor, stacks upon stacks of soft white towels, and a deep, swimming pool sized bathtub.  Angeleigh found herself awestruck.  The girls’ washrooms in Gryffindor, while certainly nice, had nowhere near this level of luxury.  “Wow,” she said quietly.  “This is amazing.  Why haven’t I seen it before?”

“Yes, Cyrus, why haven’t we seen this before?” asked Antigone, similarly awestruck, kneeling by a golden tap at the tub-pool’s edge, and turning it on, immediately filling the room with lavender scented steam.

“Because this is the Prefect’s Bathroom,” he said in a superior tone.  “We may have to put up with ungrateful students who don’t appreciate us enforcing the rules of Hogwarts, but it has its rewards.”

“I’ll say,” Angeleigh muttered.  “And no one will bother us here?”
“It’s past curfew; all the other Prefects will be busy rounding up their houses,” Cyrus said dismissively.  “Not too many of us venture out after hours.  So I think we’re pretty safe.  What are you doing?” he asked suddenly, looking at Antigone.

“Not letting the moment pass.  Don’t look, Magic Boy,” she warned, and Cyrus turned around, averting his eyes as Antigone stripped out of her robe, clothing, and knickers, then slid into the rapidly filling bubble bath.  “Oh Merlin,” she gasped.  “This is amazing.  Come on in, Ange!”

Angeleigh only hesitated a moment before also disrobing and quickly sliding into the water before Cyrus turned around.  “Oh yeah... this is the good stuff,” she said with a sigh, feeling the hot water soothe her tired body as the piles of fluffy bubbles hid her scars and thin frame.  She was painfully aware that she could count her ribs easily now.  But she did not feel like thinking about it just now.  Instead she scooped up a handful of bubbles and blew them into the air.  “So... why did we come in here again?” she asked, pushing off from the smooth marble wall into the center of the pool.  Without waiting for an answer she took in a deep breath and sunk below the surface of the water, into the warm silence of the pool.  She curled her body into a ball and slowly let the air out of her lungs, sinking to the bottom of the pool.

Alone in the warm dark, curled up into herself, Angeleigh felt protected and safe.  If she could stay here, like this, forever, she felt she could finally find some sort of peace.  This was what she’d been searching for.  She opened her eyes a little bit, looking around her, then up.  The water around her was clear, revealing smooth marble walls and floor of the pool, and above her, the surface of the water was obscured by clouds of bubbles.  There was a slight shadow behind her, and she squinted into the aquatic shadows, but figured it was probably just her imagination.  She let the rest of the air out of her lungs, in almost a sigh, uncurled her limbs, and propelled herself to the surface, emerging through the clouds of perfumed bubbles gasping for oxygen.

Antigone reclined in the shallow end, bubbles piled around her like cushions, and Cyrus had given in and taken off his sock and shoes, and dangled his feet in the water.  “Nice of you to join us,” he grumbled.  “Now that you two have had your fun, maybe we can do what we came to do?”

Angeleigh stuck out her tongue at him.

Antigone sighed.  “Come on, Ange, Magic Boy’s got a point, much as it hurts to admit that,” she said.  “Now... Vanora.  What’s up?  What can we think up?  What can we rule out?”

Cyrus rolled up his trouser legs and kicked at a pile of bubbles with his bared toe.  “Conscious decision,” he said grimly.  “I honestly don’t think Vanora would consciously choose this radical a change in herself.  This is... well...”

“Completely opposite of everything she’s stood for,” Angeleigh said, finally paddling over to the shallow end of the pool.  “What about... potions?  Maybe it’s her dad using a Polyjuice potion to take on her appearance.”

“Possible... and even probable,” Cyrus said.  “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s been known to happen, even in recent history here.”
“Memory charms,” interjected Antigone.  “Maybe her father had her Obliviated.”

“So we’re all in agreement it’s her father behind this, then,” Cyrus confirmed.  “I don’t know... if he’s a Death Eater, memory charms seem a little elementary for him.  No offense,” he quickly added, flashing an almost guilty look at Antigone.  “Mood altering potion?”

“Yes, I believe in the Muggle world they’d call Vanora’s behavior ‘bi-polar’, from what you tell me,” Angeleigh added.  She ducked underwater again, thinking.  Vanora was a strong-willed girl, much like herself and Antigone.  It was one of the qualities the three of them had in common, and had made their bond of friendship so strong.  It struck her as unlikely that Vanora would succumb so easily to potions or charms.  Vanora was as unbreakable as she herself was.  But she’d nearly broken once... what had nearly broken her?

Angeleigh broke the surface of the water, gasping, eyes wide and wild as the water plastered her hair to her head and streamed down her face.  “Ohmigosh,” she said in a frightened voice.  The warm water seemed to grow icy around her.  “Unforgivables.”

Antigone straightened up, and Cyrus jumped to his feet, but his heel caught and he slipped and fell on his rear in the water.  Normally both girls would have found the situation comical, but right now, there was no humor in anything.  “Unforgivables?” Cyrus asked, the mention of the three forbidden curses startling even him to solemnity.

“Yes.  We know Vanora’s strong,” Angeleigh said.

“And that she hates her father and all he stands for,” Antigone spat out.  “Frankly, I can’t say I blame her.  If her father’s not using a Polyjuice potion, pretending to be her, then he’d have to be using an Unforgivable to control her.”

“You think he’s got her under an Imperious curse?” Angeleigh whispered.

“Makes more sense than Polyjuice, when you think about it,” Cyrus said, unbuttoning his shirt.  “By the way, turn around.  No peeking, cheeky monkeys.”  He stripped off his sodden clothing and slipped into the water, hiding his frame with the piles of bubbles.

“Why does an Imperious make more sense than Polyjuice?” asked Angeleigh, still unwilling to believe that her friend could be under the influence of an Unforgivable curse.

Antigone was nodding slowly.  She pushed the dampened strands of her multicolored hair out of her face, then began slowly tracing patterns in the bubbles around her.  “I’ve been keeping my eye on her... she hasn’t been carrying around a flask or sneaking drinks out of anything.  And I see her almost all day, because we’re in the same classes and House and year.  You have to take Polyjuice regularly, and she’s got no opportunity to do that.  Besides, she knows the flask is my gig.  I tried to get her to carry one around as well, so she’d stop drinking my Ogden’s, but she was afraid of getting caught.”  Antigone smiled a bit ruefully at the thought.  “So I guess Laird MacGrear coming back to school in the form of his daughter is ruled out.”

“But him using an Unforgivable isn’t ruled out,” Cyrus said, ducking under water, and coming back up with water streaming down the sides of his face, and a stack of white foam atop his head.  “Laugh all you want,” he said with a sigh.  “I suppose we need to laugh in the middle of all this darkness we’re facing.”

Both Angeleigh and Antigone tried not to give in, but they made the fatal mistake of glancing at one another.  As soon as their eyes met they dissolved into fits of laughter at seeing the staid and fastidious Slytherin Prefect in such a state.  Even he eventually cracked a rare, mischievous grin, but the grin, and their laughter was short lived when they quickly remembered their predicament.

“I think that’s really all we’re going to get through for tonight,” Cyrus said with a sigh, swimming with long strokes to the opposite end of the pool.  “Turn around, I want to get out.”

“Oh, but Magic Boy, we want to gaze and swoon over your manly body,” Antigone teased, causing Angeleigh to start giggling again, but they both turned away from him while he swathed himself in a towel.  “Now you return the favor,” Antigone ordered, and Cyrus obliged, turning away and pretending great interest in the portrait of a sleeping mermaid that hung on the wall.

Angeleigh and Antigone both wiped the water off their bodies, not facing one another as they did so.  Angeleigh was painfully aware of the way the long soak in the water had affected her skin, making her scars stand out obviously.  She cast a surreptitious glance at Antigone, and saw that she too bore scars on her body, but Angeleigh was too shy to ask the Antigone about them.  Instead she busied herself with redressing, then towel-dried her long, tangled hair.  “So it’s back to our dorms, then,” she said with a sigh and a yawn.  “What do we do with all this?” she gestured to the used towels and still-filled pool.

“Nothing.  House elves will get it,” Cyrus said, balling up his wet clothing and tucking it under his arm.  “Good thing it’s after hours and no one else will see me like this,” he grumbled, looking down at the fluffy white bathrobe he now wore.  “And we’ll take you up to Gryffindor,” he added, directing this to Angeleigh.  “Safety in numbers, especially after dark,” he added seriously.

How they made it back to Gryffindor Tower unnoticed, Angeleigh could never figure out.  They skulked about the moonlit corridors, wary of Mr. Filch or Mrs. Norris, or any professors out on any sort of late night rounds.  With little incident the three found themselves standing in front of the portrait of the slumbering Fat Lady, who was none too happy to be woken to let in Angeleigh, particularly with the two Slytherins accompanying her.

“Thanks guys,” Angeleigh whispered as she climbed through the portrait hole.  “Watch yourselves on the way back, ‘kay?” she said.  “And be careful once you do get back,” she added darkly.  “At least I get to be separated from Vanora by an entire castle.”

Cyrus grinned, and draped his arm around Antigone’s shoulders.  Antigone seemed surprised, but she too managed a grin.  “Oh, we’ll watch ourselves,” he said.  “After all, I’m Magic Boy!” he said with a flourish.

“Shhh!” Antigone and Angeleigh hissed simultaneously, but they couldn’t help but giggle as he spun on his heel and led Antigone away, into the night, down toward the Slytherin dungeons.
Angeleigh quietly clicked the portrait closed behind her, and stepped out into the darkened common room, headed for her dorm, when a low, male voice stopped her in her tracks.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Angeleigh.”

Chapter 24: The Voice in the Night

Angeleigh gasped and clamped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming.  She spun around, her eyes searching the darkened common room for the owner of the voice.  A tall, dark shape rose from one of the overstuffed couches and maneuvered toward her.  Angeleigh pulled out her wand, the only thing she could think to do, pointed at the figure, and hissed, “Stupefy!”

The spell flew from the tip of her wand and made contact with her assailant.  “Oooph!” he exclaimed, falling to the floor, and taking a chair, umbrella stand, and small table with him.

Hand shaking, wand still out and ready, Angeleigh slowly approached the stunned wizard on the floor in front of the fireplace.  The coals were dying down to softly glowing embers, giving a little light that enabled Angeleigh to get a good look at the face that belonged to the voice.  And when she saw it, she had to clamp her hands over her mouth again to keep from either screaming or laughing: either was possible.  “Oh no... Ennervate!” she exclaimed in a low voice, using her wand to revive Lance Shadowcrest from the stunning spell she’d cast on him.  “Lance... I am so sorry,” she murmured, kneeling down beside him and helping him into a sitting position.  She tried to right the fallen umbrella stand and table, while still trying to support Lance and remain fairly quiet, so as not to further disturb the quiet of the night in Gryffindor Tower.

“Lance, what were you doing here?” she asked him finally.

“Waiting for you,” he said, rubbing his temple.  “All the students were accounted for, except for you, so I covered for you with your prefect.  I told her you were probably having trouble with Madame Pince in the library, getting out a Divination book for a project we were working on, and she should just get to the dorm and not worry about it.”

“I don’t take Divination,” Angeleigh reminded him.

“That’s not the point, Ange.  The point is you owe me, and you owe me big.  And you can start repaying me by telling me what in the name of Merlin you’re doing coming in here at this hour!”  He shakily rose to his feet and with a slight groan righted the chair he’d knocked over.  “Coming in here at this hour and hexing me,” he added with a wince.  “That’s one powerful stunning spell you have.”

“Thanks,” Angeleigh said glumly, now torn between guilt and relief.  Lance had once again risked his position as a Prefect to protect her.  More and more she was forcing him into difficult positions to accomplish what she wanted.  Realizing this made her feel horrible; Lance was truly a decent, caring person, and she was using him.  I’m no different from my mother, she realized, and swallowed the lump growing in her throat.

Lance saw the tears glimmering in her eyes and his expression softened.  “Hey.  Look, I didn’t mean to make you feel badly.  What happened?  Where were you?  Why do you look like you’ve had a swim?” he added, eyeing her dampened tresses.

“I was in the Prefect’s bathroom,” she mumbled.

“...you’re not a Prefect.”

“Cyrus is.”

Lance pondered this.  “You were in the Prefect’s bathroom, after hours, with Cyrus,” he said slowly.  “So that night before Easter holiday...”

“No, it’s not like that with me and Cyrus,” Angeleigh said quickly, laying her hand on his arm.  “Antigone was with us, too.  We met up in the library, started talking, and needed to finish talking and couldn’t find anywhere, so Cyrus took us there.”

Lance grinned.  “It’s nice to know I’m not the only Prefect risking my neck anymore,” he said.  “What were you talking about that was so important that you had to take a bath at the same time?”

Angeleigh quickly related their conversation to Lance, her voice hushed, eyes continually darting back and forth over the shadows of the common room, making certain no one was listening in, even though they were clearly the only two people there.  Lance listened, his mouth forming a grim line and his jaw setting at a hard angle.

“...so that’s where we left it,” Angeleigh finished.  “We have more talking about it to do, but that’s what we think so far.  The pieces fit.”

Lance fixed Angeleigh with a penetrating stare.  “You know what this means,” he said darkly.

“Vanora’s in big trouble?”

“No,” he said with a sigh.  “Well, yes.  But it also means we need to tell somebody.”

Angeleigh’s eyes widened with fear.  “We can’t do that!” she exclaimed.

“Angeleigh, we have to.  Cyrus may be Magic Boy, and you and Antigone may have been through some stuff, but none of you, and that’s me included, are equipped with the ability or knowledge to deal with this.  This school has professionals.  McGonagall, Flitwick, Wildeve... even Snape,” he added with a grimace.  “They’re all trained to deal with these things, especially Wildeve.  We’re not.  That’s why we’re students and they’re teachers,” he said practically.

Angeleigh crossed her arms over her chest.  “It’s just a guess we have,” she said.

“A good guess,” Lance said seriously.  He reached over and gently touched her cheek.  “I know you want to help your friend.  I want her to be helped.  And maybe letting the people who know what they’re doing... do it... is the best way to help her.”  He smiled softly.  “Come on, Angel.  How about we just sleep on it?  You’ll feel better in the morning, after you’ve had some rest.  It’s pretty late now as it is.”

Angeleigh sighed, not willing to acquiesce, but inwardly admitting he was right.  She did need some sleep.  And after spending a fair amount of time in a warm bubble bath, she should be ready for bed.  She sighed.  “Fine, I’ll go to bed.”  She headed for the staircase to the female dormitories.  “Lance...” she said, turning back to where he still sat before the dying embers.

“Yes?” he asked, turning to face her.

“I’m sorry I hexed you... and I’m sorry you had to risk yourself for me.  Thank you for it, though,” she said sincerely, then headed up to her dormitory, leaving Lance still staring after her, a pensive expression visible on his face in the fading reddish glow emanating from the coals.

~*~*~*~

“Everyone alright, then?”  Wildeve bellowed from the middle of the courtyard.  “Now, face your partners.  Remember, you’re just aiming for a light stun.  Light stun, Miss Windemere,” Wildeve added, eliciting giggles from the sixth year, Gryffindor-Slytherin Defense Against the Dark Arts class.  “A light stun,” he repeated, “just enough for your partner to block, and reflect.  As this is Defense against the dark arts and all, it’s to your benefit to know how to defend yourselves, is it not?”

The class nodded and mumbled agreement.  “Well, don’t sound so thrilled, students.  After all, this is your chance for a little payback.  Should be entertaining for all involved.  I’ll be going by each pair and checking on your progress.  I’ll be looking for your form, the strength of your incantation.  Remember everything we talked about in class.  Enjoy.”

Angeleigh sighed and turned to face Lance, who was grinning at her.  “What?” she asked.  “What’s so funny?”

“Just reminding you to go easy with your stunning curse,” he said.  “I know how intense it can be.”

“You startled me last night,” she retorted, sticking her tongue out at him.  “Besides, now you’re supposed to have a shield up and focus on reflecting it back at me.  Think of it as part of the payback I owe you,” she joked.

“Payback?” said Riddley Wildeve’s smooth voice in her ear, causing Angeleigh to jump.  “Whatever would a nice girl like you owe a nice boy like Lance?” he asked.

“N-n-nothing, sir,” Angeleigh mumbled, trying to even her breathing and slow her racing heart.  It irked her to no end that he could so consistently catch her off guard, and remind her of her shortcomings, and the fact that she was so unprepared so often.  Hadn’t last summer on Thatcher Street taught her anything about being prepared?

“Miss St. Martin, we’re waiting,” Wildeve snapped, again catching her unprepared.  “Class, this is a classic example of what we call a target,” he said, gesturing grandly at Angeleigh.  “Note the limp wand wrist, the wand that appears ready to drop at any moment.  Note also the wide eyes with the uncomprehending stare, and the drool dripping into a puddle on the ground at her feet, which appear rooted to the ground, unable, or unwilling, to move in the event of danger.”  The class giggled nervously while Angeleigh blushed a deep shade of Gryffindor crimson.  “Oh, the target readies herself!  An excellent specimen.  Are you ready now, Miss St. Martin?”  Then, in a volume only she could hear, he added, “So is this what your parents, the great Aurors, taught you?  How to stand still?”

His comment made her blood boil, but there was little she could do about it in front of the class.  Angeleigh nodded and faced Lance.  “Stupefy!” she exclaimed, flicking her wand at Lance, more forcefully than she intended, as he held his wand steadily in front of him and said “Protego!”  Angeleigh’s spell flew forcefully into Lance’s shield; as it hit he angled his wand at her, and the spell ricocheted off his shield and at her.  With a squeak, Angeleigh dropped to the ground, avoiding her own spell, which she knew was going to pack a punch.  The class first burst into collective laughter.  The laughter soon turned to a single, horrified gasp as the deflected spell hit a different target.

From her position on the ground, Angeleigh sat up and turned around, chewing anxiously on her bottom lip, scared of what she’d see, and when she did see it, she knew she’d had good reason to be afraid.

Vanora MacGrear was doubled over, clutching her stomach and groaning in pain, the fine fuzz where her dreadlocks had been glimmering in the high afternoon sunlight.

Angeleigh shakily stood and faced her alienated friend.  “Vanora... I’m so sorry!  Are you okay?  I didn’t mean it...”

“Yeah, let me help you,” Antigone said, flashing a glance at Cyrus, who moved away from Lara Jakens, the other Gryffindor sixth year prefect who was his partner for the class exercise.  He cautiously approached Vanora’s other side.  “Come on, why don’t you sit down,” Antigone said firmly.

But Vanora would have none of it.  She shoved first Antigone, then Cyrus; her housemates stumbled, but didn’t fall, yet they were not Vanora’s target.  She swiftly marched up to Angeleigh and grabbed the front of her robes in her clenched fist.  “Thought that was clever, didn’t you, you little Mudblood Gryffindor?” She snapped.  “How’s this for clever?  So you hexed me, but I can make your existence miserable.  I can be the one in the shadows stalking you.  I can be the cold grip of fear on your heart.  I can be that voice in the night that hisses in your ear and reminds you of all your fears, uncertainties, and faults.  Oh yes, I can be clever, too.”  She released Angeleigh’s robes and shoved her, hard.

Angeleigh hit the stones of the courtyard hard, pain radiating through her rear end and her lower back.  “It was an accident, Vanora, honest,” she said in a shaky voice, praying that she wouldn’t cry, here, in front of her classmates, but especially in front of this odd incarnation of Vanora.

Vanora had turned to walk away, but at this she spun around and glared daggers at Angeleigh.  “Yeah, well, I can cause accidents, too.  Just remember that.”  With that, Vanora spun around and stormed out of the courtyard, leaving the class staring after her.

Antigone was the first to speak.  “Are you going to let her get away with that?” she exclaimed, gesturing after Vanora with one hand, and toward Angeleigh, still on the ground, with the other.  

“Are you talking to me, or Miss St. Martin, Miss Windemere?” Professor Wildeve asked, seeming mildly amused.

“You!” she exclaimed, frustrated.  “She attacked Angeleigh.”

“In all fairness, Miss St. Martin attacked first.”

“It was an accident,” growled Antigone, clenching her hands into fists at her side.

“When you’re in the real world, in a real battle situation, accidents will happen.  And this is to the class as a whole,” he said, though his gaze was focused on Antigone.  “There will be people you thought were your friends, who turn out to be enemies.  There will be enemies who wind up becoming allies, or even friends.  When you are defending yourselves against the dark arts, situations are not black and white.  You need to learn to see shades of gray.  The dark arts won’t always appear dark.  It’s important to be able to distinguish that, and not let your emotions cloud your ability to defend yourselves.  Or someone else,” he added.

“That is horse shit,” Antigone pronounced in a clear voice.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Windemere,” Professor Wildeve said evenly.  “If that is how you feel, perhaps you should consider pursuing a different area of study, rather than my advanced pre-Auror course next year.”

The class went silent.  All eyes were now on the pale and seething Antigone.  As much as Angeleigh felt badly that Antigone was the object of Wildeve’s tirade, she was thankful to not be at the center of attention any longer.  And Antigone was going to be in the pre-Auror class?  That was news to her.  Angeleigh had considered it, but serious thought made her realize she didn’t want to follow her parents’ course.  She didn’t want to be on the front lines of intelligence and defense, constantly jeopardizing her own life, and the lives of those important to her.  Today’s events had only solidified that decision even more.

She held her breath, and with the rest of the class watched Antigone to see what she would do next.  “Well,” Antigone finally said, in her cool, measured tone of voice.  “It seems my partner has wandered off, therefore, I don’t think I’ll continue to participate in today’s exercise.”  She gave what was meant to be a final nod, but Wildeve would have none of that.

“Miss Windemere, I won’t be dismissing you early,” he said smoothly.  “Your partner may be gone, but guess what?  I never had a partner for this exercise to begin with.  You will be joining me, and showing the class proper methods of curse deflection.”

If it was possible, Antigone went even paler, and her lips pressed together in an even thinner line.  But she took out her wand again and gave a terse nod to Professor Wildeve, who nodded back.  “Alright, class, back to work.  Miss St. Martin!” he snapped, yet again catching Angeleigh off guard, causing her to stumble back to the ground in the process of trying to rise up.  He actually smiled slightly.  “Remember.  Light stun.”

Chapter 25: Wildeve’s Dinner Party

“I can’t believe him.  I swear to the goddess when I get out of here I’ll—“

“You’ll what?  He had a point.”

“You would say that, Magic Boy.  Then again, it’d be hard to see anything other than what he had to say, with your head shoved so far up Wildeve’s ass!” Antigone nearly shouted as she, Cyrus, Lance, and Angeleigh stalked toward the Great Hall for lunch.

“Look, what happened happened, and now we need to learn from our mistakes and move on,” Cyrus said through clenched teeth.  “I don’t like it anymore than you do, but he is the professor.  Maybe you could admit for once that someone knows more than you do.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Antigone snapped back at him, picking up her pace and leaving Cyrus behind.

“You don’t want to listen to me?  Fine.  I’ll spare you.  Besides it’s not worth me wasting my energy!” he shouted after her, the lines of a deep scowl etched into his face.  He spun to face Angeleigh and Lance, who nearly cowered away from him.  “I’m tired of this.  I’ll be in Slytherin if anyone needs me.”  He stormed off toward the Slytherin dungeons.

Lance was torn between laughing and groaning in frustration.  “They’re acting like an old married couple.  Maybe Antigone’s right, you know, how she’s gone on and on about the end of the world coming soon.  First Vanora gets serious about Slytherin, then she and Cyrus act like they’re married... maybe we don’t have to worry about He Who Must Not Be Named taking over.  Maybe the end of the world will come first.”

Angeleigh sighed.  “We can only hope.  That’d make everyone’s lives easier at this point.”  She continued on toward the Great Hall, frustrated and annoyed by everything around her.  Her friends were at odds with one another, her classes were not going what anyone could describe as well, and Vanora was just plain freaking her out.  She had feelings of unease she’d not had since the initial threats began when she lived in Salem.  She just wanted the year to be over, so she could be away from all of this.

She entered the Great Hall and collapsed in a seat at the end of the Gryffindor table.  There was the usual bountiful spread of food there for lunch, and though she’d been starving earlier, right before class, she realized now she just felt nauseous.  She glanced over at the Slytherin table, where Antigone sat alone, apart from a group of nervous-looking second and third years.  She had out her wand, and was waving it at apples, causing them to explode into juice and particles of squishy fruit all around her.  A fourth year almost sat down across from her, but changed his mind and moved to join the cluster of second and third years.

She glanced up at Lance, who was engaged in eating lunch.  “How can you eat?” she groaned.

“Because I’m not making a big deal out of things,” he said, taking another fork full of shepherd’s pie and avoiding her eyes.

“You were there, Lance, you saw everything.  You saw how Vanora acted and how Wildeve acted and... you saw it all,” she finished petulantly.

Lance sighed and stabbed at his lunch with the fork.  “Yes.  I was there.  Yes, I saw it.  But no, I’m not going to overanalyze this and get so worked up that I can’t eat anymore.  I told you last night that there are ways to deal with this other than taking all the responsibility on yourselves.”

Angeleigh stared at Lance in disbelief.  “I thought you were with us,” she accused.

“I’m with you until you start acting without thinking,” Lance said practically.

“We have been thinking about this,” she hissed.  “This has occupied my entire mind for weeks, practically.”

“You’ve all been thinking about it, but you can’t really do anything about it.”

“That’s what we’re trying to do now!” Angeleigh’s screechy voice drew some stares from the students around her, and she sighed and turned back to Lance, dropping her voice.  “We’re working on this, Lance.  Are you going to be with us or not, that’s what I want to know.”

Lance sighed as well and slammed down his fork.  “I don’t want to be on sides with this,” he said.  “I want to just have my friends and my education and leave things that are out of my control... well, out of my control.  This, this whole situation you’re obsessing over?  That’s out of my control.  And it’s out of your control as well.  Just accept that.”

Angeleigh stared at Lance, a rush of emotions stirring up within her.  She felt that on one level Lance was absolutely right, that she was going in way over her head, doing just what her mother used to do.  But on another level, she couldn’t help but feel betrayed by Lance.  With Antigone and Cyrus at such odds, she’d hoped she could at least count on Lance, but now she wasn’t too sure.

The two sat in awkward silence for a moment before one of the school owls swooped down and dropped a letter in front of Angeleigh’s empty plate.  Curious, she started to unfold it, part of her mind noting that Lance’s eyes were dropped to his plate, and he was stirring his lunch disinterestedly.  Another part of her mind noted that another school owl had dropped in front of Antigone with a similarly folded letter.  Angeleigh bit her lip and unfolded it entirely.  What she saw surprised her.

Dear Miss St. Martin,

You are cordially required to join me for dinner in my classroom this evening.  Please arrive promptly at 6:30pm.  Failure to arrive will result in points taken both from your House, and from your final average in my class.

Sincerely,

Professor Riddley W. Wildeve

Angeleigh looked up, across to the Slytherin table, and caught Antigone’s eye.  She shrugged, and Antigone only smiled back lazily.  The Slytherin girl simply lifted the letter by the corner of the paper, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, as if it were distasteful to her.  She held her wand to the corner of the paper, muttered something, and instantly bright orange flames engulfed Wildeve’s ‘invitation’.  Antigone held on to it, watching mesmerized as the flames licked up the paper and nipped at her fingertips.  Antigone finally looked up and smiled in Angeleigh’s direction, then jerked her chin in the direction of the exit.

Angeleigh glanced once at Lance, who remained staring at his lunch.  Angeleigh only shook her head before gathering her school things and following Antigone.  They waited until they were clear of the Great Hall to discuss their matching letters.  “So are you going to go?” Angeleigh asked, crumpling up the parchment and shoving it into her pocket.

“Do we really have a choice?” Antigone drawled.  “Much as I hate to say this, Wildeve’s got the upper hand.  All we can do for now is play along.”

Angeleigh was oddly enough reminded of Silas Reaper by this statement.

“What I want to know is if Magic Boy will be honoring us with his presence as well,” Antigone said with a sneer.  “Will Lance be gracing us as well?”

“He was acting kinda weird about it all,” Angeleigh said with a shrug.  “I was the only one at the table to get an owl, unless he got one earlier, or Wildeve talked to him in class.  What do you think Wildeve wants with us?”

“How should I know?  And why should I care?  The only reason I’m going is because I care about my DADA grade.  But don’t tell anyone I care.  It would ruin my image.”

Angeleigh couldn’t help but laugh.  “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.  I figure if I pull a rebel act and don’t go, my uncle will hear all about it, so I’m better off complying.  Want to go to the library for the rest of the lunch break?  I’m not hungry enough to go back, and at this point it’d take too long to go all the way back to Gryffindor.”

“Thanks, but I have some business to deal with in Slytherin, and I’m not in the mood to go to Herbology this afternoon.  I’ll see you for dinner,” she said, and headed off toward the dungeons.

~*~*~*~
Cyrus arrived in front of the door to Professor Wildeve’s classroom and offices at 6:20 that evening.  He preferred to be early, rather than prompt, and now, as he stood before the impressive oak doors leading into the classroom, he was thankful he’d cultivated the habit.  He wanted time to think, to prepare himself for what would most certainly be an interesting evening.  He was, first and foremost, curious why Professor Wildeve would have requested an audience with him after the day’s earlier events, as he’d only been slightly involved.  The main conflicts had concerned Vanora, Antigone, and Angeleigh—or, the Trio, as he sometimes thought of them.

Perhaps he wanted to discuss Cyrus’ progress outside of class.  Cyrus spent his holidays being trained by various wizards and witches who were experts in their fields, and as a result Cyrus was more advanced in his abilities than almost all of his peers.  Perhaps he wanted to discuss Cyrus’ future, and his opportunities for seventh year.  Perhaps he wanted to make Cyrus his Teaching Assistant.  At this idea Cyrus allowed himself a private grin and thought smugly of what sort of authority it would give him to not only be Head Boy (he was positive he’d be chosen over any of the other to-be-seventh year prefects), but also Professor Wildeve’s assistant!

“Oh, so Magic Boy did get a special invitation, too!  And for a minute I was worried I’d be spared a special dinner party without him.”

Cyrus knew the voice all too well at this point, and he took a deep breath to gain his composure.  He looked up.  “Antigone.  I suppose I was too overly eager to believe I’d have the evening to myself.”

“An evening alone with Wildeve.  Yes, that’s my idea of romantic as well.”

The two Slytherins looked at one another for a tense moment before dissolving into relaxed grins.  “You know me,” Cyrus finally said, waving his hand lazily.  “So what is this about?  Slytherin sixth year party?”

“No, Ange is coming, too.  She should be along eventually.”

Sure enough Angeleigh came scurrying down the corridor with her awkward, halting–yet improving–gait.  When she saw Antigone and Cyrus she nodded in greeting.  She was about to say something, but the heavy oak doors began to creak open.  The three looked at each other uncertainly.  Angeleigh, herself, was reminded eerily of how the opening door looked like a mouth, gaping open wide to devour her.

It was Cyrus who finally led the way, gesturing for the two girls to follow him.  Angeleigh did so,  reminded of her first detention with Wildeve.  There was no sense in calling this evening anything other than what it was; to Wildeve maybe it was a bit of a joke inviting them to dinner in his offices, when in fact this could be nothing other than detention.

She nudged Antigone.  “What do you think Wildeve wants with us?” she asked.

Antigone shrugged as she crossed the threshold.  “Search me.  The man’s as unpredictable as... as...” she shrugged again.  “Get back to me later for a better simile,” she finished casually, but Angeleigh could sense a strange sort of uncertainty in Antigone that unnerved her.  It was unlike the Slytherin witch to seem anything less than absolutely positive and certain about everything—every person, every situation.  And that alone convinced Angeleigh that this evening could not hold anything good in store for them.

A small round table was set up in the corner of the classroom, lit by levitating candles.  Several House Elves had set the table with china and silver, and a side board held a buffet of what Angeleigh assumed the other students were having for dinner.  But the aromas that rose from the hot dishes did not pique her sense of hunger; if anything they made her feel more nauseous, a feeling that grew stronger as Wildeve gracefully strode out of his offices adjacent to the classroom and gestured for them to sit down at the table.

“Welcome, students,” he said cordially.  “Please, sit.  I’m glad you’ve all come.”

“We didn’t have much of a choice in the matter,” Antigone said, sitting up straight, leaned slightly forward, as if poised to leap up and run at any moment.

Wildeve smiled leisurely.  “There is always a choice, Miss Windemere,” he said.  “It’s just a matter of weighing the consequences and determining if the outcomes constitute acceptable risks to take.”

Antigone had no response to this, so she simply spread the linen napkin demurely over her lap.  Angeleigh followed suit nervously.  Only Cyrus did not seem to have any anxiety about any of this.  And why would he? Angeleigh asked herself.  Mister teachers’ pet...

It was Wildeve who interrupted her thoughts.  “Now.  I’m certain you all want to know why I’ve asked you here this evening.”  He waited for their nods of affirmation before continuing.  “It has come to my attention through an anonymous source that you are independently pursuing leads regarding Miss MacGrear.”

Angeleigh, Antigone, and Cyrus all looked at one another, nervous glances that seemed to say to one another, “I didn’t tell anyone, did you?”  Meanwhile Wildeve took a leisurely sip from his pewter goblet and watched the three.  Angeleigh now felt sicker than ever, between the scrutinizing gazes of Wildeve, Cyrus, and Antigone, because she now realized her fatal mistake, just the latest in a long line royal screw ups.  One word flashed through her mind.

Lance.

Wildeve cleared his throat, breaking the heavy, tense silence.  “This situation involves magic that is far beyond any one of you.  In fact, it’s beyond the abilities of the three of you put together—yes, even you, Mr. Dumontia,” he said in response to Cyrus’ offended gasp.  I need the three of you to do two things for me this evening.”

“What if the consequences of doing as you ask aren’t found to be acceptable risks?”  Antigone asked with a casual smile, pouring herself a goblet of pumpkin juice and leaning back casually in her chair.  She took a small sip and awaited the professor’s response.

“There is no choice in this matter,” Wildeve said seriously.  “There is far too much at risk.”
“International security,” Angeleigh muttered, defeated.

“Yes, Miss St. Martin.  I need the three of you to first, tell me what you have discovered about Miss MacGrear.”

“What else do you need of us?” asked Cyrus darkly.

“I need you to promise you will all cease and desist any pursuit or action you are planning,” Wildeve said.

The three students looked at one another uneasily again.  Only Antigone seemed unaffected by what Wildeve had requested of them.  But then again, Angeleigh reasoned, what does she have to lose by refusing?  Cyrus is a Prefect and his father works for the Ministry.  I’m ... well, everyone knows what I am and what I have to do.  But Antigone?  If she agrees, she abandons her closest friend.  If she refuses, she gets reprimanded.  The risks of ignoring Wildeve are acceptable for her...

“I agree,” Angeleigh said in a small voice that surprised even herself.

“What?” Antigone snapped, shoving back her chair and leaping to her feet.  “How can you?”

“It’s what I have to do,” Angeleigh whispered, near tears, dropping her gaze to her lap, where her folded hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Wildeve nodded.  “I’m glad you see things my way, Miss St. Martin.  Really, it’s for the best, given your situation.  Miss Windemere?  Mr. Dumontia?”

“I refuse,” Antigone said with a nod of finality, crossing her arms across her chest and blocking out the slogan on her t-shirt that read, “Cancel my subscription, I’m over your issues.”  Her indigo eyes flashed to Cyrus, currently the only ally she had.

Cyrus took a deep breath and sat up straighter in his chair, folding his hands before him on the table top.  “I’ll acquiesce, Professor,” he said evenly.  “You’re right, this is over our heads, even mine,” he added, forcing a chuckle at his own expense.

Wildeve grinned and seemed to relax in his seat.  “Very well, I thank you two for your cooperation.  Now, for some supper; I for one am famished.  And Miss Windemere, you are not dismissed yet,” he said.  “That is, unless you’d still like points from Slytherin and your final average in my class.  It’s really your choice,” he finished with a smile that clearly challenged Antigone to walk out.

But Antigone did not take the challenge, and passed the rest of the meal/detention angrily pacing the classroom, eyes blazing angrily and her jaw set in an angry, clenched line.  Cyrus did most of the talking, and the eating.  Angeleigh stared at her empty plate feeling completely cut off from everyone she’d considered close.  Lance had gone behind her back, when she trusted him and confided in him.  Antigone probably felt betrayed by her.  Vanora was probably under an Imperious Curse and probably wanted to kill her, and now Cyrus was telling Wildeve everything they knew about all of it.  Her parents were dead, her godfather had sold them out to the Reapers, and her uncle Damien was hundreds of miles away in the manor house in Bath she now called home.  She just wanted this horrible year to be over and done with.

The evening seemed to drag on forever between Antigone’s pacing, Cyrus’ blabbing, and Wildeve’s nodding.  At long last the clock in the bell towers struck the curfew hour, and Wildeve rose.  “Thank you for coming this evening.  The House Elves will clean up.  I expect you’ll return to your dormitories straightaway.  I’ll be seeing you in class.”  He nodded in farewell and disappeared into his office again, leaving the three alone.

Angeleigh, Cyrus, and Antigone looked between one another one last time that evening, until Antigone broke the silence.  “Thanks for nothing, you two,” she snapped, and stormed out the door.

Chapter 26: Betrayals, Intrigues, and Broken Promises

Lance.  Lance.  Lance.

The name played itself in Angeleigh’s mind over and over again as she stalked back to Gryffindor tower, her despair and paralysis breaking and giving way to anger and rage, some of the first she’d felt in months.  It almost felt good to feel the anger again; it meant she was still capable of feeling.  Lately, with all that had gone on, she had to wonder, but the turmoil within her now abated all her fears and reminded her that she was still, thankfully, human.
She spat the password at an offended Fat Lady and stormed into the Tower common room.  Several First Years scrambled out of her way as she made her way over to the long table where a few older students sat finishing up their homework, something Angeleigh still had not started because of Wildeve’s little dinner party detention.  Which, she reminded herself,  she’d never have had to serve if not for the tall, dark, handsome, and now untrustworthy Gryffindor Prefect putting the finishing touches on his Transfiguration homework.

She sat down across from him, such a dangerous glare in her eyes that the other students quickly grabbed their things and retreated to other corners of the common room.  Lance inhaled sharply, and his grip on his quill tightened noticeably, but he did not look up.

“Hey there, Lance,” Angeleigh hissed, but still Lance did not look up at her.  “How’s that homework coming along?  I hope well.  I’d hate to think you’d get behind the way Cyrus, Antigone, and I are.  Funny how Wildeve thought to keep us so late.  Dammit, Lance, look at me.”

Lance set down his quill deliberately and capped his ink bottle and finally looked up, but did not meet Angeleigh’s smoldering glare.  “Ange... I’m sorry, but...”

“No you’re not,” she snapped.  “If you were you wouldn’t have told Wildeve.”

“I did what I had to do,” he said softly, rolling up his parchment.

Angeleigh slapped it out of his hand and slammed her fists on the table, drawing the nervous and scared attention of everyone still in the common room.  “You didn’t have to do that,” she growled.  “I told you what I told you in confidence and you went and told everything to Wildeve!”

“He assured me I’d be anonymous,” Lance said, as if defending himself.

“Oh, he didn’t name any names,” she assured him.  “But you’re the only one who was told that night.  Cyrus and Antigone have no one else to tell, but I told you and I know you went running to him.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said with a desperate shrug.  “I did what I thought I’d have to do, and I didn’t think you’d get in trouble for it.”

“Oh we’re not in trouble, per se,” Angeleigh said with a sneer.  “Just had to promise to stop trying to help our friend who could be in very real danger.  Nothing big.”

“Loyalty.  Definitely a Gryffindor trait,” Lance said with a forced smile.

“Yeah, and one you definitely did not exemplify,” Angeleigh said, knowing for a fact that would hurt Lance, who prided himself on his loyalty and chivalry.

It did hit him.  He raised his eyes to finally meet hers, and for a moment there was such pain there she was almost sorry for hurting him.  “Look, I was loyal to this school,” he said between clenched teeth.  “My loyalties lie to the school and my professors, first and foremost, especially while I wear this badge.”  He held the corner of his robe with the Prefect badge, slanting it so it caught the torchlight and blazed forth into Angeleigh’s eyes.  “If you can’t respect that, maybe we shouldn’t speak with one another for a while.”

“I can’t respect that,” she confirmed, ignoring the pang in her stomach at the suggestion of not speaking to Lance, which certainly also ruled out cuddling with him and feeling secure and protected with him.  “I can’t respect that, and your suggestion is the best I’ve heard all frickin’ evening!”  She jumped up and started to head to the girls’ side of the dormitory, but paused and fixed her eyes on him, and said, for all of Gryffindor to hear, “I’m used to betrayal at this point, Lance, but I didn’t think I’d have to worry about it ever coming from you.”

She marched up to her dormitory and threw herself onto the bed, burrowing under the crimson bedclothes and burying her head in the feather pillow, where she let the softness soak up the tears she couldn’t help shedding, and bled out the pain she couldn’t help feeling.  She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t avoid adding Lance to the list of people who had broken their promises to her.

Emmalynn St. Martin, mother
Simon St. Martin, father
Janus St. Martin, godfather/uncle
Silas Reaper, scum-of-the-earth Death Eater, but man of his word (where is he to kill me when I need him??)
Vanora MacGrear, friend-turned-freak
Lance Shadowcrest, almost-boyfriend and ex-friend

She was alone in this world, and now realized that everyone she’d ever counted on to protect her and keep her safe, or watch her back, had broken that promise and betrayed her trust.  Even Silas Reaper, horrible as he was, and as much as he had hurt her, had promised he would break her, but the only thing he’d broken was his promise.  It was only a matter of time before she added Cyrus, Antigone, and her Uncle Damien to the list, and with those grim thoughts blackening her mind and burdening her heart she fell into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams that disturbed her, but evaded her memory when she woke in the morning.

~*~*~*~

“Antigone, wait up!” Cyrus called, relegated to chasing Antigone through the stone corridors.  “Please, let me explain!”

“We’re going to be late for curfew,” was all Antigone said in reply as she picked up her pace, leaving Cyrus meters behind her.  Her mind was a maelstrom of emotions she normally was able to keep in neat compartments, under lock and key.  There was anger, tucked away next to rage and fury.  Sadness and melancholy and moroseness were in a corner near apathy.  Small compartments housed happiness and exuberance, and even smaller compartments housed trust.  She could usually keep them all separate, unlocking one emotion at a time, feeling what she needed to feel, and then locking it back up safely and remaining her usual impassive, icy self.

But something had happened that had undone all of her careful mental and emotional training, and now rage and melancholy waltzed madly, crashing into the brutal tango of sadness and anger.  Trust cowered in the corner, afraid it would be shattered in the psychotic dance of feelings within her brain.

A new emotion had come in and demanded to dance with the rest.

Betrayal.

Betrayal stirred up the emotions.  It unlocked the compartments all at once and forced the other emotions into frenzied dances that made her head and heart throb and ache.

Oh, she’d expected Angeleigh to give in, and when she stopped to think about it, it was probably because of Angeleigh that they’d found themselves in the situation with Wildeve earlier that evening.  She had quickly deduced that Angeleigh had told her little boyfriend Lance, that too-loyal, too-noble Gryffindor Prefect, what they’d discovered the night in the Prefects’ bathroom, and then Lance, being the way he was–at this Antigone felt a jolt of rage shoot through her–had sold them out to Wildeve.  While she normally adored Lance and his chivalric qualities, and the way he treated her like a lady without being condescending or patronizing, sometimes his greatest assets were his greatest liabilities.

But Cyrus... Cyrus she hadn’t really been expecting to give in so easily, especially after everything they’d discovered and gone through together.  Angeleigh and Lance, she found she could not fault.  Angeleigh really didn’t seem to have a choice in any matter anymore, and Lance could not help being a slave to his nature.  But Cyrus?  Give up the chance to bring down a Death Eater at only sixteen years of age?  Give up the credit in the Imperious Curse discovery?  It was unlike him to acquiesce so quickly.

“Antigone, wait, please listen to me,” Cyrus gasped, reaching out and grabbing her shoulder.

Antigone wheeled around and shoved him up against a wall, holding him there with her forearm across his neck, and her wand pointed at his head.  He could probably physically overpower her, but in the mood she was in, he didn’t attempt it.  She met his pale, icy blue eyes with her own fiery darker blue ones, and clenched her jaw.  “Look, I needed you on my side and you didn’t follow through.  I’m through with you.  My best friend is in danger, and another very close friend is, too, and you’d rather secure your own ass than help me and help them.”

“Please, just listen,” he said, his gaze softening a bit.  “Please, let me go and listen to me.  I had my reasons–“

“Doesn’t everyone these days?”

“Antigone.”

She sighed and let him go, sliding her wand back up into its holster on her forearm.  “Cyrus, you were the only one I could count on—and yes, it’s painful to admit that, which makes it doubly painful to know that you sided with everyone else.”

“I know.  But like I said, I had my reasons.  Wildeve wants us to leave it to him, right?  But we may not have the kind of time he and his team of hitwizards and Aurors would take.”

“Right, which is why we have to move right away, knowing what we know.”

“Yes.  Unless we agreed to stay out of it, he’d be keeping his eyes on us, or having House Elves watching us and stuff.  I’m pretty sure it was a House Elf who sold us out—“

“No, it wasn’t,” Antigone said dully, the emotion of defeat dancing a languorous ballet solo in her mind.  “It was Lance.”

Cyrus processed this quickly, and his eyes narrowed.  “I thought he was different than the rest of those self-righteous gits,” he growled.  “But I digress.  Anyway, if we didn’t agree to Wildeve’s demands, he’d keep watching us and we’d be powerless.  But right now...”  His voice trailed off and he looked at Antigone expectantly.

“...right now he thinks you’re a young man of your word and you’ll back off your investigation and take seven of his 85 eyes in the back of his head off you,” Antigone finished.  “So... where does that leave me, now?”

“See him after class day after tomorrow and tell him you thought things over and changed your mind,” Cyrus said simply.

“You are suggesting I lie to a professor?” Antigone asked, slowly growing from defeated to impressed.

“Angeleigh’s not the only one you can corrupt, you know,” Cyrus said with a wink that managed to draw a smile from Antigone.  “Sometimes you have to give a little ground in order to gain a little,” he said wisely.  “Having a father working in politics can be helpful sometimes.  Not all the time.  But sometimes.”  His eyes actually twinkled slightly.

“Oh, so is this a political intrigue we’re engaging in?” Antigone asked, the fiery glow in her eyes now reduced to twinkling anticipation.

“You can call it that if you want,” Cyrus said with a shrug, starting on his way back to the dungeons of Slytherin.  “Shh, we’ll want to be quiet going in though.  Don’t want to alert the other prefects to my recent corruption,” he said with a quirky grin.

Antigone grinned back, but her amusement was short lived.  No sooner had they spoken their password and sidled into the Slytherin common room than a silky voice they were learning to fear broke their temporarily high spirits.  “Coming back a bit late for a Prefect, aren’t we?”

“Vanora,” Cyrus and Antigone said at the same time, half to confirm one another’s fears and half in forced greeting.

Sure enough, Vanora sat primly on the edge of a stuffed black chair, a thick tome opened on the small table beside her.  There was no doubting by the thickness and apparent age that the book came from the Restricted Section in the library, just one more observation to add to the list of strange things Vanora had taken to saying or doing.  “It’s a relief to see you two made it back safely,” she said in her new smooth, teasing voice.  “It’s not even safe for students within the walls of the castles!  Thank goodness for curfew.  And for Prefects to enforce curfew.  But wait!  What’s this?  One of our own Prefects violating the curfew?” she asked with a mocking gasp, eyes wide and a hand clapped over her mouth in an expression of shock.

“Please don’t jump to conclusions, Vanora,” Cyrus said equally as smoothly, stepping down into the common room.

“That wasn’t jumping to conclusions.  Saying you were late because you were engaged in illicit acts of a–giggle–romantic nature, now that would be jumping to conclusions,” Vanora said smugly, flipping a page in her book.  “Saying you are late is fact.”

“Sod off, Vanora,” Antigone snapped, also descending into the common room, but continuing on toward the girls’ dormitories.

“Come now, Antigone, you don’t want me to add that to my owl to Professor Snape, do you?”

Antigone stopped and turned slowly, and saw that Cyrus was also staring at Vanora.  “You’re going to owl Professor Snape because we were fifteen minutes past curfew?” Cyrus said incredulously.  Antigone could only stare in amazement.

“Well, just because you are a Prefect doesn’t make you above the rules,” Vanora said sensibly, flipping another page in her book.  “Aren’t we all held to the same standards?  I’m really doing you a favor, holding you accountable like this.”  Another flip.

Antigone couldn’t take it any longer.  She strode over to Vanora and grabbed the heavy book, and, not caring that it was probably very old and very valuable, and very restricted, she heaved it across the common room where it fell with a thud.  Pages detached from the ancient binding and fluttered about on the stone floor.  “Add that to your damned list!” she shouted, but Vanora did not bat an eye.  She merely retained her smug expression.

“Anything else you’d like me to tell his Professorship?” Vanora asked pleasantly.

“Tell him to shove it,” Antigone growled, and vanished down the dark and winding corridor to her room, the room, she remembered only too late, that she shared with Vanora.

Cyrus was left in the common room with Vanora.  “She’s certainly temperamental,” Vanora said evenly, rising to her feet and gliding over to the damaged book on the floor.  “Now Cyrus, I hope I can count on you to be the sensible one in this situation.”

At this Cyrus cringed, but held his temper in check.  “Of course, Miss MacGrear.  Here, let me help you with that mess.”  He moved to kneel down, but Vanora swatted at him with her hand.

“No need.  And stop patronizing me, please.  You may think you are above the rules and above the abilities of everyone here at this school, but that does not give you the right to talk to me like you are better than me,” Vanora said in an even voice, but there was a sense of restrained anger in it.

“Fine, write your damned owl to the head of the house,” Cyrus sneered.  “If that makes you feel like the bigger person, or makes you feel better, go for it and see if I give a damn.”  He too stormed off toward the boys’ dormitories, but Vanora’s voice stopped him.

“Oh, it doesn’t make me feel bigger.  Or better.  But I do like seeing you squirm.  You’re so good at pretending nothing bothers you, so it’s nice to see you a bit bothered.  And besides, it’s no fun anymore the way you and Antigone leave me out of your little intrigues and games.  I need to have some fun of my own, you know.”

Cyrus did not turn around, but asked, “What intrigues and games?”

“Oh, you know... late night skulking around, swimming in the Prefects’ bathroom, going to dinner with Professor Wildeve... Antigone and I used to do everything together and now she’s doing everything with you.  I guess you could say I’ve grown bored and this is how I amuse myself,” she finished. “It’s what happens when you steal other peoples’ friends.  Oh, did I really say that?”  She giggled at his back.  “Oh well, silly me.  Anyway, Sleep well, Cyrus.  I’m sure you’ll need your rest for tomorrow.  Who knows how Professor Snape will react to his prized pet Prefect breaking the rules?  Wish I could be a fly on the wall,” she finished in a sing-song voice.

“Too bad that’s not a possibility,” Cyrus said in a hard, stony voice, and he continued toward his dormitory.

“Yes, too bad  it’s not,” Vanora called after him, watching his back retreat into the darkness and holding back a giggle at his and Antigone’s expenses.

“But it’s not impossible to be an otter in the pool,” she whispered to herself, as she knelt by the fire and began to reassemble the old textbook, grinning a secret grin at a joke only she would find funny.

Chapter 27: A Storm on the Horizon

At that point the school year began its slow crawl to a close, and things started to go wrong for Angeleigh all over the place.  Her argument with Lance had only been the first of many things that convinced her there was some higher power mocking her and then pointing a finger and laughing at her misfortunes.  She was glad she was of some entertainment value to something, somewhere, but she found herself wishing that whomever or whatever was getting a laugh at her expense could find another target.

Now that Lance was no longer talking to her, she found her time in Gryffindor Tower to be exceedingly lonely and boring.  She’d never befriended any of her other housemates, and now she was feeling the sting of being the odd girl out.  Sometimes there were glances cast between the two, but they never lasted long before one or both of them looked away.  She’d also  avoided Antigone and Cyrus since they’d parted ways after Wildeve’s little dinner party detention, for fear of how they viewed her.  She really couldn’t stand the idea of being alienated by them, so she had taken the first move and alienated them from her.  She was now all alone.

The upside, she realized, was that now her grades could improve.  Since she’d been sneaking around with Antigone and Cyrus, engaging in intrigues and covert plans, her homework had been falling by the wayside.  She was barely passing Transfiguration, and could only figure that Professor McGonagall was being kind in not failing her, as was Professor Sprout in Herbology.  Professor Snape, however, was not being so kind, and he seemed to relish the opportunities to embarrass Angeleigh and constantly remind her of her failing grades.  And she figured he was in cahoots with Professor Wildeve, who was also not in a generous mood with his grades.  She’d given up even trying to do things right in his class, because it became apparent to her that it was impossible.  Luckily, she was passing Charms with average grades, and Arithmancy with high grades.  She supposed she should be grateful for at least those small favors, and at least now, without any friends to distract her, she should be grateful for the opportunity to spend her free time studying, so she could end her school year with something akin to decent grades.  And a little dignity wouldn’t hurt, either.

That was her plan, at least, until she spotted Cyrus and Antigone arguing in the courtyard as she left the Herbology green houses one day, nursing a nasty rash on her hand after getting bitten by one of the plants.  They both looked up as she passed, and Angeleigh, who had sworn to go to the library and work on a Potions essay right after going to the infirmary.  Against her better judgment, Angeleigh shyly waved, and Antigone waved her over.  She sighed and shuffled over, adjusting her bag on her shoulder, and abandoning all thoughts of homework.  “So you’re still talking to me?” she asked, biting on her lip, eyes fixed on the ground.

“We don’t have a choice not to,” Cyrus answered with a slight smile.

“I knew you’d be with Wildeve.  You kind of don’t have a choice, the way he knows your uncle and all,” Antigone added grudgingly.  “The real miracle is that Cyrus and I are talking again after the other night.  Isn’t that right?”  She elbowed Cyrus in the ribs, catching him off guard.

He winced and regained his footing.  “Sure.  Right as rain.  But look, here’s what we’ve decided.”  He relayed his plan to Angeleigh in a whisper, and she nodded, still chewing on her bottom lip.

“Are you sure, Cyrus?” she finally asked when he was done.  She sat on a granite bench and rested her elbows on her knees, then bowed her head into her hands, her hair cascading down and hiding her face from view.  For once she was ready to just let someone else handle all of this.  She was tired of taking all the responsibilities upon her, and with the end of the year bearing down on her, giving control of the situation over to Wildeve would have lessened her academic, social, and emotional burdens immensely. The idea of being and feeling free was so appealing to her she could almost cry.  She looked up at Antigone and Cyrus through her hair.  “Have we stopped to think that Wildeve could be right?  He’s trained; this is stuff he’s seen before.  He knows what he’s doing.  He doesn’t need to sit around speculating, because he knows how to handle these situations.”  She shook her hair out of her face and met Antigone’s gaze.

“But Vanora’s not his friend,” Antigone said sternly, fixing Angeleigh with such a guilt-inducing stare that Angeleigh had to look away again.  “He’ll go by the book, sure, but maybe the book isn’t what we need.”  She crossed her arms over her chest and waited expectantly.

But Antigone’s righteous anger did not inspire Angeleigh to action.  If anything, it made her more upset.  “Now you’re sounding like my mother,” Angeleigh snapped.  “We’re students.  Students.  We are  here to learn.  And people like Wildeve are here to teach us, and we’re here to learn from them.  Maybe once, just this once, we don’t know better.  Maybe just this once we need to go by the book.  Has that crossed any of our minds?”  She leapt back to her feet.  “You know what?  This is all complete insanity, and I’m ready to be sane.  So when you two are ready to be sane, send me an owl.  I need to study.”  She spun around in a flourish of robes, and stormed off toward the entrance to the school building.

“Angeleigh, wait up!” Antigone yelled, taking off after her at a run, Cyrus in tow.

“No, I have to get to the Infirmary,” she yelled without looking back, trying to ignore the frustration-induced shaking in her hands and butterflies in her stomach.

“Look... please just listen to us!”

Angeleigh sighed, her already weakened resistance worn down by the pleading tone in Antigone’s voice.  She knew well enough by now that Antigone did not do ‘pleading’.  With a sigh she turned, her shoulders slumping.  “Fine, but can we do this later?  I got attacked by a plant and it’s swelling.” She held up her reddened, swollen hand.  “How about the last place we talked?  Over lunch?”

“No,” Cyrus said decisively, glancing around.  “Chances are good there will be another Prefect in there... Ravenclaws have Care of Magical Creatures before lunch, and I’m sure Kent Argento, he’s their sixth year prefect, he’ll want a bath after what Hagrid’s making them do in class.”  He grimaced a bit. “I know I did after class yesterday.  Hey, it’s a nice day, what about down by the lake?  And it won’t look as suspicious as a Prefect leading two non-prefects, one of whom is not even in his house, into a place designated for Prefects only.”

“Did you get all of that?” Antigone asked, rolling her eyes.  “I’ll be there.  You?”

Angeleigh eyed the bank of clouds on the horizon, but they didn’t seem to be affecting the weather around them at that point.  “Like I have a choice,” Angeleigh at last said, grudgingly, ignoring her conscience telling her that she did in fact have a choice.  “But I’m bringing my homework.  I’m so behind it’s not funny.  And besides, maybe we could make it look like we’re studying, so people wouldn’t be so suspicious.”

“Now you’re thinking like a conspiracy theorist,” Cyrus said, giving her a friendly, yet awkward pat on the back.

Angeleigh only smiled and nodded in reply, but as she made her way to see Madame Pomfrey, all she could think was that she was thinking like her mother.  She was becoming just what she had vowed, not that long ago, that she would never become.  As much as she tried to avoid it, she was becoming just like her mother.  She was becoming just like Silas Reaper.  But she was not becoming what she wanted to become: herself.  The more deeply steeped in the mysteries and intrigues she became, the less she knew who, or what, she was, and that annoyed and frustrated her to no end.  All she wanted was an identity separate from the influences of her past, and the more she wanted it and the more she tried to attain it, the further away from any of it she became.

And that was why, forty-five minutes later, she found herself down by the lake, without her homework, waiting for Antigone and Cyrus, and keeping an eye on the bank of dark clouds that seemed to be steadily inching in from over the horizon.  She sighed and picked up a handful of smooth, flat stones, and began skipping them over the surface of the lake.  Her father had taught her how to flick her wrist so the stone would glide and bounce lightly off the surface, keeping its momentum.  She swallowed the lump in her throat at the memory.  That was gone.  Those days were over, and crying was not going to bring them back.  She lobbed the last few stones at the lake, where they sunk in with loud plopping sounds.

She was about to just leave, rather than keep waiting for Antigone and Cyrus, when Antigone’s voice stopped her.

“Hell of a throwing arm you have there.”

Angeleigh turned around.  “I was about to leave.  I didn’t think you were going to come.”

Antigone and Cyrus glanced between one another.  “We were held up,” Cyrus finally said.  “She and I were late, coming into Slytherin last night after Wildeve’s.  Vanora was up and waiting and threatened to owl Snape about it.  And she made good on that threat.”

“Snape spent the last quarter hour blasting us,” Antigone said grimly, kicking the sand at her feet.  “Cy and I have detention for the next three nights, and Cyrus is now on probation from his prefect... business.”

Angeleigh’s eyes went wide, and she felt grateful that Lance hadn’t turned her in at all for her many indiscretions of late.  “Did you tell him about Wildeve keeping us so late?” she asked.

“Tried to, but it was no good,” Cyrus said darkly.  “He said no excuses.  So now everything’s getting personal, and I’m not willing to wait much longer to figure out what’s going on so we can put a stop to this.”

Antigone sat down on the sand and traced patterns in it with her fingertips.  She gazed blankly out at the water, and for a moment sat up straighter, squinting.  Angeleigh and Cyrus followed the direction of her stare.  Angeleigh felt a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, like a stone being dropped down her esophagus where it weighed heavily in her abdomen.  “What... What do you see?” she asked, fearing the answer, for reasons she could not quite explain.

“I... I don’t know.  Maybe it was just nothing.  A shadow or trick of the sun,” Antigone said uncertainly as the clouds from the storm moved closer to the shore and a perceptible chill filled the air around them.

“What I want to know is how Vanora knew about the night we were in the Prefects’ bathroom,” Cyrus said.  “Antigone and I definitely didn’t tell her.”

“And the only one I told was Lance,” Angeleigh said, ignoring the twinge of guilt in her stomach.  “Unless he told her...” the idea was too horrible for her to finish saying, even if she knew there was no way he would have done such a thing.  Which of course led her to feeling even more guilt.

“No... I know Lance, and even if he’s overly loyal to the school at the expense of his friends, I don’t think he’d give up loyalty to us by telling Vanora,” Antigone said carefully.  “But she’s found a way of knowing what’s going on even if we’re trying to avoid her.”

“House elves?” Cyrus suggested.

“What is it with you and blaming the damned elves?” Antigone snapped.

“Hey, they’re all over the place and can’t say no to anyone,” Cyrus retorted.  “Makes sense, is all.”

“So are we here just to make more speculations?” Angeleigh asked tiredly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.  “Because if we are, I’m really tired of just talking and speculating and never really getting anywhere concrete.  We’re kids with nothing to go on but our hunches.”

“I think we have quite good hunches,” Antigone said, sounding offended.  “And we’re more than just kids, with what we’ve been through.  We may as well be adults with all we’ve experienced.”

Angeleigh knew there was no use in arguing.  She knew she had experienced as much as, if not more than, most adult wizards, or even some Aurors, but it did not make her feel any more of an adult.  All it did was remind her of how young and vulnerable she was, and how much she still did not know, and of how much she still had to learn.  Certainly experience was a marker of growing up, but in this case, she didn’t feel that that held true.  “So you’ve got good hunches, and where has it gotten you?  Or me?  Detentions, probations, the professors watching us like hawks.  We have to sneak around.  We have to avoid the people we used to trust.  What are we gaining out of any of this?”  She felt tears of desperation pricking her eyeballs.

Her question seemed to have stunned Antigone and Cyrus into seeing things from that perspective.  The three were silent for a long while.  The clouds edged in on the sun, and a cool wind picked up, stirring the lake into white capped peaks and valleys.  Angeleigh shivered and clutched her robes around her.  Her long hair was caught in the wind, and whipped about her head like snakes.  Antigone’s multicolored tresses reacted in much the same way.

“I’m gaining my friend back,” Antigone said quietly, hugging herself to keep warm, and staring off into the distance.  “What about you, Magic Boy?” she asked with a slight grin.

“I... I’m not sure,” he answered truthfully.  “I guess fame and glory is the answer that makes sense to the both of you.  And at first, that’s why I was in on it, but I’ve given up a lot at this point, and I don’t really know why.  If my father could see me now he’d probably come close to disinheriting me,” he finished with a mirthless chuckle, also turning his gaze out to the lake.  A far off rumble of thunder echoed off the hillsides that sloped down into the choppy and tumultuous surface of the lake.  “When I started out this school year, I don’t think I could have ever pictured myself at this point.”

“Funny how things work out,” Angeleigh said softly.  “So... what now?  Let Wildeve do his thing and we’ll do ours?”

“What would ‘our thing’ be?” asked a new voice, causing the three to swivel their heads around and grab their wands.  “Hey, watch it with those things!” squeaked Vanora, her voice and mannerisms her own, though she looked tired and haggard.

“Nothing,” Angeleigh said quickly, still not sure what to make of Vanora, especially during this sudden break in her recent odd personality.

“Come to apologize?” Antigone sneered, rising to her feet, wand still at the ready.

“What for?” Vanora asked, her confused expression making her face seem even more pale and haggard, eyes fixated upon Antigone’s wand.  “Why are the three of you here without telling me?  What’s going on?  Why are you yelling at me?”

“You sold us out to Snape,” Cyrus snapped.  “Or did you forget that?  Last night?  In the dungeons?”
“I... I don’t really remember,” Vanora said, tears welling up in her eyes.  “Look, what’s going on here?”

At that moment the rain began to fall, huge drops of cold water falling upon their heads, and the wind howling over the lake and through the trees.  The four students stood in the rain staring at one another as the cold rain plastered their hair and robes against their skin.  The silence between them was far more frightening than any amount of shouting and arguing, and the hurt, painful expression on Vanora’s face was far more disconcerting than her cold, disdainful glare that she’d been sporting of late.  

“Anee, what’s happening to us?” Vanora finally asked, shifting her pained gaze between Antigone, Cyrus, and finally settling her gaze on Angeleigh.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Angeleigh whispered before Antigone could respond to Vanora.  Even in spite of Vanora’s apparent return to normal, she still felt strange whenever Vanora looked at her, like Vanora was staring into Angeleigh’s soul, trying to scratch beneath the surface and see what Angeleigh concealed.  She averted her eyes from Vanora and pulled her robes closer to her.  There was still something icy within Vanora, something she wasn’t ready to trust yet.

Antigone scrutinized Angeleigh for a moment, then shifted her eyes back to Vanora.  “Vans... I don’t know what’s happening here.  We were... we were hoping you could tell us?” she asked with a tentativeness she wished didn’t feel, hating the way her uncertainties came through in her voice.

“I haven’t really felt like myself lately, that’s all,” Vanora said, shivering and shaking water droplets from her buzz cut.  “Why are we talking about this in the rain while a perfectly good school, that is dry, is less than a kilometer away?”  She attempted to smile.

“Because we like the rain,” Cyrus said firmly.  “Look, Vanora, I’m on probation now because of you.  Antigone and I have detentions, and we can’t go to Hogsmeade in two weeks.  We’re on Snape’s very bad side.”

“That’s not my fault,” Vanora said desperately.

“You owled Snape.  Tell me how that’s not your fault!”

“You broke the rules,” Vanora said slowly.  “So it’s your fault?”  She smiled sheepishly.  “Look, I’m sorry about that, can we just...forget it happened?”

“No,” said Cyrus, crossing his arms over his chest, rain water streaming down his face.  A crack of thunder split the air around them, making them jump a bit.  Vanora laughed nervously, Antigone’s face was expressionless, and Cyrus was impassive.  Angeleigh bit down on her lip, and looked between the three Slytherins.  Icy streams of water drizzled down the back of her robes, and icy fingers poked and trailed themselves over her heart.

Without warning she jumped up.  “I’m going inside,” she stated over the roar of the rain and the more frequent cracks of thunder.  She hurried away, leaving the three Slytherins to their devices, glad to be away from the tension she could have cut with one of the plastic knives she’d studied in Muggle Customs back at AIM.

Of the three remaining Slytherins, only Vanora seemed to take notice of Angeleigh’s departure.  “Should we follow her?”

“No,” Cyrus said, clenching his jaw.  “Just stay away from her.  Whatever it is you’re up to, leave her out of it.”

“Whatever I’m up to?” Vanora asked, smiling through the sheets of rain that now sliced downward from the low clouds.  “Gosh, Cy, you make me sound like some kind of public enemy or like a conspirator or something.  Mr. Dramatic.  Hey, that’s a new one, Anee.”  She laughed at her own joke, but when Antigone did not join in, she quieted.  “Sorry, I was trying to be funny.”

“Look, Vanora, I never thought I’d say this, but this isn’t the time to be funny anymore,” Antigone said with a sigh, pushing her soaking hair out of her pale face.  “I just want to figure out what’s going on and get past it.”

“Okay, okay, I’m fine now,” Vanora said, setting her hands on her hips.  “I want to put the silly stuff behind us.  I felt weird, but I’m better.  You were... right.  Things didn’t... go... well with my... with my f-father,” she said with a superficial smile.  “But that’s behind me now.  Can’t you just put it behind you too?” she pleaded in desperation.

“I don’t know anymore, Vanora,” Antigone said, trying to ignore the confusion and frustration that bubbled up within her.  She felt frozen through.  All she had known to be true as far as friendship was concerned had been turned upside down in only a couple of short months.  “Look,” she said after a moment of tense, awkward silence, “it’s getting bad out.  And lunch is probably long over, and we’ve probably just skipped a class without meaning to and we should inside and... well, I’m going.  Do whatever you want, I can’t be arsed right now,” she said, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation and trudging away from the shoreline without a backward glance.

“So, Cyrus,” Vanora said, trying to sound light-hearted and flippant.  “I guess we’re alone now.”

Cyrus fixed her with a long stare, the heavy rain now matting his blond hair against his forehead.  “No, Vanora.  You’re alone, now,” he said, following Antigone’s path back to the castle, and leaving Vanora, indeed, alone in the rain.

She watched him go, following the path Angeleigh and Antigone had taken.  The rain streamed over her face and shoulders, and she was about up to her ankles in the flooding lake at this point.  “Don’t patronize me, Magic Boy!” she yelled after him, shaking with the combination of cold and anger.  She turned back and faced the swelling lake, her lower lip trembling, but she refused to cry.  And then there it was.  The voice, that voice, was there in her mind, taunting her.  I told you they’d abandon you, didn’t I?  Why don’t you ever listen to me?  Maybe you’ll listen now.

She clapped her hands over her ears.  “I don’t want to,” she whimpered in reply, blinking the rain and tears out of her eyes, stepping closer to the water.  She wanted to swim, to let the sleek otter’s form take over her own body, this body she was slowly losing control over.  She took another step, but the voice was there, in her mind, and no amount of thunder or driving rain could deafen her to it.

You have no choice.  Now get out of the water and go inside.  You’re of no use if you’re ill.  And remember what I told you about being useless.  You don’t want to be useless to me, do you?

Vanora stared out over the lake, a bolt of lightning illuminating the hillsides and splitting the clouds.  It was almost immediately followed by a sharp crack of thunder that shook the air and the ground around her, and finally startled her into turning around and trekking back up to the castle, which was etched sharply against the violently cloudy sky.  Choices and options were no longer a part of her life or her persona, and the sooner she accepted that and acquiesced to it, the more smoothly things would go.  She had been fighting it all for so long, that maybe it would feel good to relinquish the control.  Another flash of lightning illuminated the castle, the towers and turrets thrown into sharp relief against the sky.  Thunder echoed off the stone walls of the ancient edifice, and if it were possible, it seemed the rain came down even harder, thoroughly soaking the small, shivering, defeated form of Vanora MacGrear.

The storm had broken, and would show no mercy to those in its path.  Her father would make sure of that.

Chapter 28: The Calm Before

I should have known he wouldn’t owl me just for old times’ sake, Damien Dervish thought, running his hand through his hair, his eyes sweeping over the parchment in his other hand.  He and Riddley had been close in their school days, but when he, Damien, did not go into the Ministry like Riddley and their other close friend, Opal Cairnes, they’d lost touch.  Riddley communicated sporadically at best during his service with the Ministry, and then correspondence dropped off altogether after he’d resigned.  Damien and Opal had been curious as to why their shrewd friend had left a career he seemed to love, but there was no public record of it, and Riddley, as usual, was not talking.

And thus, when the snowy owl swooped in through an open casement window that morning, bearing a parchment with Riddley’s scrawling penmanship, he’d felt a strange combination of excitement and dread.  The last time he’d talked with Riddley had been in January when Angeleigh had been in trouble.  So the thought of his niece in trouble occupied his mind far more than the idea of a social call from Riddley.

Dervish, old mate!

Not to trouble you, but I’d like for you to meet up with me in the pub in Hogsmeade tomorrow.  I know you won’t be otherwise occupied, as you live alone in that large house of yours, enjoying your independent wealth, so unless I am making presumptions, I’ll expect to see you Saturday.

R.W. Wildeve

He supposed he really had no excuse to avoid Riddley, and really had no reason to feel the slight resentment at the mention of the family fortune.  It had always been a bit of a sore spot between the well-brought-up, pure-blooded Damien and the mixed-blooded Riddley, who made no secret that his times at home in a poor Limerick, Ireland, neighborhood were less than enjoyable.  Still, they’d maintained a good friendship, however Damien had to wonder about Riddley’s motivation for this sudden, seemingly social contact.  With a sigh he folded up the letter and poured himself another glass of scotch and sat down before the fire and passed the evening hours remembering a simpler time in his life, and trying to put his finger on when, exactly, he lost touch and things became so complicated.

He found himself thinking back to almost twenty years ago; had it really been two full decades since he’d been a student at Hogwarts?  So much had happened in that time.  Emmalynn had severed ties with the family completely.  Both his parents had died, leaving him the sole heir to the Dervish estate and namesake, but also leaving him alone.  He’d had no interest in thrill seeking at the Ministry, like Riddley did, nor any aptitude or fondness for political intrigue the way Opal Cairnes, his and Riddley’s other constant companion during the simpler times he’d had in Ravenclaw House.

He had a large house, a larger fortune, a few house elves, and stacks of history books and scrolls to occupy his mind.  He traveled to exotic places.  He drank fine wines.  He’d compiled and edited the extensive history of his family’s namesake and magical heritage.  He could transfigure himself at will, and, within the recent past, once a year he attended Opal’s lavish New Years gathering, along with the rest of wizarding high society.  But had he been happy with the solitary simplicity the last twenty years?

In the last eight months his life had become decidedly more complicated, and much as he initially thought he did not want to admit it, he felt happier and more fulfilled than any bottle of vintage wine, or any trip to any exclusive destination had left him.  Before, he’d not had a purpose.  He was a bachelor wandering the world aimlessly without real purpose or direction.  Nothing held him back, yet nothing drove him forward, either.  For all his travels and privileges, Damien Dervish had been in a rut.  But that was no longer the case, as Riddley’s letter now showed him.

He hastily picked up a quill, dipped it into a pot of deep maroon ink, and scrawled a reply back to Riddley, confirming the time and destination.  When he’d finished he cast a glance out the window and grimaced at the foreboding dark clouds gathering over the rolling green hillsides, but figured he’d have time enough before the rain broke.  He dashed outside, to his small private owlery, and attached the small piece of parchment to the scaly leg of his own screech owl, a large, majestic bird he’d named Dante.  Dante also looked at the clouds and seemed displeased by the prospect of making a delivery in the impending tempest.

“It’s important, Dante,” Damien said affectionately, stroking the bird’s chest feathers.  “If the weather remains inclement, you don’t need to return.  I just needed to confirm this appointment immediately.”  He gave an almost pleading look to the owl, who ruffled his feathers and clicked his beak unhappily, but nevertheless stretched his wings and launched off his perch.

Damien watched Dante flap into the distance; it did not take long for the owl to become little more than a speck against the clouds, and then disappear completely.  He sighed, wondering yet again what Riddley wanted, and why he, Damien, was bothering to go and renew acquaintances with his old friend.  Why now?  Why not before, when he was all alone, without anyone or anything to fulfill him?

The rain broke over his estate just as the answer broke upon the shores of his mind.  Of course.  There was now a common link they shared, a mutual person in the middle that necessitated the renewal of friendship and old alliances.

Damien realized he was getting soaked through to the skin, and with a sigh turned and trudged back toward the manor house.  It was only late afternoon, but he suddenly felt very tired.  Once in the house he ordered Auggie, his personal house elf, to light a fire in the large stone fireplace.  The elf obliged gratefully, and also brought a snifter of brandy to help warm his sodden master.

“Thank you, Auggie,” Damien murmured.  “You’re dismissed for now.”  The elf disapparated, leaving Damien alone before the crackling fire.  He sipped at his brandy and watched the flames dance merrily, his eyelids drooping as he relaxed.  He grew so warm and relaxed that he did not even realize when he fell asleep, and when he opened his eyes again, the fire had burned down to embers that faded slowly, until he was alone in the dark.

~*~*~*~

“Stout.  The world was not complete without it,” Riddley Wildeve said, taking a long swig of deep, dark ale with a frothy, creamy layer atop it.  “What’ll you have?”

“A glass of Riesling,” Damien said to the barkeep, his eyes darting around the Hog’s Head, the shadier of Hogsmeade’s two pubs.  He remembered the time he and Riddley had tried to come here their fourth year, and Opal had tried to stop them...

“Sorry, sir, no Riesling.”

Damien furrowed his brow.  “Oh... then, what’s your house red wine?”

“We have a decent Merlot.”

“Oh... well, then...”

“He’ll have a pint of the stout as well,” Wildeve interjected.  “Remember the old days, Damien?  When you used to be able to drink like a man?”  His tone was light and teasing, but there was a sarcasm beneath the surface that could not be ignored.  He slapped a few silver sickles down on the bar.  “Look, my treat, as well, so if you still find that you’re too refined for your old tastes you won’t have wasted your money.”

“Still logical as ever, I see,” Damien remarked, taking his pint of beer and following Riddley to a small table in the corner.  He watched Riddley pull up a third rough-hewn wooden chair.  “Is someone else joining us?” he asked, sniffing his glass.

“Yes.  Look, it’s beer.  Drink it, mate.  If an ex hit wizard is telling you to drink it, you can be assured that it’s safe.”

Damien cracked a grin and nodded grudgingly.  “I do suppose you’re right.  What ever happened, anyway?  Why did you leave the Ministry?”

“Personal reasons,” Riddley said, taking a swig of his beer.  “But enough about me.  Let’s talk about you.  Things changed pretty dramatically for you this year, didn’t they.”

“I’d be lying if I said they didn’t,” Damien replied, finally taking a swig of the thick and foamy stout.  He gulped it down, trying not to taste it.  There had been a time when he’d enjoyed doing this, sneaking into the pub on Hogsmeade weekends and swigging stout while the other students drank butterbeer in the safer tavern on the other side of town.  “It’s strange to go from being a complete and total bachelor to suddenly being responsible for another person.”

“I suppose that is true,” Riddley said, setting his glass down in front of him.  “Oh, here she is,” he said suddenly, eyes on the doorway, hand waving at the person who had just entered.

Though he’d not seen her since January, Damien clearly recognized Opal Cairnes.  He turned to face Riddley quickly.  “What is she doing here?” he asked, ignoring the way his heart leapt into his throat.  “What is this, a Ravenclaw reunion?”

“It would appear that way, but unfortunately what I have to share with you two is far from upbeat.”

“Riddley, darling!” exclaimed Opal, as she approached their table.  Riddley rose and gave Opal a quick peck on the cheek.  “It’s been ages.  And Damien.  Has the new year been good to you?”

Damien also rose, and pecked her on the other cheek, trying to quell his blush as it rose up his neck and into his cheeks.  “It’s treated me well enough, thanks,” he said, taking his seat again, and gesturing for Opal to take the remaining chair.  “What brings you here?”

“I couldn’t say no to Riddley’s request,” she said with a good-natured smile.  She waved the barmaid over.  “Glass of Chardonnay,” she ordered pleasantly.  “I suppose I could ask you the same question.”

“And I could give you the same answer,” he retorted with a smile.  “To be honest, it is lovely to see you again, Opal.  We so rarely see one another between the holidays.”

Damien could only smile and nod and take another long draught of his stout to keep from having to talk anymore than he had to.  Opal’s commanding presence had always done that to him; she always knew what to say and what to do in any given situation, much like Riddley.  They were leaders, organizers, decision makers.  It was what had made them such excellent prefects back in their school days.

Riddley smiled cordially.  “Well, now.  We’ve renewed our acquaintances and greeted one another acceptably, so now to the matter at hand.”

“I knew not to expect a purely social call out of you,” Opal jibed.

Riddley grinned slightly.  “True.  What do we all have in common?  Besides being former Ravenclaws.  The answer is your charges.  I have both of your nieces in my sixth year classes.”

Damien and Opal flashed surprised glances at one another.  “Angeleigh is...?”

“And you niece is...?”

“Antigone Windemere.  From what I hear out of Anee they’re nearly inseparable.  I remember briefly meeting her at my New Year gathering, but didn’t make the connection!”

Riddley cleared his throat, silencing the other two.  “There is another girl in my sixth year class who is a very close friend of both Antigone and Angeleigh.  Vanora MacGrear.  Her father is a known Death Eater.”  At this his voice dropped in volume and he looked meaningfully at his two friends.  Opal was nodding with grim knowing, and Damien seemed a bit paler, his hand tightening around his glass.  “Recently Vanora has been acting strangely; all the students, and the staff, are starting to notice it, and it is cause for concern, but as she is a friend of your nieces, they seem to be more concerned than most.”

“Understandable,” Opal affirmed.

“What they don’t seem to realize is that they are dealing with magic beyond their experience.”

“Sounds like Anee to me,” Opal remarked with an affectionate grin, but the grim reality of the situation shone in her deep indigo eyes.

“Sounds quite a bit like my Angel as well,” Damien added, not loosening his grip around his ale glass.  He wondered if he could channel enough of his churning emotion into the grip, making it strong enough to shatter the glass.  “She’s... she’s like her mother.  Can’t deny that.”  He tried to smile, but inwardly he was rapidly breaking apart.  Angeleigh, dabbling with the daughter of a Death Eater?  Concerned for the daughter of a known enemy?

“While both your nieces have undoubtedly experienced more than most witches their age, this situation with Vanora MacGrear is dangerous, especially for Angeleigh.  The International offices at the Ministry caught wind of one of Silas Reaper’s plans to get Angeleigh back, and it involves any dark wizard crazy enough–or desperate enough–to try.”

“Does Angel know this?” Damien asked in a hoarse whisper, his head reeling.

“No.  There’s no sense in worrying her like that, especially this close to the end of the term.  But she and Antigone, and another student, a Cyrus Dumontia, have been nosing around trying to find out what’s wrong with Vanora and, I’d daresay, think they can fix the situation.”

“Frackenal Dumontia’s son?” Opal asked.  “Not surprising, if he’s anything like his father.”

“Oh, he is,” Riddley said, cracking a rare grin.  “He’s a talented wizard, but the fatal flaw is he knows it.  He received a good deal of early, extra training, and seems to think that he could deal with the situation as well as... let me rephrase that.  Better than, most hit wizards or Aurors.  I have already spoken to the students about the importance of standing aside and letting the trained people handle this.”

“...But they’re too dedicated to their friend,” Opal said, filling in what Riddley had left unsaid.

“Precisely.”

“...so you want us to talk to them, and impress upon them the importance of backing away,” Damien added, draining his glass and calling the barmaid over to refill it.

“Yes.  Every day that goes by they are burrowing in further and further, and I’m afraid that the deeper they dig, the more they may just be digging their own graves.”

At that Damien’s curiosity was satisfied, and the glass shattered right in his hand.  Opal gasped, the barmaid came running, brandishing her wand, and Riddley actually flinched.  “I’m sorry,” Damien whispered.  “I suppose I’m under a bit of stress, and your choice of words pushed me over the edge.  I—we need to go up to the castle.  We have to talk to the girls, have to stop them.”

“Damien.  Breathe,” Opal said, grabbing him by the wrist.  “Shh, don’t panic, it’s—oh my, you’re bleeding quite a bit,” she noted, and slipped out her wand.  She tapped it against his gashed hand and the bleeding stopped; already faint scar lines started to form.

“I’ve owled to have the girls brought here, escorted by two of my former colleagues.  I figure it’s less disturbing than having you arrive unannounced at the school.  And I’ve let out a private room upstairs for the evening, so as not to draw too much attention here in the main room, especially since there will be in influx of customers, some who are most unsavory, come nightfall.”

“But the girls will get here safely,” Opal affirmed, a hardened stare in her eyes.

“Yes.  O’Meara and McCall are excellent at what they do.  And they’ll be certain to put a Disillusioning Charm on the girls so they aren’t seen leaving the school.  Doubtless those two will find this a most enjoyable excursion... they’re so into this mystery and intrigue business,” he added with a smile.  “Damien.  Don’t look like that,” he said suddenly, his voice and expression softer.  “Her safety is just as important to me.  She’ll get her safely, and I will be accompanying them on the way back.  If throwing myself in the way of a Killing Curse is what it takes to protect her, be assured I will do that.”

Riddley’s sincere reassurance calmed Damien slightly, and with a grim sense of determination and duty the three adults made their way out of the main bar and up into their rented chambers.

“Magic Cyrus is going to be so jealous,” Antigone gloated, as she climbed the staircase to the inn above the bar of the Hog’s Head.  “Secret trip to Hogsmeade?  Disillusioned and escorted by hit wizards?  All without him!”

“I doubt this is a visit someone would be jealous of,” Angeleigh said glumly, following Antigone and casting a glance back at the two broad-shouldered wizards who had introduced themselves gruffly as O’Meara and McCall.  “Now, if we snuck out and did this on our own... then maybe.  But yet another private owl from Wildeve?  I’m not looking forward to this,” she said.

At the top of the stairs O’Meara tapped her on the head with his wand, breaking the Disillusionment charm before he opened the rough-hewn door to the room.  She peered inside, shocked to see Wildeve, her uncle, and a very familiar looking woman with dark hair and indigo eyes.  Suddenly she remembered: Opal Cairnes, her uncle’s friend they’d seen at New Years!  But what was she doing here?  Angeleigh cast a questioning look at Antigone, who had stopped dead in her tracks and now stood as pale and still as a marble statue.

“Aunt Opal.  What are you doing here?” Antigone whispered.

Surprise washed over Angeleigh.  So Opal was Antigone’s aunt.  That would explain exactly how familiar Opal looked.

“Come in, girls.  O’Meara, guard the door on the outside... McCall, you’ll stay in here; cast a silencing charm on the door though, please.  And the window.  I don’t wish to have an unwelcome audience,” Wildeve said darkly, as both men sprung into action.  “Sit, please.  You probably wonder why your guardians are here.”

“Actually that was on the bottom of my list of questions,” Antigone snapped, rolling her eyes as she blatantly ignored Wildeve’s order to sit.  Instead she leaned on the wall, flicking her gaze between her aunt and her professor.

Angeleigh however gratefully collapsed next to her uncle, who put an arm protectively around her shoulder.  All she wanted to do was hide behind him, let him deal with the darkness and fear she was feeling these recent days.  Here, with his arm around her, she felt something akin to safe, something she’d not felt for quite some time, even in the presence of her parents.  She’d always been so afraid of how her mother would react to any move or choice she’d make; everything always seemed to result in a lecture about how doing the same thing again could result in her death.  But here, Damien only wanted to protect her, not teach her, nor expect her, to protect herself.

“Girls,” Wildeve said, grabbing Angeleigh’s attention.  “I can’t seem to make you see my point of view.  Apparently you’re of the thinking that because I’m a professor I can’t possibly care as much, or know as much as you do.  That’s common thinking for teenagers, though.  I’m aware of that, seeing as I was one myself.  Don’t look so skeptical, Miss Windemere,” he added with a cordial grin.
“So why do you have these two here?” asked Antigone, jerking her chin in the direction of Damien and Opal.

“We came to try and persuade you to believe Riddley,” Opal said.  “Anee, I know how much you care for your friends, how much you’d do to protect them.  But you’ve still so much to learn.”
“Thanks, Aunt Opal, but I think I can manage myself well enough.  I have up to this point,” Antigone snapped.

“And if I can’t persuade you, then I’m ordering you, as the one who practically raised you, to stop your investigations,” Opal said imperiously, her soft, almost maternal persona replaced by a harsher, more disciplinary one.  “Anee, I love you like my own daughter, and I’m telling you this as a parental figure.”

“Well thanks, but you aren’t my mother.  I’ve had to be a mother to Lanta and Aidan all this time, and I think I’m adult enough to make this choice.”

Angeleigh listened to Antigone and Opal trade blows.  She didn’t need Damien to ask her to back off.  She was ready to finish the school year with no further incidents.  She had no issues with letting Ministry trained officials deal with the MacGrear situation.

“Miss Windemere, what you, and you especially, Miss St. Martin, need to know about this situation is that is isn’t just Miss MacGrear and her father who are involved.  I have good reason to believe there is a particular reason behind Laird MacGrear’s involvement.  Well, perhaps not a particular reason, as a particular person.”

“Why me especially?” Angeleigh asked, lifting her head off of her uncle’s shoulder.  A claw twisted her intestines and a block of ice settled in her stomach while the acidic taste of bile burned the back of her throat.  And even before he said it she knew what Wildeve would tell her.

“Silas Reaper,” he said grimly.  “MacGrear isn’t working of his own volition.  He’s using his daughter to get closer to you so he can do something Reaper asked of him.  So now you see, girls, why I really must advise you to listen to your guardians, and me, when we ask you to let me do  my job.  Let the people trained for things like this handle it.”

Angeleigh became aware that she wasn’t breathing; she was hideously dizzy.  The creeping cold paralyzed her.  Her heart pounded arrhythmically against her ribs and she felt her stomach heaved while her mind reeled.  Reaper was still after her?  She remembered his simple, threatening letter from months ago: Enjoy it while it lasts.  So was this as long as her peace and quiet was to last?  Without warning everything went dark around her.

When she opened her eyes again, she was on her back, facing upward into the gazes of Damien, Wildeve, Opal, and Antigone.  She struggled to sit up.  “I’m okay,” she croaked, still feeling the pounding in her chest.  “I just... I’m fine.”  She felt stupid, forgetting to breathe like that, and passing out.  “I won’t do that in class, Professor,” she added, a lame attempt at lightening the mood.  “And about backing off... you don’t have to ask twice.  I... I know I can’t do this anymore.”  She hiccupped, struggling to hold back the tears she knew were coming.  But she’d done it.  She had admitted that she couldn’t do it.  She’d given up her responsibility, relinquished the need to do the dangerous work.

“And–and... I don’t want to be an Auror,” she choked out suddenly, blinking back the tears that burned her eyeballs like acid.

“It’s okay, love, no one expected you to be,” Damien crooned, gathering her in a hug.

“I’m scared now.  I’ve always been scared,” she croaked, burying her face in his robes and allowing the torrent of sobs to burst forth.

Riddley turned away awkwardly and motioned to Opal to join him in the corner.  “Will she be alright, Riddley?” Opal asked, casting a glance at the shuddering heap of robes that was Angeleigh.

“She sees the sense in the matter.  She’ll be fine,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  “I worry about your niece.  Miss Windemere there.  She’ll be in over her head if she goes forth with this.”

“I’ll have more words with her, even if it means having to personally escort her back to Hogwarts,” Opal said grimly.  “She’s like me, though,” she added, batting her eyelashes teasingly at Riddley.

“Now that you mention it...” he teased back, earning a playful shove from Opal.  “So, last time, do I have your words that you will not go forth with your investigations into magic you cannot yet handle?”  He asked, his tone deathly serious.

Angeleigh nodded mutely, refusing to face her professor, or Antigone.  Part of her screamed COWARD!  But she couldn’t go through with any of this any longer.  If it meant abandoning Vanora, or Antigone, or even Lance and Cyrus, she was finished with being in intelligence and security.  She’d conceal the secret she’d been charmed to keep, and that was all.  She would take it to the grave if need be, but it would not be a grave that irresponsible forays into dark matters had prepared ahead for her.

Chapter 29: Tempest

“You abandoned her.  She’s your friend and you abandoned her!”

Angeleigh trudged along silently, her ears long since deafened to Antigone’s shouts and lectures.  Part of her agreed with Antigone, and was screaming the word ‘coward’ inside her head, but the rest of her had just gone numb and apathetic.  So she was a coward.  So she cared more about herself and her safety than Vanora.  But what did she really stand to gain from choosing to save Vanora?  She only jeopardized herself, and the secrets magically concealed within her.  So she’d return to school for her seventh year friendless.  Would that make it all that different from when she’d first come here back in September?  All she had to do was make it through one more year of schooling... maybe not even that much; she was officially of age in the wizarding world.  Would she really have to go back?  What did N.E.W.T.s count for anyway?

“Are you going to defend yourself?  Or just take it?”  Antigone was screaming at her.

Angeleigh wearily looked over at Antigone, whose face was ghostly in the wand light that illuminated their trek back to Hogwarts castle.  She took a breath, ready to retort, but instead sighed and averted her gaze from Antigone.  Nothing would appease Antigone at this point.  No defense would be good enough, and no apology would satisfy.  At this point Angeleigh didn’t care.  She was past the point of caring.  And if it made her seem spineless and selfish, that was just too bad.  Besides, after all that she’d put up with just in the last year, she supposed she’d earned some right to be selfish.

She’d thought Antigone would stop after that, but the tall, Slytherin witch ranted right up until Angeleigh left her at the main staircase, accompanied by McCall, who guarded her progress up to Gryffindor tower.  Antigone was still screaming after her, or was that just the echoes of Antigone’s voice in her ears?  She didn’t know anymore.  Her mind could no longer distinguish.  Moreover, her mind did not want to distinguish.

“Miss St. Martin,” McCall said, startling her.  “We’re here.  Should I stand guard for the evening?”

“No,” she said, eyes closed, feeling empty.  “There’s a password on the portrait.  I think it’ll be fine.”

“Then I’ll let Wildeve know.  Will you need my presence again tomorrow?  Or any other time?”

“Thank you, but no.  I think I’ll be fine within the confines of the castle,” she said tiredly, but rather than be annoyed by McCall doing his job, like she may have been at another, earlier time, she was grateful for his willingness to protect her.  “I don’t plan on being much of anywhere other than the classrooms and this tower from now til the end of the year.”  She smiled ruefully, but did not find she felt any pain in realizing she did not have friends anymore.  If anything there was a sense of relief at knowing she no longer had any responsibilities toward anyone.

As she climbed into bed that night, she realized the upside of not having any friends was now she could take some responsibility for herself, as she had wanted to recently.  No more sneaking around, risking being caught breaking all manner of school rules... no more skipping out on homework assignments or sleeping through classes, or hiding in the back row seats, avoiding the stares of professors.  Maybe she could reclaim some dignity and integrity for herself, provided she wasn’t already too far gone to be redeemed.

The next morning the final Hogsmeade weekend of the year was announced.  At any point earlier in the year Angeleigh would have joined up with Antigone and Vanora to make up their list of things to buy in Zonko’s, and started gushing about Honeyduke’s sweets, or giggling darkly over the idea of spiked butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, and the resulting hangovers afterward.  But this time Angeleigh was only glad that it would mean most of the school would be gone, enjoying the steadily improving weather and the chance to get away from the stone corridors hemming them in.

“Miss St. Martin,” Wildeve called, one afternoon after class had let out, and she’d watched her former friends storm out of the classroom, and shuddered over a particularly nasty sneer from Vanora.

“Yes, Professor,” she sighed, looking up, conscious of the hollowness and darkness around her eyes, and the way her robes were hanging off of her thin shoulders.
“Angeleigh,” he said again, this time startling her.  She’d never heard him use the first name of a student before, in class or out on the grounds, or even one on one.  “How has your week gone?” he asked, his voice almost kind toward her.

“Uneventful,” she told him.  “In a good way.”

“Good.  Have you been taking care of yourself?”

She raised her eyebrow at him.  “Why don’t you tell me the answer to that,” she said, in an almost Antigone-esque manner.

He cracked one of his all-too-rare grins.  “You look tired.  And far too thin.  You haven’t been eating or sleeping well.  I’ve seen the look before, in my Auror students,” he said, his own attempt at a joke.  “But you are not an Auror student, so I conclude other things are bothering you.”

“No... no, I’m fine.  Just tired.  Worn out after last weekend,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

“Quite understandable.  Do you plan on going to Hogsmeade this upcoming weekend?”

“Maybe.  Not like I have anyone to go with, though,” she said with a shrug.

“Ah.  Well, I’ll neither encourage nor discourage you,” he said.  “If you do choose to go, please notify me, so I can have you trailed.”

“Oh, it’s not necessary–“

“Yes, it is necessary,” he said kindly, yet sternly.  “If you’re going to leave the grounds, you need to be protected.  And it is my duty to secure that protection.  It’s not just my job.  It’s a promise I’ve made to my old friend,” he said.  “Now, can I have your promise?”

Angeleigh shrugged, having no real choice in the matter.  “Yeah.  Sure.  I’m not really planning to go anyway.  Um... am I—am I dismissed, sir?” she asked tentatively.

“Oh, yes, of course.  Take care of yourself, Miss St. Martin,” he said.  “And that’s an order.  Get rest.  Eat something.”  He nodded in farewell, turning his attention to the pile of scrolls the sixth years had just turned in.

Angeleigh left the classroom and shuffled down the stone corridor.  “Heya, Ange!  Wait up!” called a familiar male voice that made her turn and do a double take as she saw Lance chasing after her.  She should have been glad to see him; she should have felt her heart leaping with excitement, but she could not feel anything anymore.  She simply forced a tired smile at him.  “Oh.  Hi, Lance.  What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing... here, let me take your books.  You look like you need a hand.”  Without waiting for her protest, he gallantly slipped her book bag off of her shoulder and hefted it upon his own.  “There.  You look so tired.  Are you alright?”  His tone was so sincere, so genuinely concerned for her, that Angeleigh nearly cried with gratitude for his show of kindness.  “Don’t look like that, please,” he implored.  “Look... we had our disagreements, but you seem to need someone on your side right now.”

She started hiccupping again.  “Oh, Lance, you have no idea,” she began.  “I–I’ve just felt so alone.  I don’t know what to do anymore about anything or anybody or–“

“Ange.”  He gripped her shoulders, holding her still and trying to calm her down, but feeling her tremble in his grasp.  She seemed fragile, vulnerable, easily breakable like this.  “Ange, don’t worry.  The year’s almost over.  I’ll be here for you.”  He slid his arms around her, folding her into a tight hug, feeling the way her thin body sank with relief in his grip.  “Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?  Maybe that will help you feel better...”

But his suggestion just elicited more trembling from Angeleigh.  “I can’t... I just can’t,” she whispered.  “It’s just not safe anywhere anymore.”

“But there are hit wizards everywhere, and I’ll be there; who would try something out in the open?”

“But it’s Vanora,” she murmured.

“So we’ll keep you away from her,” he whispered back.  “You’ll be okay.  Come on, will you go with me?”

“I can’t make any promises,” she said, looking up at him, sniffling and wiping tears out of her eyes with the cuff of her robe.  “But I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” he said with a smile.  “Are Antigone and Cyrus going?  Safety in numbers, you know.”

“They were suspended from the trip by Professor Snape,” she said miserably.  “And even if they could go, Antigone’s mad at me.”

“Don’t let it get to you,” Lance assured her.  “Antigone is intense.  She has her ideas of right and wrong, and her own brand of loyalty.  I think right now she’s just frustrated because she’s caught between her two closest friends.  Are you going to come to dinner?”

“No.  I’m... I’m not hungry.  I have a lot of homework to finish and need to get sleep and... and.. And...”

“I get it, I get it,” Lance said with a smile.  “I”ll bring you something back.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I want to.  Here, I’ll take your things back to Gryffindor.”

He walked beside her in silence, occasionally flicking a glance in her direction, and adding a small smile when she caught him.  “Here,” he said, as they reached the portrait of the fat lady.  “Remember, at least think of going to Hogsmeade with me.”  He quickly squeezed her hand and then headed back down the stairs, leaving her alone in the stone corridor.

~*~*~*~

Antigone stalked back and forth across the stone floor of Cyrus’ chamber.  Cyrus sat at his mahogany desk and simply watched.  “Well?  Aren’t you going to say anything?”  She finally snapped, turning her blazing eyes on him.

“What would you like me to say?  You neglected to give me the script,” he said back, his voice icily sarcastic.

“Something other than nothing.  We have to do something!  We can’t just sit here in inaction, we—“

“Antigone, what do you propose we do?  Our hands are tied!    We...” he paused and bowed his head, afraid to admit it.  “We can’t help or save everyone.”

Antigone stopped her pacing and stared at him, her mouth pressed into a thin, tight line, jaw clenched, a cold fire burning in her eyes.  “No.  Not everyone.  But we can save Vanora and Ange!  So you’re going to abandon me too?”

He narrowed his eyes.  “Keep your voice down.  Feel like getting in trouble again?  Having detention the rest of the year?”

“That’s all that’s important to you?”  She asked, but her voice had dropped to a hissing whisper.

“What can we do?” he asked, tossing his hands up in defeat.  “We can’t go to Hogsmeade, my father was ready to disinherit me last weekend, and I’m on probation.  Look, I stand to lose a lot if I keep this up.”

“Oh, so now you’re going back and thinking about just yourself now, too.”

“No.  Just thinking about the acceptability of taking certain risks.  Maybe I’ve come to the point where I have to realize Wildeve has had a point all year long.”

She unsheathed a small dagger from her boot and stabbed it into the corner of his desktop.  “I never figured you’d give up so easily.”

“I’m not giving up.  I... I...” he grasped the dagger by the hilt and yanked it out of the wood in his desk.  “I know ways we can sneak down to Hogsmeade,” he finally said, closing his eyes and throwing the dagger down to the stone floor.  “If Ange goes, we can be sure to follow her.  I’ve done some advanced studies and know things I really shouldn’t at this point, and I’d promised not to use them until I came of age, but... maybe, just maybe this qualifies as an extenuating circumstance.”  He smiled grimly.  “I’m fully corrupted.”

“What can you do?” she asked, sitting on the edge of his bed.
“I can Confound Filch.  I can cast a Disillusionment Charm, the closest I can come to having an Invisibility Cloak.  And I know a back way out of the school no one really pays any attention to.  It won’t be easy, but it can be done.”

“Then let’s do it,” Antigone said, without missing a beat, a look of grim determination in her tempestuous eyes.  “Well.”  She yawned, then stood and stretched.  “I’m going to bed.  I’ll see you Saturday.”

Cyrus watched her leave, a satisfied grin on her face, and a grim smile on his.  Part of him wanted little more excitement than he’d already had this year, but the rest of him was excited have another adventure, another chance to let loose his magical powers, which he’d felt were being held back by the methodical teaching he’d been receiving for the last five years.  Yes, the weekend would be dangerous, but it was a necessary danger–an acceptable risk he was now willing to take.

~*~*~*~

Something told Angeleigh she was making a big mistake, a huge mistake, when she ran down the stairs on the sunny Saturday of the final Hogsmeade trip.  It was quite literally a last minute decision she’d made upon waking up that morning.  If she hoped to catch up with Lance, she would have to forego seeing Wildeve first, but on a sunny, beautiful day like this, and with a tall, strong young man like Lance by her side, she doubted she would have anything to fear.  Besides, it would only be for a few hours; they would return before dark.  Nothing would happen, so long as she kept her eyes and ears open and her wand at the ready.

Lance greeted her with a large hug that lifted her up off the ground.  “I’m glad you’re coming,” he said cheerily, setting her back down.  “Where do you want to go first?”

Angeleigh was far more talkative than she had been in days, if not weeks.  Lance was talking to her again.  Lance was protecting her again.  He cared about her and wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.  She felt a sense of freedom now that the weight was off of her.  But that weight returned when they entered the main thoroughfare of Hogsmeade.  There, in the doorway of Gladrags, stood Vanora, looking up and down the streets at the crowd of students bustling past.

“Oh no...” Angeleigh murmured.  “It’s her.”

“Just stay close to me,” Lance said, grasping her hand tightly and surreptitiously removing his wand from the pocket of his Muggle-styled jeans.  He turned his torso just enough so that Angeleigh was shielded from view, and they hurried past Gladrags.  “Well, I guess we’ll save that store for later,” he said, eliciting a nervous giggle from Angeleigh.  “How about Honeydukes?  All my treat.  I’ll get you those sherbet balls you like so much,” he said with a squeeze of her hand.

Angeleigh allowed herself to be lost in the craziness that was Honeydukes, trying to blend in with the crowd of students.  She, like Lance, had opted for Muggle-styled clothing, as had many other students.  She slipped an elastic band off her wrist and quickly wound her long hair into a lopsided braid that she flung over her shoulder.
“Hey, watch it!” hissed a familiar voice that seemed to come from out of nowhere.

For the second time during her clandestine visit Angeleigh felt the blood in her veins solidify.  She looked around desperately.

“Here.  By the Blood Pops.”

Angeleigh squinted and seemed to see the display shift strangely and lumpily.  “Anee?” she whispered, shocked.  “You–you’re not allowed to be here!”

“Neither am I,” came Cyrus’ disembodied voice.

“Whoa!  Let me tell Lance I’ll be outside,” she whispered, shoving her way through a group of fourth year Hufflepuffs daring one another to eat different flavors of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.  “Don’t eat the pale orange one,” she advised, catching them off-guard as she pushed past, sidling up beside Lance.  “Cy and Anee are here,” she muttered, standing on tip-toe.

“What?” he asked incredulously.

“Keep it down!” she hissed nervously, looking around the shop to see if anyone had heard.  “I know they aren’t supposed to be here, but they are.  Over by the Blood Pops.”

He scanned the area Angeleigh had mentioned, then looked back at her and shrugged.  “Ange... maybe you need to seriously think about getting more sleep,” he suggested.  “I don’t see anything.”

“They’re using some kind of charm.  Anyway they want to go outside.  You coming?”

“Yeah, sure, just let me pay for these, and I’ll meet you,” Lance said, still seeming a bit disconcerted.

Angeleigh maneuvered her way through the crowds and out the door, inhaling deeply when she reached the outside.  The late spring air was warm with the promise of summer, a promise Angeleigh was ready to see fulfilled.  She hurried around to the back of the building and sat under a budding tree, scanning the air around her for any odd shifts that would signal the arrival of the Disillusioned Antigone and Cyrus.

“Back here,” came Antigone’s low voice.  “Don’t turn around and look suspicious.  Okay, now we’re sitting to your left.”

Angeleigh looked out of the corner of her eye, and in her peripheral vision caught the subtle shift of the sunlight that indicated Antigone and Cyrus’ presence.  “Okay,” she whispered.  “What are you doing here?”

“Watching out for you,” Cyrus said.  “Kind of a dangerous stunt if you ask me, coming down here with no protection.”

“Lance is with me.  We just wanted some things in Honeydukes, then we were going to go back,” she hissed.  “I know you feel the need to babysit me, but–“

“Is Vanora here?” Antigone asked suddenly.

“Yes, I saw her lounging in front of Gladrags.”  She sighed.   “Don’t worry, I don’t think she saw me, and even if she did, what would she try in front of all these people?”  She slumped a bit, starting to feel drained again.  The somewhat good feeling she’d had earlier was rapidly depleting within her.  She looked up, though, as she heard footsteps approaching.  Her heart skipped a beat, but she relaxed when she saw Lance approach with his purchase clutched in his hand.  “Heya,” she said with a smile.

“So... where are they?” he asked skeptically, in greeting.

“Here,” Antigone said, and she must have poked him, because Lance jumped.  There was a disembodied giggle.  “You’re ticklish!” she said gleefully.

“So?” he asked grudgingly, and sat down next to Angeleigh.  “Haven’t you two already done enough damage lately?” he asked the thin air.  “Do you know what you’re looking at if you get caught here?”

“Yes, we know,” Cyrus said, sounding bored.  “But in theory I’m not really a prefect right now, am I?  Not after being put on probation and all.  So I’m not really risking anything.”  He sighed.  “I know you don’t approve.  You don’t need to frown like that.”

“No, I’m frowning because we’re going to have company,” Lance hissed.  “And I don’t just mean the storm clouds moving in.”

Sure enough there were fast moving dark clouds approaching from over the hills, casting shadows upon the small village of Hogsmeade.  And with them, almost preceding their arrival, was Vanora MacGrear.  “Come on,” Lance said, hauling Angeleigh to her feet.  “Stay close to me, we’ll just walk and pretend we don’t notice her.  You two... make yourselves useful,” he muttered in the direction of Cyrus and Antigone.  “We just need to get a head start on her.”

Angeleigh felt her heart pounding in a way she recognized from the night last summer (had it been almost a full year ago?) when her parents had been killed.  There it was, primordial fear clawing at her insides and squeezing her heart and lungs.  Somehow her body disengaged from her conscious mind and moved, half of its own volition, and half because Lance was dragging her along.  Sometimes she stumbled over gnarled roots or hidden rocks, and sometimes her feet flew over the ground unhindered.  Her mind, however, was in a completely different place.

She couldn’t go back to Silas Reaper.  She couldn’t stand more of his physical and emotional torment.  She would rather die first, would rather take her own life than wait for him to kill her.  “Lance,” she gasped, the words burning in her trachea.  “We... have... to.. Get back to... Hogwarts,” she said, a stitch in her side making running and talking at the same time very painful.  Behind her Antigone or Cyrus had managed to trip Vanora, giving them a slight advantage, but the Slytherin girl had broken into a run as well, and was starting to gain ground.
“Angeleigh!” she called behind them, making Angeleigh ignore the pain and run all the harder.  “Wait up, I want to talk to you!”

But Angeleigh did not stop.  Her only thought was getting back to Hogwarts castle, back to where she could be safe, back to where she could peacefully curse herself for not seeing Wildeve before she came here, for thinking she’d be safe...

The rain broke without warning, great torrents of chill water that began to mercilessly beat the countryside.  Dirt turned to mud, ditches turned to small raging rivers, and a sudden icy gale whipped tree branches about violently.

“We can’t make it back to the castle in this!” Lance yelled over the howl of the wind.  “We need shelter!”

Angeleigh could not respond, just keep running even as the wind and rain stung her skin and her feet sought desperately to keep her upright as the soles of her trainers slipped in the new mud that was their path.  “Where?” she yelled desperately, blinded by the silvery sheets of rain that sliced at her.  But it seemed Lance was at a loss for a solution as much as she was, and was only running blindly now to keep away from Vanora, who seemed unaffected by the sudden, violent tempest.

Without warning Cyrus and Antigone appeared beside them, the pop of Cyrus’ Apparation drowned out by the gale.  “Just add Apparating without a license to my growing list of indiscretions!” he yelled over a rumble of thunder.  Antigone looked visibly shaken by her trip with him, but her pale face was set in a grim mask.  “We’re not far from the Shrieking Shack,” she yelled.  “Let’s go there!”

With a destination in mind the four students felt a new energy spur them forward.  Lance lost his footing once, but Cyrus and Antigone dragged him to his feet right away.  And then they were at the fence that surrounded the dilapidated Shrieking Shack, struggling to climb over it.  Angeleigh crashed into a mud puddle on the other side of the fence.  For a moment she felt ready to give up.  She was cold, she could not breathe, and her bad leg, which had been almost completely healed, was throbbing now that she was no longer running.  There were only a few more meters until they were theoretically safe, but she did not know if she could make it.  Thoughts of defeat clouded her mind...

“Get UP!” screamed Antigone, grabbing Angeleigh’s hands and hauling the smaller girl to her feet.  “Do you want her to catch you?  MOVE!” she shouted, half-dragging Angeleigh toward the Shrieking Shack.  “We’re close.  Don’t give in now,” she tried to reassure her, but at this point Angeleigh was so cold, so achy, so tired...  “DAMMIT!” shrieked Antigone, and slapped Angeleigh across the face.

“What the hell was that for?” Angeleigh shouted, her mind miraculously cleared of the despairing fog that had plagued it only moments before.

“To snap you out of it.  You can repay me later.  Or thank me.  Up to you.  Come on.”

The boys were already at work prying the boards off the door, but Angeleigh, with her new resolve, had no patience for it.  She pulled out her wand and aimed at the door as Antigone shoved Lance and Cyrus out of the way.  “REDUCTO!” Angeleigh screamed, and the boards splintered, freeing the door.  “Dammit, guys, are we witches and wizards or not?” she asked, grinning through the rain, as the four barreled into the shack, bolting the door behind them.

“Upstairs,” Cyrus gasped.  Even he was beginning to show the strain of the cold, damp, and running.  “We can’t stop here.”

Angeleigh followed her friends up the stairs, barely taking any notice of her surroundings, only praying that the staircase, which creaked ominously in harmony with the thunder outside, would not collapse under the combined weight of four students.  But the staircase held, and they emerged into dank and dusty hallway that branched off into different rooms.

“Split up,” Cyrus ordered, and grabbed Angeleigh’s wrist.  “No, come with me.  Lance,” he began, sounding strained.  “I know you two have a... thing... and all, but she will be safer with me.”

Angeleigh expected Lance to protest, but it was a mark of the desperation of their situation when he only nodded tersely and ducked into a room alone.  Antigone dashed down the left branch of the hall and disappeared into a darkened room, leaving Angeleigh and Cyrus alone.  For once Angeleigh felt no resentment toward Cyrus and just let him lead her to a small room with an even smaller closet.  “In here,” he whispered, and they climbed into the closet and quietly closed the door behind them.  “If our luck holds, she won’t have seen us come in here,” he whispered, but cursed only a moment later when he heard the downstairs door blown open by the same Reductor Curse Angeleigh had used to blast the boards covering it.  Angeleigh made a squeaking sound in panic, and he clapped his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

Angeleigh felt her breathing quicken and her heart pound.  A spider descended onto her arm and she inhaled sharply, and Cyrus’ hand tightened over her mouth.  She willed herself to calm down, to realize that the spider was nothing compared to what awaited her if Vanora found them, if...

There was the sound of footsteps on the creaking stairs.  Not just one set of footfalls, but two.  And then a voice.  An adult male voice, the likes of which Angeleigh had not heard before, but she didn’t need anyone to tell her it was most likely Vanora’s father.  They were paused at the landing, trying to figure out which way to go.  “The others are of no importance to me whatsoever,” came the voice of Vanora’s father.  “Only the girl.  You are certain she came this way.”

“Yes, father.  She is in here.”

“Are you ready to cast the spell I taught you?”

“Yes, father.”

“Do so.”

“Yes, father.”  There was a moment of silence during which both Angeleigh and Cyrus, and in their respective hiding places, Antigone and Lance, waited with complete uncertainty, having no way of knowing what Vanora and her father, who held her under an Imperious Curse, would do.  And then their fears were realized.

“MORSMORDRE!” Vanora shouted, her voice hardly her own.

Inside the Shrieking Shack there was no shrieking or screaming or yelling, only silence, the only defense of the four students.  Outside, as the Dark Mark appeared amid the raging tempest, people began screaming hysterically.  In her closet hiding place Angeleigh felt tears leaking out of her eyes.  The spell meant one thing: someone was going to die here, now, and it was all her fault.  She would be better off giving herself up here, now.  She struggled against Cyrus, who held her tightly.  “Shh!” he hissed.  “If we’re quiet they may not find us.”

But there were sudden footfalls in the room in which they hid.  The floorboards creaked and groaned and Vanora and her father paced about the room.  Angeleigh had gone numb, and found herself hoping and praying that Cyrus was even just half the wizard he thought he was, because at this point she had no hope of being able to defend herself.

“Come out, come out wherever you are!” sang Vanora, seeming to be right out side the closet.  “You’re going to make my daddy very, very rich!”  She tapped her foot impatiently, and Angeleigh realized that the MacGrears were playing with them.  Once again Angeleigh was cornered prey, at the mercy of two much larger predators.  But if she and Cyrus just stayed quiet...

The knob on the closet door creaked.  Cyrus released Angeleigh and readied his wand as the door began to groan on its hinges.  Cyrus gathered his energy in his crouched leg muscles, and sprung forward, tackling Vanora with a feral yell.  The ensuing melee could only be described as psychotic, by Angeleigh, who remained crouched and huddled in the closet.  Antigone and Lance appeared and tried to wrest Vanora’s wand away, as her father looked on, amused.  Angeleigh realized that now was her chance, with both of the MacGrears distracted, and knew that if she did not act now, she had no chance at all of escaping from this.  Inwardly she cursed herself for not learning how to Apparate when she’d had the chance, but this was no time to regret things she could not change.

She clambered out of the closet and scrambled to her feet, the only thought in her mind that of making it out of the room, then down the stairs.  MacGrear seemed not to have noticed her, she had a chance, she could make it, she was at the stairs, she was descending...!

“Petrificus Totalus!” came the incantation, and Angeleigh was frozen in her tracks, poised in a headlong dash down the stairs.  While her body was paralyzed, her momentum was not, and she crashed painfully to the bottom of the stairs.  Pain wracked her whole body, making breathing difficult and the panic nearly impossible to deal with.  She could hear MacGrear’s heavy footfalls descending toward her and squeezed her eyes shut, about the only movement she could manage while under the curse–or with her neck broken.  She did not know which was the case yet.

“Admirable, Angeleigh, most admirable a fight you’ve put up,” he said in a silky voice.  “Now I think I understand why my...employer was so eager to get his hands on you.  But I think we’ll have a little fun first.  But not too much.  After all, you are going to make me a very, very rich man.”

With that, everything went completely dark and Angeleigh knew nothing more.

Chapter 30: Her Last Breath

She slowly became aware of time and space and herself.  It was completely dark and silent, and she was laid out on her back.  Pain throbbed between her temples.  Her whole body ached, and she tried to remember why, but her mind was full of jumbled, blurred thoughts, and it was impossible to grab hold of any one memory or thought.  The air she breathed in was musty and warm.  With a groan she stretched out her arms, but not very far; on either side of her her hands came into contact with wood.  She forced herself to keep her breathing calm as she moved to sit up, but she’d barely lifted her head a few inches before it too came into contact with wood.

“No...” she whispered, the sound of her voice hauntingly loud in her close confines.  She turned her head from side to side and peered into the darkness, but it didn’t do anything of use.  She could see nothing, could feel nothing but the darkness.  Her breathing began to speed up and her hands groped about at her sides, but found nothing.  A sharp prick in one finger caused her to curse, but at this point a splinter in her finger was low on the list of priorities.

“Where am I?” she whispered, trying not to hear the fear in her own voice.  “What’s going on?”  The talking gave her something to focus on other than her situation.  Her own voice was a small comfort in the cramped, dark silence.  “Okay, okay... just... breathe, slowly,” she told herself, and closed her eyes.  She breathed in deeply through her nose, then exhaled very slowly and deliberately through her pursed lips.  There, not so bad, just stay calm, her mind said, and for half a moment she believed what she told herself.

Then a bead of sweat formed and trickled down her forehead, over her temple, and settled in her hair, icy in contrast to the very warm box she found herself in.  And then the panicked thoughts began racing through her brain.  A box, yes, that was it, and there was no denying it.  She gulped down the lump forming in her throat and bit on her lip, desperate for the brief feeling of calm she’d had just moments ago.  “Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm...” she chanted, but even as she willed the mantra into her mind her body refused to obey.

She managed to angle her elbow and pull back enough to knock on the side of the box.  A dull thud resounded in her ears, a thud that meant the box was surrounded by something meant to muffle the sounds that came out of it.  “Can’t be...” she mumbled, but her mind filled in what she refused to say aloud.
			
Dirt.

As soon as her mind thought it uncontrollable and irreversible panic seized her body.  Buried alive.  She was buried alive!  “Help,” she whispered in a shaky voice.  She felt all around her surroundings; wood above her, wood below her, wood on every side of her, and dirt surrounding all of it.  She had no way of knowing just how deep she was buried, but even if she had it wouldn’t have made a difference.  Rationale and reason and logic were no longer options; her body and mind gave way to full, all-out panic.

“HELP!” She shrieked, her voice deafening in her ears.  “Somebody help me!  Get me out of here!”  She balled her hands into fists and desperately struck at the wood above her body, hearing the same dull thud that told her the box was buried.  She pushed and pushed with all her might and scratched at the wood until she felt pain in her fingertips and warm, sticky liquid–blood–coating her fingers and hands.

“Help me help me help me help me!” she chanted over and over again, all while smashing her fists against the top or sides of the box.  She felt herself growing short of breath, but whether that was from the sheer panic or a true loss of oxygen she could not tell; either was possible, a fact that increased her hysteria all the more.  Nothing her parents had taught her had prepared her for anything like this.  She groped about at her sides, felt her pockets, but sure enough, she’d been relieved of her wand.  There was no blasting out of this.  She was trapped down here, below the surface of the earth; whoever had left her down here most likely intended for her to die like this, alone, panicked, suffocating... She dissolved into hitching sobs, tears rolling down her face, the sound of her hoarse crying filling the coffin in which she was trapped.

She did not know just how much time had passed between when her frantic struggles began and when her arms grew tired and her hands throbbed.  Exhausted and nauseous and dizzy with panic, she let her arms fall back to her sides.  It was hopeless.  She began to wonder: what would Antigone do in a situation like this?  The answer was simple, Antigone would never have allowed herself to get into a situation like this.  Then again, what would her mother have done, provided her mother had allowed a situation like this to happen to her?

“There is always a way out,” Emmalynn always said.  “No matter how bleak things are, there’s  a way out.”

“But what if—“

“Angeleigh.  Listen to me.  What did I just tell you?”

“But mom, all I’m asking is—“

“And I’ve told you!  What have I told you?”

“That... that there’s always a way out.”

“Yes.  You just need to use your mind.  Use your resources.  Only half of the Auror training is about the magic.  The rest is about using your mind, Angie.  Knowing how to use what’s around you, how to react.”

“But what if you can’t react?” Angeleigh had asked, blurting out the words before her mother could cut her off again.  She remembered watching Emmalynn’s face turn paler and a bit blotchy.  Her lips seemed to go bloodless and white as she pressed them together, and her hands clenched more tightly than seemed natural for a human.  Angeleigh recalled being frightened of her mother, and not for the first time.  Emmalynn had been growing steadily more intense yet unpredictable.

“Angeleigh.  Guinevere.  St. Martin.  There will always be a way out, no matter how hopeless it seems.  Be resourceful.  Be calm and smart.  Just use your head.  Assuming you have a brain!”  At this Emmalynn caught herself.  “Angie, I’m... I’m sorry.  It’s just... you know, all the stress lately.  I’m so sorry.  Are you ready?”

“I’ll be safe?”

“Yes, you’ll be well-protected.  We’ll all be.  No one will suspect you, and it’s only a matter of time before we can coordinate all the attacks on Reaper.  The charm is the only way, sweetie.  You’re ready for it?  You’ll do it for me?”

“I...”  But she couldn’t say what she really wanted to say.  She could not say that she was scared, not just of the terror that was Silas Reaper, but because of her mother’s volatility.  She could not say that she did not want to do this; she did not want to be put into this position of danger.  She could not refuse, even though every fiber of her being seemed to rebel against what her mother required of her.  She bowed her head.  “I’ll do it, mother,” she answered in a small voice.

So she’d done it.  She had agreed.  Where had it gotten here?  “Where did you get me?”  She asked the apparition of her mother in her mind.  “Show me the way out of THIS!”  She yelled, kicking at the foot of the coffin.  “Get me out of THIS!  I HATE YOU!” she screamed at the hot, cramped darkness.

For a moment she lay still, and then gathered up her last reserves of strength and sanity.

She opened her mouth, took in a deep breath and let out a deafening scream only she could hear.  Scream after shrill scream pierced the confines of the box.  Sweat dampened her hair and rolled down her temples.  The darkness felt heavy, oppressive, around her.  With nothing left to do, and no hope left to sustain her, she allowed the tears to flow freely and let sobs fill the air around her until they slowly dissolved into whimpers.  So this was how it would end, not with a banging blaze of glory, but darkness and whimpers.

She had to face it.  Her mother had lied.  There was a way out of most places, most situations, but there was no getting out of this.  Wandless, friendless, hopeless.  That was what she was, and this was how she was going to die: alone, suffocating in the heat and darkness and depleting air supply.  There was no way she could fight back.  This was worse than being chained in a dungeon or facing the Killing Curse.  The Killing Curse at least was fast.  This would be slow.  Slow, darkened suffocation.  Lonely, slow suffocation.  Her whimpers grew in volume again and she felt her shoulders shuddering against the bottom of her cramped prison.  She sniffled and coughed once, then reached up to trail her bleeding fingers over the top that closed her in and held her down.  This would be it, she realized, and it was something she would have to come to terms with sooner or later.  Denial would get her nowhere.  Hope would get her nowhere.  Only acceptance would help her face this most miserable, and unavoidable, of ends with some semblance of dignity.

Did anyone know where she was?  Would anyone know where to look?  Even as she wondered, she knew the answer: an automatic, resounding no.  It had all started to come back to her, slowly, but surely.  Antigone... she’d been there, as had Cyrus and Lance... fighting Vanora... and then Vanora’s father leering over her...but all had vanished right after that.  And then she’d woken up to more darkness, and the overwhelming despair.

A sudden glimmer of hope flashed in her mind.  Perhaps she was dreaming still.  Yes, that’s all this was, a bad—no, horrendous nightmare.  She was still lying unconscious at the foot of the stairs in the Shrieking Shack.  She closed her eyes, though it made no difference, it was still all black, blacker than the grave—no, bad analogy, she told herself.  All a dream, all a dream... she felt her breathing even up, her heart slow down, and her muscles relax.  She smiled into the stifling, thinning air.

But like the last time she’d felt calm (she’d lost track of time) this did not last.  She opened her eyes and her gaze roved around in the limitless blackness that she knew concealed stringent limitations on her mobility and freedom.  She became conscious of the rough wood beneath her fingers again, and also, just how cramped and stiff she felt.  Her toes tingled and her lower back muscles ached from being in the same inescapable position for so long, but just how long, she had no way of telling.  Time was infinite and immeasurable here.  It could have been minutes or hours for all she knew.  Frustrated she bumped her head against the bottom of the box.  The muffled thudding echoed in her ears and the dull pain throbbed through her head, giving her yet another thing to focus on.

However, her mind started to wander yet again and with little warning she was once again remembering her parents and her promises to them.  She sighed into the blank blackness and admitted what she wanted most to admit to everyone, herself included.   “I failed.  I’m sorry, I failed,” she whispered, biting on her lip.  “Or did I?” she asked the darkness.  “You told me not to tell, and I’m not telling anyone anything in here.  So did I fail?  Or am I the complete success you wanted?”  She turned her head to the side and rested her cheek on the rough wood.  “Or maybe succeeding means standing my ground and dying facing someone or something, not suffocating in a lousy... buried... wooden... BOX!” she screamed, pounding the bottom of the box with her fists.  “Get me out!” she shouted, to no avail.  The hitching sobs came again, choking her and eventually dissolving into hiccups.  She did not know how long she’d been down there—awake, or before that, while she was unconscious, and she no longer harbored any hope of being unearthed.  And thus she had no way of knowing how much air she had left to use, especially after using so much in her sobs and struggles.

She had to face it.  This was the end.  She closed her eyes and breathed slowly and deeply, all the energy in her mind focused on always wondering which breath would be her last.

Chapter 31: A Devil’s Victory

It was too good to be true, which only meant that it had to be false.  That was the only logic Silas Reaper could subscribe to, one of the things that made sense to him.  If something was too easy, to convenient, too well-rehearsed, then it could not possibly be true.  It was a philosophy he’d subscribed to, and so far he had done well by it.  Others, who laughed in the face of his seemingly over-cautious philosophies, were now locked in Azkaban or dead, or in begrudging service to other masters.  But not Silas Reaper.  Silas Reaper was simply biding his time, exercising infinite patience and caution as he awaited his rewards.

It was now nearly June.  He had a hard time believing that he was closing in on a yaer since beginning the odyssey with the St. Martins.  It was nearly a year since Angeleigh had slipped through his fingers like gold dust.  She was gone, yet a residue remained, something that constantly reminded him of her and what he lacked so long as she was not with him.

And now, as he read the tattered scrap of parchment yet again, he could not shake the uneasy feeling that this was all far too good to be anything other than a trap.

“My lord?  What reply should I send?”

Silas looked up and at the messenger.  “Tell your master I’ll take audience with him,” he said with a casual manner he did not feel within him.  “There is an abandoned building down by the wharf.  I will be there at midnight.  Have your master meet me there, where, provided proof of my quarry, he’ll receive the remainder of his reward.”

“Yes, sir.”  The messenger bowed slightly and backed out of the room, closing the door as he did so.

“Janus!” Silas bellowed, and the skinny, twitching Death Eater scurried to his side.  His robe clung to his bony shoulders, and his face seemed to look more skull-like every day that passed.  Silas held back a slight smile.  It served the man right for living up to his name in the ways he had.  And now Silas was going to make him pay even more.  “Janus,” he said cordially, noting the way Janus flinched at the sound of Silas’ voice.  “You are to go to the wharf at midnight in the likeness of me.”

“W-why, Lord Reaper?” Janus asked, fear and guilt intermingled in his eyes.

“Your job is not to question me, Janus,” Silas reminded him gruffly.  “Your job is to obey me and my requests and know that I have a greater purpose behind them!”  He watched with a cruel sense of satisfaction as Janus cowered before his master.  “Now that we have that clear.  You will meet Mephisto MacGrear in my likeness.  When I am certain this is not a trap, then I will take your place and finish the transaction.”

“But master, if it is a trap...”

“Then you will be caught and suffer the consequences,” Silas said with a wave of his hand, the tone of his voice clearly conveying that he did not care.  “It’s for a greater good, Janus, something you still haven’t learned to understand in your time of service to the Dark Lord and to me.”

“I know that, Lord Reaper,” Janus whimpered.

“You’ve been very valuable to me, Janus,” Silas said.  “In fact, your value is the only thing that has kept you alive to this point.  If anything you should be grateful that you are alive to have this opportunity.”

“Yes, yes, of course, my Lord.  Thank you, my Lord.  I–“

“Stop groveling.  Have some dignity.  Bring a dose of the Polyjuice Potion and we will commence.”

Three hours later Silas stood beneath his Invisibility Cloak, watching the likeness of himself pace nervously, awaiting the arrival of Mephisto MacGrear.  He could not help but feel disappointed; for though Janus looked exactly like him in appearance, the way he carried himself was far from Reaper-like.  The shoulders were hunched and rounded, the steps shuffling, the eyes, while still inky and black, darted back and forth nervously.  It was a horrid impersonation, and the necessity for it was regrettable, but Silas had waited far too long for this moment to risk falling into a trap.

Faraway the clock in the town square tolled the hour.  Silas straightened up, as did Janus.  For once their thoughts were the same: would Mephisto show up?

There was a loud popping noise coming from outside in the damp misty night.  The door creaked  on its rusting hinges, and the sharp clack of hard-soled loafers echoed in the cobwebbed building.  The steps grew louder until Mephisto MacGrear rounded the corner.  Silas watched Janus intently, wondering just when the ruse would be uncovered.  He mentally checked all exits from the building.  He had placed an anti-Apparation charm upon the place, should Mephisto attempt an overly hasty exit.

“Silas,” said Mephisto, leaning forward, looking skeptical in the dim light.  Janus nodded, not daring to give away the ruse by talking.  “We are alone?”  Another nod.  “Good then.  So, are there any words you wish to share with me?  Thanks, perhaps?  Admitting that I was valuable to you?  That you could not do it without me?”

Beneath his cloak the real Silas gritted his teeth in rage.  It was just like Mephisto to open up their meeting by gloating.  He considered revealing himself right then and there, but remained patient.  Nothing was ever gained by being hasty, and here, now, he had everything to gain, and everything to lose.

“Nothing to say, then, Silas?”  Mephisto giggled, a harsh, haunting sound that echoed among the cobwebs.  “Figures.  Always one to let your pride get in the way.  Do you have the remainder of my money?”

At this Silas held his breath.  He’d given Janus strict instructions not to hand over the money until he had proof that Angeleigh was alive, and unharmed.  And this was also the crucial moment, at which a trap would be sprung, if there was a trap to fall into at all.

“D–Do you have p-p-proof of the girl?” Janus-Silas stammered, and Silas winced.  He did not stutter, and he never allowed himself to sound so unconfident.  There was no way Mephisto would buy it.  He peered out at Janus.  The wiry man was still hunched over, not quite meeting Mephisto’s gaze, looking side to side, starting at every sound he heard.  The idiot was giving it all away.

“Proof?  You demand proof?” Mephisto asked, sounding shocked.

“Is she alive and unharmed?”  Janus did not sound distant or unaffected.  He sounded involved.  He sounded like he cared about Angeleigh.  And at that Silas realized that he could risk no more.  As Angeleigh’s godfather and uncle, Janus would give it all away, take it too far, give Mephisto more power than Silas wanted him to have.  Already Mephisto had something Silas wanted, which gave him an advantage.  Silas had no wish for Mephisto to keep the upper hand.  Besides, if there was to be a trap, it would have been sprung now.  He could risk it no longer.

“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted as he whipped off his Invisibility Cloak.  A jet of bright, eerie green light issued forth from his wand and struck Janus before the weaker wizard could duck or dodge.  Still in the form of Silas, Janus fell to the dank cement floor with a dull thud.  Mephisto jumped backward, stumbling over a heap of old, tangled fishing nets.

“SILAS!  What is the meaning of this?!” he yelled angrily, struggling to his feet, wand out.  “I should have suspected a trap, but I wouldn’t have thought you’d attempt murder!”

“I’ve murdered before, and I will murder again, Mephisto.  I do not fear death or consequences.  You, on the other hand, fear both.”

“Ah, there’s the Silas that I know,” Mephisto said with a nervous laugh.  “I should have known that this–“ he poked Janus’ lifeless corpse with his toe, “was an imposter.  No condescension in him.”

“No, and that is regrettable.  But our request was the same.  I require proof that you have Angeleigh alive and unharmed.”

Silas kept his wand casually trained upon Mephisto, watching the rodent-like man, not daring to turn his back or remove his gaze.  However, his heart pounded with great excitement, and it took a definite amount of effort to keep his hands from trembling.  Mephisto slipped his hand inside his robe and removed a stone bowl and his wand.  He smiled at Silas.  “What better proof I’m a man of my word, than my own memories?”

Silas nodded slowly, not willing to admit that Mephisto had shown an unusual streak of brilliance.  “Show me.  Then you get your money and we arrange the transport of the girl.”

Mephisto twirled his wand by his ear, removing a silvery wisp that he then stirred into the small stone Pensieve he’d brought.  “Take a look, Silas.”

Silas cautiously looked into the bowl, but knew that Mephisto was too desperate for his remaining five thousand galleons to double cross him at this point.  He peered into the silvery mist.  Slowly it parted and Silas found himself standing in a rainstorm that did not soak him, before a dilapidated house over which shone the glorious mark of his lord Voldemort.  Within moments Mephisto appeared, along with a young blonde witch carrying something.  Silas peered through the sheets of rain and saw she carried a body, limp and unconscious, but bound, blindfolded and gagged in the event that she suddenly regained consciousness.

“Come, daughter, only a bit further, and then we’ll be freed of this place and this storm,” Mephisto said, looking fondly upon his daughter.  The young witch grimaced and shifted the burden.

“It’s lucky fear and paranoia has made her so slight,” the witch joked.  “She is of high worth to you?”

“Yes, and it is because of you that she is now ours,” Mephisto said fondly, and Silas felt nauseous with rage.  How dare Mephisto refer to Angeleigh as his!  Angeleigh was Silas’, Silas’ alone to toy with and bend and break.  He gritted his teeth and watched the memory continue.  “We shall take her back to our castle.”

“Why not just kill her?”

“Stupid girl, she’s only good to us alive.”

“Yes, father, I am sorry.”

“Come, let us Apparate.  Hold her tightly...”

Mephisto, his daughter, and Angeleigh disappeared, and the memory began to fade until Silas realized he was once again standing in the abandoned warehouse building on the Salem wharf.  So Angeleigh had been alive, at least until just after her initial capture.

Mephisto seemed to read his mind.  “Oh, she is still alive, Silas.  I know she’s worthless to me dead.  I couldn’t really care much less about why you want her alive.”

“Of course.  As usual, you care only about yourself.  Here.  Four thousand galleons.”

“But—“

“...And the remaining one thousand once she is mine.  You still haven’t proven yourself entirely trustworthy, Mephisto.  You should know better than to expect me to trust you fully, even with your memory as proof of Angeleigh’s status.  Tell me, how is she now?”

“How am I to know, seeing as I am here?” Mephisto retorted indignantly.

“What state was she in when you left to meet with me?”

“She was alive.”

“Unharmed?”

“Alive.”

Silas felt his rage boiling up.  “You have no reason to harm her, Mephisto.  None at all, except what harm was necessary for her to sustain during her capture.  Besides, I need her in good form when she is mine.  She and I have lost time to make up for, you realize.”

Mephisto grinned lazily.  “Oh, you’ll have plenty to work with,” he said.  “I just want to have a little bit of fun with her before you do.  Test her out.  See what makes her tick.  Maybe find out a few things from her.  You know, gather useful information.”

“The information she could give you would not be of any use to you,” Silas said, clenching his jaw and focusing a harsh glare upon Mephisto.

“Oh, I’m sure I could find a use for some of it, Silas.”

“If you lay a hand on her you can forget the last thousand.”

“You’d go back on our deal?”

“You would dare lay a finger on my prize?”

“Your prize?  A prize you could not win for yourself?  A prize you paid a bounty to attain?”

Silas forced himself to calm down.  He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, allowing his anger and stress to exit his body with the carbon dioxide.  “Fine.  But I do say that if you have laid a hand on her when I come to claim her, you will not receive the last of your promised price.  And I know how desperately you need every sickle, Mephisto.  You owe Nott, from what I hear.  Did your first five thousand burn a hole in your pocket?”

“Enough, Silas.  I have your trophy, and you can claim her.  I will send an associate to tell you where.”

“Tell me now.”

“I’ve told you enough for one evening, Silas.  I have my money and you have your proof.  That’s really what we came here for, isn’t it?  I will send someone with instructions for claiming her.”  Mephisto spoke with a sort of imperious confidence and walked with a new sort of swagger in his stride.  He placed his wand, Pensieve, and the check for four thousand galleons in his robe.  “We’ll speak again, no doubt.  And perhaps I’ll send you a photograph of your darling Angel in the coming days.  Who knows?”  He smiled pleasantly.  “Good night, Silas.  I’ll be in touch.”

He strode out into the misty night, four thousand galleons richer, and with the upper hand in his personal battle against Silas Reaper.  All in all, it had been a glorious night for Laird Mephisto MacGrear.

Chapter 32: Desperate Times and Desperate Measures

She tasted blood.  It was acrid and coppery and oozing out of a gash in her lower lip.  Her tongue prodded at it for a moment, but she stopped when she felt the gash sting painfully.  She forced her eyes to open, but the light made her head hurt.  She groaned and sat up, squinting around at her surroundings.  Slowly things came into focus; there was a lot of white around her... ah, beds and bed sheets, and clean white floors.  She was in the hospital wing of Hogwarts!  And there was Madam Pomfrey, two beds down... and sitting at the foot of the bed, Professor Wildeve.  She gulped, tasting more blood.  “P–professor,” she croaked.

“Ah, so you’ve decided to join us, Miss Windemere, splendid,” he said gruffly.  “You’ve been unconscious for two hours.  The Misters Shadowcrest and Dumontia rejoined the world of the living shortly after I arrived in Hogsmeade.  Care to tell me what happened?  Why a Dark Mark appeared?  Why no one can account for the whereabouts of the misses MacGrear and St. Martin?”

His voice was growing harsher, more demanding, with each question he asked, and has his voice grew gruffer, her head began to pound even more.  Antigone’s mind was a jumble of disconnected memories.  There was fighting, both physical and magical.  She had tried to take Vanora’s wand.  Cyrus had kicked her in the stomach by accident, and Lance had attempted to tackle Mephisto MacGrear and wound up Stupefied...

“We... we needed shelter from the rain,” Antigone said, her voice coming out hoarsely.  “We outran Vanora and thought we could hide in the Shrieking Shack.”

Wildeve nodded grimly, arms crossed over his chest, his face looking ashen against all the white of the hospital ward.  “Shelter.”

“Yes, sir... we couldn’t... couldn’t make it back to the castle.  The storm was too bad.”  Antigone realized he’d not yet even mentioned that she and Cyrus were not supposed to be in Hogsmeade that day!  A small part of her was grateful, yet the rest of her was immediately guilty for thinking of her own safety, when Ange was hurt, or scared, or worse, already back in the clutches of Silas Reaper...

“No one contacted a professor.  Or a hit wizard.  And no one bothered to STOP MISS ST. MARTIN FROM GOING!”

Antigone could not help but cower back in her bed.  She flicked her gaze to the left and saw Lance and Cyrus guiltily cowering back as well.  “I...” she began, but there would be nothing worthwhile to say in her defense.  And now was not the time to defend herself, but to start looking for Ange.

Wildeve took a deep breath and let it out.  “Well.  I suppose what’s done is done, and we all should have expected this sooner or later.  But now we need to stop dwelling on what has happened and start thinking about what we are going to do.”

Antigone assumed that she had already done enough, and suspected Wildeve was only waiting here to blast her for playing a part in Angeleigh’s capture.  Her head throbbed painfully and her insides were writhing as though snakes composed her intestines.  She wanted to be sick, but swallowed and focused on not vomiting.

There was a commotion at the door of the hospital ward, and Antigone looked up to see Madam Pomfrey gasping in shock as four people burst in unceremoniously.  She immediately recognized Damien Dervish, Angeleigh’s uncle, and groaned inwardly to see that he was followed by her aunt Opal.  The other two men she did not recognize, but Wildeve did.

He rose to his feet.  “Mr. Mooreland.  Pleasure to see you, though I wish the circumstances were different,” he said grimly.  “And Sir Dumontia.  Welcome back to Hogwarts.”  There was an air of tense silence.

“So what do we do?” asked Roderick Mooreland, the American Secretary of Magic.  “No point lamenting what’s happened.  The obvious thing to do is go after them and get her back.”

“Yes, if she talks, the results will be disasterous.”

Roderick, Damien and Wildeve all turned and gaped at Sir Dumontia.  Antigone cast a glimpse at Cyrus, who was rolling his eyes and hoping his father did not notice him.  She waited in the tense silence for someone to say something, anything, in reply to this stupidly obvious statement.

“She won’t talk,” Roderick Mooreland and Damien Dervish said at the same time.  “She’d rather die than sell out those Auror families,” Mooreland continued.  “I’m sorry, Damien, but it’s true,” he added gently.  “She would have died last summer if her godfather had not played double agent so well,” he said grimly.  “Unfortunately, we can’t rely on him to do that anymore.  His body was found floating by the wharf in Salem last night.”

“Serves him right,” Damien muttered.

“There is at least one positive thing we can assume from his death,” Roderick continued.  “It gives us reason to believe that Reaper is poised to make a move.  As he’s been in hiding for nearly a year, only something major could bring him out.”

“Angel,” Damien whispered.

“It’s evident MacGrear’s move is tied to Reaper’s resurfacing,” Wildeve spoke up.  “So all we do now is figure out where MacGrear would have taken her and get her before Reaper does.”

“Reaper won’t risk openly declaring himself yet, not til he has his information,” Roderick interjected.  “For all we know he’s asked MacGrear to keep her until some sort of transfer can be made.  So we could be looking at mere hours or full days in which to find her, right?”

“Right.  The upside is that she’s of no use to anybody dead,” Wildeve said.

“Riddley,” Damien said quietly.  “This is my niece you’re talking about.  Not some object!  She’s my only family, and you’re discussing her like... like...”  He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself.

“Damien, chére,” said Opal gently, laying a hand on his arm.  “What Riddley is trying to say is that when we find your niece, the chances are excellent she will be alive.  You saw her alive, right Anee?” Opal asked gently, focusing her gaze on Antigone.

“Yes, I did,” Antigone replied, yet even as she did she wondered if she spoke the truth.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dervish, we tried, we really did...”  But Damien only looked at her, his gaze neither angry nor disbelieving, just horribly, heart-breakingly sad.  Opal tried to give Antigone a reassuring look, but it quickly dissolved back into the concerned expression she trained on Damien.

“Mr. Mooreland, may I introduce Miss Windemere, a close friend of Miss St. Martin,” Wildeve said formally, and Antigone found herself the object of scrutiny by the American Secretary of Magic, the highest ranking magic official in that country.  Antigone gulped, against her will, and tried to smile in greeting.  Mr. Mooreland gave a pleasant smile and a nod in return.  “Miss Windemere also happens to be a close friend of Mephisto MacGrear’s daughter, whom I believe was how MacGrear acted in this case.”

“So once again I’m placing my country’s security in the hands of a child,” Roderick Mooreland said grimly.  “First Emmalynn and her daughter, now this...”

“Well, unfortunately, it’s really our only lead.”

Antigone listened to them discuss her, feeling more and more resentful that they did not involve her.  She glanced over at Cyrus and Lance.  Lance had rolled over on his side, facing away from the group of adults.  She realized he must feel horribly guilty; after all, it had been his suggestion that Angeleigh go to Hogsmeade... and Cyrus simply sat like a stone while his father lectured him in a quiet voice, yet the infuriated expression on his face made it obvious that Sir Dumontia had no words of comfort for his son’s failures.  She supposed she should be grateful that her Aunt Opal had not yet had the chance to lecture her; she seemed to occupied with comforting Damien.  In fact, a little too occupied for Antigone’s liking...

“Miss Windemere, are you well enough to come to my office?” Wildeve asked gruffly, snapping Antigone away from her thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” she said through clenched teeth, determined not to fail further.  She winced as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, and swayed a bit as she stood.  “No, I can walk fine,” she snapped when Wildeve offered her his arm as support.  She straightened up and followed the adults as they made their way out of the ward.  She found herself falling behind as fatigue quickly settled in, and eventually she was alone at the back of the pack.  She felt badly leaving Lance and Cyrus alone, but what could they do now?  And what could she do to help them?  In the back of her mind she remembered Cyrus’ words to her from the other night.  “You can’t save everybody,” he’d said.  Initially she’d blown the advice off as irritating and useless, but now grudgingly she saw the practicality behind the statement.  She had to admit it: she could not save everybody, but right now she could assist Wildeve and Mr. Mooreland with finding Angeleigh.

~*~*~*~

In the hospital wing, Lance stared at the ceiling, numb to the comings and goings of the world around him.  Professor Wildeve had given him an explosive yelling at that could have probably been heard down in Hogsmeade.  What would be surprising to most is that Wildeve’s tirade did not make Lance feel badly about any of what had happened.

He had already condemned himself to an eternity of torment for what he had allowed to happen.  I should have known better, he told himself.  I never should have asked her to go, never should have let her go with me... His mind was a jumble of if-onlies and what-ifs that he could not reconcile with.  He could not help but feel that the entire fiasco was his fault.  Because he had encouraged Angeleigh–no, lured her away from the safety of Hogwarts, only Merlin now knew what she was enduring.

He had been a horrible, irresponsible Prefect.  He did not deserve to wear the badge for another year.  He could not even protect one student from a hideous fate; how could he be expected to be in authority over a whole House?

“Hey Lance.”

Lance turned his head and saw Cyrus looking over at him.  “Lance... it was no one’s fault, you know.”

“I should have stopped her,” Lance said glumly.  “If anyone can take some of the blame, it would be me.  I asked her to come with me.  I didn’t stop her when she did.”

“She had a choice.”

“So did I.”

“It comes down to risks and what a person thinks is acceptable,” Cyrus said.  “I’ve learned a lot of things in my life and training and schooling.  And that’s probably the most important thing I’ve learned.  And the irony is that I learned it because I was taking risks without thinking about the results.”

Lance sighed and closed his eyes, but immediately opened them again.  Every time he closed his eyes he could see Angeleigh there, looking at him, terrified, intensifying his guilt.  “Yeah,” he replied, “I guess you have a point, but I still feel like... like I failed her.  And her uncle... I can’t look him in the eye.  And that’s worse than Wildeve’s tirades.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Cyrus said with a forced smile.  “But on the upside, they’ve got Antigone working with them.  They’ll find her, Lance.  She’ll be okay.  Don’t worry.”

Lance tried to smile, then rolled onto his side, facing away from Cyrus.  He wished he could believe, as much as Cyrus did, that no one was at fault.  But the more he tried, the worse he felt.  He believed that somehow, some way, there was something he could have–should have–done better, or differently, or not at all...

~*~*~*~

“Anee, darling, are you alright?”
Antigone looked up into the eyes of her Aunt Opal.  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile.  “A bit sore, is all.  Aunt Opal, I’m really sorry, for what it’s worth... I thought I could... you know...”

“Yes, I know,” Opal said, giving Antigone the first reassuring look she’d received all day long.  “Accidents happen; if we could plan for them, then they wouldn’t be accidents, would they,” she said practically.  

“I know, but... I can’t help but feel it’s my fault.”

Opal nodded sagely.  “Yes, I know you’d feel that way.  You want to protect everyone who matters to you.  You want to wrestle the world to the ground at least once a day, and if you don’t, you feel you’ve failed.”

Antigone gave a nod.  “Yes, that’s pretty accurate.”

“If it is any consolation, Angeleigh knew the risks she was taking when she left the safety of the Hogwarts grounds.  She knew what danger she could face by going to Hogsmeade unprotected.”

“Don’t blame Ange,” Antigone hissed fiercely.

“I’m not blaming her.   Simply helping you realize that there were many factors at work and it is unnecessary for you to shoulder all the blame.”

There was no sense arguing; Opal, as she always did, had a point that Antigone could not ignore.  She supposed she only wanted to blame herself so some sense could be made of what had happened.

Opal leaned over and hugged her niece.  “You did what you could, Anee, dear.  Angeleigh is lucky to have a friend like you, a friend who was willing to put herself in danger for her, and is willing to help out now.”

Antigone nodded in agreement, trying her best to remain composed as they entered the office she now knew pretty well.  Wildeve and Mooreland took seats, Damien paced nervously in front of the fireplace, and Antigone and Opal stood.

“Well.  Frackenal Dumontia’s gone and deployed his men to some well-known Death Eater hot spots, so we’ll see what International Law can pick up.  Right now, Miss Windemere, we need to know what you know.  I’m sure much of what Miss MacGrear told you about herself and her family was told in confidence, but I need you to break those confidences now.  International security hangs in the balance.”

Antigone nodded numbly as Professor Wildeve told her this.  “Vanora’s father... his castle is in Scotland.  So it’s not too far away from here, luckily.”

“He’d risk keeping her in the same country?” Opal asked incredulously.

“His castle is supposedly unplottable, if you don’t know where to look for it.  It’s outside...” here Antigone wracked her brain, trying to remember what Vanora had told her.  “It’s in the country outside of Inverness.  But I don’t really know exactly where.”

Wildeve tried to smile kindly.  “Thank you, Miss Windemere, that’s helpful, a better start than we could have gotten on our own.  Did she ever mention anything, like her father’s intentions?  What would motivate a British Death Eater to abduct a source of American intelligence?”

“No, you... you said it was because of Reaper,” Antigone said.

“I’m just trying to cover all possible bases.  And this confirms it.”

“So where are we going now?  What do we do?” Damien asked.

“We get Aurors and hit wizards on it, finding the location of the castle and confirming whether or not Angeleigh is there, or if we need to start searching American soil,” Roderick Mooreland said gruffly.

“But if we know–“

Wildeve smiled ruefully.  “Ah, Damien, now I know why you never went into the Ministry,” he said, earning a furious glare from Damien.  “It’d be foolish for us to move in too quickly.  We’d endanger Angeleigh, and right now nothing matters more than her safety,” he said firmly.  “We need to be patient, hard as that is.”

“So what, then?  We just sit here, waiting?” Damien nearly shouted.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Wildeve said grimly.  “Desperate times call for desperate measures.  And right now, we’re too desperate to risk making the wrong move.  So until we know more, we have to wait here.”

Damien slammed his fist against the wall.  Roderick Mooreland scribbled out an owl to America.  Opal walked over and slipped her arms around Damien, her fairly petite form looking almost comical against the very tall Damien Dervish.  Antigone looked around at the grim, tired faces, and tried not to suffocate in the air that was so thick with tension it was like being in the water.  She wanted to run out, Apparate or port or fly on broomstick to Inverness and burst into the MacGrear’s dreary castle, but there was no way she could do that, and risk harm coming to Angeleigh.  Her hands were tied.

She had no choice but to sit and wait in desperation.

Chapter 33: An Angel’s Fall

Angeleigh gasped suddenly and her eyelids snapped open.  Her breath came in quick short bursts as she looked around her.  No longer was she surrounded by complete darkness.  There was a velvety darkness overhead, but it was sprinkled with pinpricks of white light.  The air around her was cool and she shivered as goose bumps broke out over her skin.  No longer was there rough wood beneath her hands and body, but grass, soaked with dew.

She sat up stiffly and squinted around.  The half moon and the stars gave some light.  The dew was soaking through her jeans, making her uncomfortable and infinitely colder.  She peered around and started to notice shapes standing out against the night sky.  She shuddered; they were tombstones, some crumbling, some in danger of falling over, others standing proudly erect against the star-speckled sky.  She looked around and saw a pile of fresh dirt next to a deep hole in the ground, large enough to accommodate a human body.  Swallowing a sob, Angeleigh forced herself to look over the edge, and sure enough could just make out the form of a simple wooden box.

So it hadn’t been just a horrid nightmare after all.  She looked down at her hands.  They were scratched and swollen and caked with dried blood; her nails had been torn to the quick in her desperate struggles, and the pounding against the lid of the box left her knuckles bruised and bloody.  Her hands began to shake and she felt a nameless emotion welling up in her chest.

“No,” she whimpered, realizing the reality.  The awful fear, thinking ‘what-if’, remembering the suffocating claustrophobia, left her shaking uncontrollably.  She buried her face in her bloodied hands and let out a stifled sob that pierced the otherwise silent night in the graveyard.  Then, with tears still blurring her gaze, she struggled to her feet.  It was not easy.  Her legs were shaking, and they hurt.  There was a particularly searing pain in her right shoulder, probably from where she landed when she’d fallen down the stairs in the Shrieking Shack.  Dizziness momentarily shattered the darkness around her, and she swayed dangerously.  She was alone in a graveyard, at only Merlin knew what time of night.

Where was she, though?  Even with the light of the moon and stars she could not see enough to get any bearings.  She stumbled forward blindly, but her foot caught on a fallen chunk of tombstone and she crashed forward.  She felt the warmth of blood spurting from her nose and cursed, tears running down her face.  Hitching sobs caught in her throat.  She had never felt more alone, not even when she’d been buried; at least then there was nothing to do but wait in the confines of the box.  Now she was stumbling around in fear and panic, bleeding and sobbing, with no clue where she was, or where she could go.

Could it get any worse?

She shouldn’t have thought it; it seemed to jinx her, making her already bad luck worse.  She heard a groan behind her, the sound making her heart skip a beat or two.  She scrambled to her knees and looked behind her and screamed, a blood-curdling scream that shattered the night into a thousand pieces.

A pale form was slinking toward her.  Its size and movements were vaguely human, yet the way it progressed toward her was inhuman.  Its pale face was almost skeletal, and a pale hand reached out to grasp at her.

Angeleigh sobbed as she scrambled to her feet.  Blinded by tears and blood and panic and fear she tried hard to keep her feet under her as she ran, dodging what tombstones she could see as the Inferius kept pace behind her.  She cast a look backward; she still had a lead!  She turned back and kept running awkwardly, but slammed into something.  It was not as harsh and unyielding as a stone.  She looked up in terror, and as she did, thin yet strong arms closed around her.

Angeleigh screeched in horror as another Inferius held onto her.  “LET ME GO!  STOP!  LET ME GO!” she shouted, her pained fists smashing against the hollow-sounding sternum.  The Inferius did not acquiesce, and she struggled against the corpse’s grip, somehow also aware that the initial Inferius was closing in on them.  “LET...ME...GO!” she screamed, shoving with all her strength.  The Inferius’ grip broke and she shoved it backward, and took off at another run in a different direction.  This time there were two Inferi pursuing her.  Her foot caught on an exposed tree root and she pitched forward, but kept her feet.

She gulped down mouthfuls of air which burned into her trachea and made her lungs feel as if they were being incinerated.  She did not know how much longer she could go on like this, and then her body slammed into iron bars.  She had reached the cemetery gate!  She rattled the doors, noticing the chain and padlock with dismay.  “Help!” she yelled hoarsely, looking around desperately.  There was no way to get a footing that would help her over the gate, and even if there was she knew she was too weak to attempt the climb.  She looked behind her.  Not two, but five Inferi were approaching in a clump that began to spread out as they neared her, blocking off her means of escape.

She grasped the iron bars and rattled them for all she was worth, but nothing happened.  “HELP ME!” she yelled to the dark.  She turned around, and the Inferi were closing in upon her.  She fall to the ground and covered her head with her arms, sobbing and shaking.  It was only a matter of moments now before the Inferi were upon her...

But she never felt the grasp of cold, bony fingers, nor did she smell the stench of decaying corpses.  She looked up cautiously and blinked away the tears and saw the Inferi around her in a close semicircle, but they did not approach.  She was, of course, trapped, what with the Inferi around her and the locked gate at her back, but it was not like Inferi to trap their pray or play with them like a cat would with a mouse.  Someone or something was holding them back.

She looked up, and saw a warm orange glow: fire!  A torch!  And that torch was in a hand!  She twisted around and reached out through the bars, seeking to grasp onto the body the hand belonged to.  “Oh my god, thank you, please, help me,” she begged, her voice hoarse from the screaming and sobbing she’d done this night.  “They’re... they’re Inferi, you have to help me, I’m... lost, I need to get back, someone kidnapped me...please...”  Her voice dissolved into hiccups that tore through her chest and trachea.  She could not recall the last time she had been in so much pain.  She clutched the bars and looked up, pleadingly, and the scream that erupted from her split the night once again.

Vanora MacGrear held the torch that kept the Inferi at bay.  There was a glazed over, crazy look in her eyes.  The torch flames danced within their depths and cast shadows over her thinned face, making her look almost like an Inferius herself.  She smiled slowly.  “I wondered how long it would take you to get this far, Angeleigh.  I didn’t think you’d last against the Inferi, but looks like I underestimated you.”

At any other time Angeleigh would have snapped a retort at Vanora, or anyone who claimed to have underestimated her, but now was no time.  She’d crawled backward slightly on recognizing Vanora, and an Inferius grabbed her ankle.  “LET GO!” she yelled hysterically, scrambling back at the gate.  She grabbed onto the bars and yanked her leg away from the ironclad grasp.  “Vanora, please...” she whimpered, clutching desperately to the cold metal bars.

Vanora dangled a key from her other hand, and Angeleigh grabbed at it, but Vanora pulled it out of reach, teasing her.  She also pulled the torch back, and the Inferi inched closer.  “VANORA! HELP ME!” she shrieked.  Vanora only grinned wider and pulled the torch back more.  A cinder dropped from it and burned into Angeleigh’s back.  She howled in pain.  The Inferi closed in more, and she was forced to haul herself to her feet and press her bruised and aching body closer to the bars.  “Vanora,” she whispered.  “Vanora... please... please, don’t let them...”  An icy hand grabbed her around the throat and started to squeeze.  More hands grabbed her wrists and ankles and arms and legs and she was screaming, screaming into the night, Vanora’s cruel and cackling laughter drowning out her shrieks.  There was pressure against her throat and she couldn’t breathe, and there were multicolored stars blinding her, and then it was dark.

When she tried to open her eyes again it was still dark.  Her first thought was that she was buried again, destined to become an Inferius herself.  But she was sitting upright, her knees bent, her back held straight against something.  She shifted her weight, wincing.  Her body ached.  She could feel dried blood caked in her nostrils and tried to move to wipe it away, but her hands were firmly anchored to the arms of what she assumed was a chair.  She pulled again, but her arms remained in place.  She flexed experimentally.  She seemed to be bound at the wrists and elbows, with more cords or chains anchoring her to the high chair back.  Her legs were similarly bound.

She sighed—at least, thought she sighed.  She heard nothing.  She opened her mouth to call out for someone, anyone (even Vanora at this point), but no sound came out.  It felt as if someone had reached down and plucked her larynx right from her throat.  She was completely, effectively silenced.  She tried opening her eyes again, but this time she was conscious enough to realize something blocked her eyelids and prevented her from seeing anything.  No light of any sort penetrated the blindfold.  She tried scuffing her feet against the floor, which she supposed to be stone, but heard nothing.  She wriggled in the chair, but heard no creaking of wood, or chain, or anything.  Everything was silent.  Once again, she was alone with her thoughts, but this time she couldn’t rely on the sound of her own voice to comfort her.

Again, in darkness and silence, there was no way of gauging time.  It could have been minutes or it could have been hours that passed.  Angeleigh found herself wondering if Vanora was through playing with her, and if she was just going to remain like this until Silas Reaper came to claim her.  She wondered if Antigone and Cyrus and Lance had made it out of the Shrieking Shack alive.  She wondered if anyone was looking for her, and how angry Professor Wildeve was going to be, and did Mr. Mooreland know and...

Angeleigh.

She raised her head, snapping to attention, and looked around.

You can’t see me, I am in your mind.  I am controlling your mind.  Don’t believe me?  Move your left hand.

Against her conscious, physical will, her left hand clenched into a fist and then relaxed.

You did not hear me cast the curse, but you are now under an Imperious Curse.  You must do as I tell you.

Angeleigh felt her body relax.  The chains binding her no longer felt tight, and she no longer felt the desperate need to escape.  If anything, she felt more relaxed and free than she’d felt in weeks.  It wasn’t half bad to let someone else control her body...

That’s the spirit, Angeleigh.  Now, listen to me.  I can help you.  Angeleigh had no choice but to acquiesce.  Silas Reaper wants you.  He will stop at nothing to extract information from you.  This information would bring about his downfall, correct?  Angeleigh nodded mechanically.  That’s what I thought.  But think about it.  If you told me that information, we could bring Reaper down together.  You tell me, you go free, Reaper goes down.  Think about it.

Angeleigh immediately found herself thinking about what the voice had said.  Somewhere, part of her mind screamed that it was the Imperious Curse talking, that no good would come of breaking the Fidelius Charm.  But it was true, the whole point of the Fidelius Charm was to protect the families long enough to bring down Reaper.  And really, it had been nearly a year since the Charm had been cast.  Hadn’t they come any closer to bringing down Silas Reaper?  What harm would come of telling...?

NO! She screamed, trying to clear her mind of the Imperious Curse.

You’re weak, child.  You’re at my mercy.  You don’t realize it yet, but I can make you beg for mercy.

She shook her head violently, as if she could shake the voice out of her mind.  She could not yell or scream or whimper over it, but she could still struggle...

Stop that.  You’ll only tire yourself out.  Immediately her muscles relaxed and she sank into the hard, uncomfortable chair.  Much better.  You don’t want to wear yourself out too much.  There’s more to come.  Think about it.  In fact... let me leave you with something to think about.

Angeleigh suddenly felt hands at the back of her head, caressing her tangled hair.  She shuddered involuntarily and tried to shy away from the hands, but they grabbed a fistful of hair.  Be STILL, the voice commanded again, and she sat, trembling, as she felt the dark cloth slide away from her eyes.  Though the room she was now faced with was dark, after being blindfolded it was still bright enough for her to need to blink until her eyes adjusted.  She looked down, and saw that she was indeed chained to a chair that was secured to the stone floor.  The walls were made of rough stone.  A dark wood table with a glossy top sat before her.  On the surface of the table sat a stone bowl.  She tried to turn her head to get a better look at her inquisitor, but his hand grabbed a fistful of hair and forced her to stare at the bowl.  She felt something tickling her ear and she struggled ineffectively.  A dark wand tapped the rim of the stone bowl and a silver mist swirled into the bowl.
Why don’t you just watch, Angeleigh? The voice asked pleasantly, tilting her head so she was forced to look down into the mist, and then she was falling... falling...

~*~*~*~

“Emmalynn, she could be killed!  Do you know how dangerous this is?  We’re endangering our daughter in ways that should be illegal!”

“Simon, it’s the only way!”

“Janus already said he’d do it!”

“Janus is a traitor, Simon!  We can’t trust him!  He’ll sell us out the moment he has a chance.  Besides, even if he is... ugh, trustworthy, they’d suspect him.  They’ll never suspect Angeleigh.”

Simon St. Martin pounded his fist on the table.  “Emmalynn!  She’s our daughter!  Our daughter!” he yelled.  “We can’t put her in danger like this.”

“Sacrifices have to be made, Simon.  And if that means our daughter, so be it.  We’re working for a greater good, Simon!  Why can’t you see that?”

“What I see is that you’ve lost perspective!”  He turned his back to her.  “I don’t know you anymore, Emma.  And I don’t agree with using our daughter like this.”

“I’m not using her.  She’s just doing her part for the greater good.”

“Say what you want to justify it to yourself, Emma.  You’re using her.  She’s your tool in this situation.  Do what you want because nothing I say will change your mind about this.  Go ahead and use your daughter...”

No... Angeleigh mouthed silently, feeling tears again trailing down her face.  She’d always believed she was doing the right thing, that her mother was pleased with her, that her mother needed her.  It was a lie, there was no way that conversation was in her memory... then again there had been a great deal of shouting that spring, it was possible she’d overheard it.  But her mother wouldn’t use her.  Emmalynn was her mother!  She wouldn’t knowingly put her in danger if not for a good reason...

She used you, Angeleigh.  Used you.  Made you take the fall.  You could get back at Silas.  You could get back at your mother who knowingly endangered you.

She could do that... anger, rage, sadness, regret, all emotions settled in her chest and she feared she’d begin crying again.  It would serve everyone right for putting a teenager under such duress... But no.  Used or not, she was part of a greater good.  It was something she had to accept.  She did not have to like it, but it was done, and she had to accept it.  NO! She decisively cried out.

So be it.  Once again the thick cloth was reapplied to her eyes, blocking out her vision of the room.  She tried to breathe regularly.  She’d thrown off the Imperious Curse, and she could withstand another bout of sensory deprivation.

But she quickly found out not all her senses had been deprived.  Her sense of feeling was still very much intact.  With no warning of any sort pain wracked her whole body.  She was being torn limb from limb, she was on fire, she was being forced to swallow glass, acid was burning her skin.  She was screaming with a voice that did not work, her mouth open wide with no sounds issuing forth.  She strained against the chains binding her.  Somehow she thought if she could just escape she could run from the pain.  Knives stabbed her, nails pierced her, molten lava engulfed her.

She must have passed out from the pain, because suddenly she was aware that the excruciating, all-consuming pain was gone.  Her body ached but not the way the Cruciatus Curse, in full force, would make it ache.  She was also no longer bound to the chair, but she still could not see.  She groaned in pain and was, if it were possible, happy to hear the sound of her own voice, even if the only sound it made was a groan of pain.  Everything she’d been through to this point left her mind a jumble, and she wondered if she’d really experienced it all.

“Yes, it’s all been real, Angeleigh,” a male voice said, startling her.

“Who–who are you?” she asked hoarsely, realizing just how parched and dehydrated she felt.  She flexed her arms and realized that her wrists were chained together, and bound above her head.  There was a steady ache in her shoulders, and she felt her arms going numb.  “Wh-what do you want?”

“I should have thought it was obvious.  You look so worn out, dear.  Are you in pain?”

She gritted her teeth as a spasm of pain coursed through her.  “A bit, yes,” she whispered.

A hand gently caressed her hair, and trailed along her jaw.  “Shh, don’t be so nervous, dear.  Would you like the pain to stop?”

“Merlin yes,” she whimpered, even before she could stop herself.

“You know what will stop the pain though, right?”

She knew, but couldn’t give up just yet.  And then Angeleigh screamed out as she felt a harsh burning sting in her back.  It felt like something had sliced through her skin, all the way to her ribs.  “Please, no,” she begged, arching her back against the pain.  She squealed again as the slicing feeling flashed across the lower portion of her back, shredding her shirt and the skin beneath it with equal ease.  The pain caused a fire in her torso that, combined with the pain in her shoulders, made breathing nearly impossible.

“You could make it stop.”  There was a crack, a whistling sound, and a blood-curdling shriek.  “It’s really up to you, darling.”

“I... I can’t tell—AAAAHHH!” she screamed, writhing against the chains, ineffectively trying to wriggle away from that which brought the searing pain.  There was a moment of silence and Angeleigh sunk, her muscles unable to take anything more, but the crack and whistle came again, and this time the sharp ends of the whip snaked around and tore into her rib cage.  “N–n–no...” she croaked, and like a fiery tongue the whip licked at her flesh again.  She felt the blood soaking what was left of the back of her shirt and nausea made her retch.  Her arms felt as if they were being pulled out of their sockets, and that did not surprise her.  “I can’t... t-take th-th-this.”

“You don’t have to take it.  You can make it stop.  Think of how many ways you have been betrayed.  Would one betrayal make that much of a difference?”

“Ye–“ she began, but there was a quick flick of the whip that stung at the back of her neck.  Blood trickled from the wound. And she bowed her head in defeat.  “I’ll do it,” she whispered.  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just make it stop.”  She waited nervously for another unseen, unexpected flick of the barbed whip, but it never came.  There was a clinking noise above her head and her arms came free.  Exhausted and in utter shock at what she was about to do she crumpled to the floor.  “They’re all in hiding,” she murmured.  “And I can tell you where.  I’m the only one who can tell you where...”

Chapter 34: Acceptable Risk

She was numb.  The pain had grown so intense, so awful, so excruciating, she was not sure she could feel it any longer.  She’d been hit with the Cruciatus Curse repeatedly ever since she recanted on her decision to tell, a decision made initially to stop what was, at that time, unbearable pain.  But once again she sat bound to the iron chair, chains cutting into her flesh, her body wracked with spasms of pain, her senses completely deprived.

She leaned back against the chair but immediately arched away again, as much as her restraints allowed.  Her back was on fire and the pressure made it worse.  She wondered if she was dead yet.  Perhaps she was, and this was purgatory.  Perhaps she’d been sentenced to pay for her sins and attempted betrayal by an eternity bound to a chair, in horrible pain, forced to think about the consequences of her choices.

Then again, what else could you do?  A little voice in her mind asked.  

She hung her head in shame and weakness that was both physical and mental.  I could have taken it.  I could have died. 

Right, and then you’d have been useless to everyone.  What does not kill you makes you stronger.

I’m not stronger right now.  I’m only sitting upright because I’m tied to a fecking chair, she thought in retort to the voice in her mind.  I want... I want...

What do you want?

To be done with this.  For everything to be over.

As soon as she thought it she realized it was not all that bad a thought.  And it was something she could control.  For once, in her life, she could call the shots and have some measure of control over her own life, rather than having the choices made for her.  She could make the moves rather than being a puppet in someone else’s show, or a pawn in someone else’s game.  She tried to shift in the chair and winced as her body spasmed with pain.  She gritted her teeth and thought, hard.  Was there any way she could stop it all, now?

After a minute of painful struggling she knew that it was futile, at least until MacGrear decided to release her.  Her mother always said there was a way out, but maybe, lately, Angeleigh hadn’t been thinking about it in the right way.  She had been looking at escape as a physical thing, of removing herself from a situation.  But just maybe it wasn’t physical escape.  Maybe she could be free, even as she sat here in captivity.

What was her body, anyway?  The important thing in this case was her mind.  Her body was physical; her mind was not, even if it was encased within her body.  They could curse and batter and bind her body all they wanted, but they could not touch her mind if she did not want them to.

Do I want them to? She asked herself.  Another spasm wracked her body and she felt nauseous.  How much more could her body take before she gave in?  She took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pain.  It was only her body.  They could break her body all they wanted, but they could not break her mind.

Over the next minutes...hours...?  Days...? that was her mantra.  She focused on that, on the idea that they could hurt her physically all they wanted, but her mind was hers and hers alone.  No one could touch it if she did not let them.  That choice was hers to make; no one else could make it for her.  A slight smile touched her bruised and bloodied lips.  Yes, it was her choice, and the risks associated with it were acceptable to her.

~*~*~*~

“I want to go too!” Antigone exclaimed indignantly.  “If not for me you wouldn’t know where to go!  I think I deserve to come!  My friends are involved!”

“Which is precisely why you must stay behind,” Opal said firmly.  “There comes a time when you must let those who have been properly trained take over.  This is one time when you can’t wrestle the world, Anee.  You need to step aside.”

“I’m not that weak,” she growled.

“Anee,” Opal said seriously, gripping Antigone’s shoulder.  “You need to start understanding that there are times when you need to step back.  That is strength.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she replied flatly.

“It’s also my final answer.  Stay here, Anee.  Go, be with your friends.  Comfort one another.”

Opal cast a lingering gaze upon her niece and then turned back to Riddley, Damien, and Roderick.
Antigone stormed out of Wildeve’s office and headed back to the hospital ward.  The aches were beginning to subside, but her emotions were not.  Once again rage and worry intermingled within her.  She felt like a child who’d been brushed aside so the adults could do the more important work.  She’d assisted them, and this was the reparation she received!  She growled with frustration and kicked one of the statues lining the corridor.  It was far later at night than anyone was normally allowed to be out, and she knew that, with the present circumstances, she wouldn’t be punished for being out.

But something inside of her wished to be confronted by a professor.  She wanted a fight, and a fight with an authority figure would satisfy her immensely.  Something that would let her anger out, that would allow her to express her rage.  But no professor came out to stop her.  Even Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris seemed otherwise occupied this evening.  The Bloody Baron passed by once, casting a vague glance at Antigone and nodding once in greeting before he continued down the hall and passed through a wall, then was gone.

She leaned her forehead against the statue, clenching her hand into a fist.  She felt her nails digging into her palm, and felt the trembling in her arm.  She was going to hit something.  She had to hit something.  Instead she unfolded her fist and smacked her flattened palm against the statue.  She did not want to admit it, but Opal was right.  Wildeve was right.  Even in some twisted way Cyrus was right.  And if they were right, it meant she was wrong.

She found her mind wandering, wondering about her friends.  How was Vanora coping, being under the Imperious Curse?  What horrors had her father forced her to commit?  Would she remember any of it when the curse was broken?  Could she come back to Hogwarts, and even if she could, would she want to?  And then there was Angeleigh.  Would she be allowed to return to Hogwarts for her final year, or would the Secretary of Magic shuffle her to another location?

The thought of losing her two friends made a lump grow in her throat, but she refused to cry.  Antigone did not do tears.  The simple solution was she would not cry; if her friends had to move on, so would she.  People would come and people would go; life was made up of meetings and partings.  That was the way it had always been and the way it would always be.  And if she wanted to be an Auror, she would deal with people departing from her life all the time, particularly with times as dark as they were now.  This was just a way of preparing her.  Yes, this was the first step in her preparations for becoming an Auror and taking down people like Mephisto MacGrear, Silas Reaper, and her mother.

“Hey there.”

“Do you always have a way of coming across me when I’m going through a mental or emotional quandary?” she asked Cyrus dully.  “And what are you doing out of hospital so soon?”

“I felt fine.  Besides, I want to know what’s happening with the adults.  I was going to listen in at Wildeve’s door.”

“No good, he’s got Imperturbable charms on that thing.  He’s paranoid about eavesdroppers.  Now I know why,” she said.

Cyrus nodded and looked slightly offended, but the look dissipated.  “So what did they decide?”

“They’re going.  I told them what I knew, and one of the Aurors told Wildeve they’d cornered one of Mephisto’s spies in a pub in Inverness.  He gave them the coordinates; broke the Unplottable charm.”

“That’s good then.”

“Very.”

“Think she’s okay?” Cyrus asked.

“No idea,” Antigone answered truthfully.  They were both silent for a bit, watching the shadows in the empty corridor.  “I don’t know what MacGrear could resort to.  Or how much she could take.”  She sighed.  “Obviously I’m hoping for the best, but honestly I’m expecting the worst.”

“Me too,” Cyrus said quietly.  “I’m out of the running for Head Boy next year... Snape told me earlier,” he said suddenly.

Antigone looked over at him, part of her feeling amused, and the rest of her feeling sorry for him, especially since some of the reasons were, no doubt, due to her involvement.  “How do you feel about it?”

He shrugged.  “Better than I ever thought I would... it’s like a huge weight is off of me now.  I can just relax.  My father isn’t happy, of course, but I don’t care.  I’m almost of age anyway.  Next year’s the last year.  It may be nice to not have all the pressure of being Head Boy.”

Antigone gave him a long, measured look.  “Wow,” she finally said quietly.  “I’d have never pegged you as accepting defeat.”

He shrugged.  “People change, and contrary to your opinion, I’m a person,” he said with a grin.  “I guess I’ve just used this year to learn what’s important.”

“You’ve learned what’s an acceptable consequence,” Antigone said dully.

“Yes, I have.  And I’m ready to take one more acceptable risk.  You?”

Antigone looked up, her interest piqued by the mischievous tone in his voice.  “What did you have in mind?”

“A little trip.”

Chapter 35: Live to Tell

“CRUCIO!”

Though the silencing spell had been broken long ago, Angeleigh could no longer hear herself screaming.  Her throat had gone raw from the yelling and shrieking and screaming, and she’d been relegated to whimpers, and then nothing.  Every time the pain was fresh, and every time it hurt worse to the point she gave in and accepted she would die here, in the MacGrear castle, before she ever laid eyes on Silas Reaper again.  Part of her resented this; it was Silas’ sworn duty to break her, and now Mephisto MacGrear wanted to break her so he could bring Silas down!

She lay on the cold stone floor, sweating and breathing hard as the shock of the curse subsided.  She could not see her tormentor, but she imagined that he would be cursing in anger, twisting his wand between his fingers, thinking of another way to make her talk.  But it wasn’t going to happen.

She rolled over on her back and winced as the deep gashes stung and her tightly bound hands pressed into her spine.  She groaned soundlessly and tried to find the point in her mind to focus on.  Escape.  Freedom.  Freedom from fear, freedom from pain.  They could not touch her mind—

“CRUCIO!”

The curse hit her hard and she rolled on her side and curled her knees into her torso, her head against the floor as the all-consuming, severe pain mercilessly rippled through her body.  “You’re an idiot, girl, if you think you can withstand this,” he hissed into her ear.  “You have a chance to bring down the man who killed your family.  You have the chance to get back at your family for using you.  And you’d choose this instead?”  He trained his wand upon her and her back arched with another spasm of pain.

“And you had a chance to crawl out of the shit hole you dug yourself into!”

Angeleigh stopped her struggles when she heard this new voice, a voice that was oh, so familiar to her.  She smiled inwardly and tried to even out her breathing.  She’d done it, she had withstood Mephisto’s torments.  He had broken her body, but that was all.  At last she was free; she flopped over on her stomach and exhaled, and a slight smile touched her lips as she allowed herself to go free.

“You traitorous bastard,” Silas Reaper growled, towering over Mephisto in his rage.  “You would double cross me!”

“Silas, Silas!  I was just... just trying to make things easier for you,” Mephisto said nervously.

“By torturing her to death?  No, no, Mephisto.  Not only is that senseless, it’s also a breach of our agreement.  I told you not to harm her.”

“You told me not to lay a hand on her, and I haven’t,” Mephisto said smugly.  “And I haven’t.  My daughter has been wonderfully obedient,” he said gleefully.  “And a wand is not exactly a hand, now, is it,” he said.  “You failed to be specific, Silas.”

“You are a disgrace to the Dark Lord,” Silas growled.  “You have backstabbed him, and now you have backstabbed me, and taken my money as well!”

Mephisto kicked the limp body at his feet.  “I captured your little doll, Silas.  That’s what you paid me to do.”

“And you were going to use her to double cross me.  She’s been used enough in her life.”  He strode forward, his dark gaze fixed on the crumpled form of Angeleigh.

“Do not come any closer, Silas,” Mephisto warned, his wand aimed at Angeleigh.  “I’ve had my fun with her, and will kill her if you do not give me the last thousand galleons you promised me.”

Silas stopped abruptly.  “She’s of no use to either of us dead, Mephisto,” he said with a tone of warning in his voice.

Mephisto shrugged.  “I had my fun... you’re here right now and at my mercy... I’d say she served her purpose well enough.  Besides, I think she wouldn’t mind dying at this point.  She’s been through so much, poor thing,” he said mockingly.  “All those Inferi chasing her... and the curses... and that’s just the physical duress!”

Silas was possessed by rage, and he dove at Mephisto, who tripped over Angeleigh’s motionless body.  He pinned the smaller man down.  “HOW DARE YOU!” he bellowed, and punched Mephisto in the mouth.  He heard the sickening crack of teeth breaking, and watched as blood bubbled up over Mephisto’s pale face and stained the collar of his crisp white shirt.  Mephisto only laughed, prompting another punch from Silas.  He dragged the smaller man to his feet and slammed him against the stone wall.  Mephisto still laughed, spraying blood over Silas.  “You deserve any and everything you have coming to you,” he sneered.

“Get your hands off my father!”  A young female voice interrupted.

Silas turned and spotted a young witch, probably no older or younger than Angeleigh.  She was holding her father’s wand, which had been dropped in the tussle.  “Let him go!” she begged.

“Stay out of this, foolish girl!” Silas sneered.  “This is not your fight.”

“Vanora,” Mephisto said, spitting out blood and bits of broken teeth.  “Kill Mr. Reaper, here.”

The girl, Vanora, aimed the dark wand at Silas.  “Unhand my father, and prepare to die,” she said in a low voice.  “Let him go!” she yelled again.

“I want to die with my hands on this traitor.  I want him to remember the look in my eyes as I die, and I want him to take it to his miserable grave.”

“Kill him, Vanora!” Mephisto ordered.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!” Vanora shouted, and the jet of bright, sickly green light issued forth.

Silas watched it approach him in seemingly slow motion and he reacted in the only way he could.  He gripped Mephisto’s robes tighter and wheeled around, using the traitor as a shield, watching the look of horror in the little man’s eyes as he realized what was happening.  He only had a moment to struggle before the Killing Curse hit him, and the look upon his face as he died was pure art as far as Silas was concerned.

He dropped the corpse of Mephisto MacGrear, and it fell with a dull thud on the stone floor.  He watched as MacGrear’s daughter stood, a blank look on her face.  “You’re freed of the curse, girl,” he said gruffly, and Vanora’s eyes cleared.  The younger witch stood, looking around.  “W-where am I?”  She asked, looking around.  She spotted the limp form of her father.  “You... killed him?”

Silas did not have time for this.  “No.  You did.  Look, Aurors and hit wizards will most likely be here at any moment.  At least they will when I do this.”  He pulled out his wand.  “MORSMORDRE!”  Vanora cowered before him and he sighed.  “Go to the gate and be ready to admit them.”

“What about...”

“Go NOW, child,” he ordered, and Vanora backed out of the room.  He knelt down beside Angeleigh.  “My poor girl,” he murmured, his fingers working to undo the knots that bound her hands.  He slid the blindfold off and turned her over, and stared into her blank eyes.  He brushed the lank strands of blond hair out of her pale, bruised, and dirt-smudged face.  He took her in his arms and cradled her against him, and felt her blood soaking through his robes.  “Don’t die, now,” he crooned.  “Don’t let him win.  Remember our bond,” he added, trailing his finger along her jaw.  “It’s my job to break you, not his.”

From far away Angeleigh could hear his voice.  She briefly focused her gaze upon the familiar waxen face of Silas Reaper, the one thing that had always been a certainty in her chaotic life.  No matter how crazy things were, it was always certain that Silas was looking for her.  And now here he was.  She blinked once and met his eyes.  She smiled a bit, and then succumbed to the pain.  No, she was not dead; she would live to tell her secrets, but only when she was good and ready to.

Silas smiled tenderly and kissed her forehead.  He then set her on the stone floor, stood, and with a popping noise, was gone.

Only moments later Wildeve and Opal burst in, followed by a contingent of hit wizards.  “Fan out, search the castle,” Wildeve commanded.  He looked around and spotted the battered body of Angeleigh.  “Merlin’s beard...” he murmured.

“What?  Is it her?” Damien asked, breaking through Opal and Wildeve.  There was a look of wild hope on his face that vanished.  “No...” he exclaimed, dashing in and scooping up his niece’s limp body.  He looked in horror at the bruises that covered her body, and at the awful gashes on her back.  “Angel...” he murmured, feeling tears touching his eyes.

Opal knelt down and took one of Angeleigh’s scarred wrists.  She felt for a moment.  “She’s alive, Damien.  Don’t worry.  She’s lost a lot of blood, though, and she seems dehydrated.  We’ll get her to London and she’ll be fine; she’s been through this before.”  She wrapped her arms around Damien and gave him a reassuring hug.  She looked up when she heard more commotion by the door.

“I—I don’t know what happened, I didn’t mean to, it was like waking up; he was dead and the man said I did it!”

“Vanster.  Your dad was scum.  I don’t think anyone’s going to care he’s dead, much less that you did it,” Antigone snapped, and Cyrus nodded.

“Anee?  Cyrus?”  Opal said, rising.  “I told you to stay behind!”

“And I didn’t listen,” Antigone said with a shrug.  “Have you found Angeleigh?  Vanora said Silas Reaper was here...”

“If he’s still here we’ll get him,” Wildeve said gruffly.  “Miss MacGrear... there will be an inquiry certainly, and unfortunately you will be the key witness.”

Vanora’s only response was a strangled sob, and Cyrus awkwardly wrapped his arm around her.  Antigone rushed forward, but Opal grabbed onto her and stopped her progress.  “Anee, don’t.”

Antigone struggled.  “Is she alright?  I just want...”

“She’ll be alright.  Just stay back, Anee.  Please.”  She held her niece tightly.  “It’s all over now.   We should... go back...”  She stroked Antigone’s hair lovingly.

“What about Vanora?  And Ange?” Antigone asked in a trembling voice.

“You heard your professor, Vanora will face an inquiry, but she will most likely be acquitted because of the Imperious Curse.  As for Silas Reaper, I’m sure Roderick Mooreland is working on tracking him down.”

“And Ange?” Antigone persisted.

Opal tried to smile.  “I...I don’t know, love.  Only time will tell.  Come on.  Riddley... I’m taking the children back to Hogwarts.”

“Right, and I’ll go on to London with Damien,” Wildeve said gruffly.  “I’ll have a lot of questions to answer and appointments to set up... the aftermath is going to be big.  I want to get the story straight with the papers before they go live in the morning,” he said.  He watched Opal shuffle out, with Cyrus, Antigone, and Vanora in tow, then cautiously approached his friend.  “I’m sorry, Damien, I did what I could...”

Damien shook his head.  “I don’t blame you.  I should have known something like this would happen eventually.  It’s just... hard...”

“She’s not dead, Damien.  Don’t say your goodbyes yet,” Riddley said quietly, laying his hand on Damien’s shoulder.  “She’s stronger than she looks.  Don’t give up yet... she wouldn’t.”

“Because of all of this we’ve been able to get a hit on Reaper,” interjected Roderick Mooreland, looking down at the young Secret-Keeper.  “And... and because she’s still alive it means she didn’t tell.  If she had, she’d have been of no further use, meaning they’d have killed her.  Take comfort.  She’s done very well,” he said quietly, but he turned away and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.

Damien tried to appreciate their reassurances.  “I suppose you are right about that,” he said to the Secretary of Magic.

“Because of her we can bring down one of the greatest threats in her home country,” Roderick said.  “Um... I’m sure the American wizarding press will be all over this, and I’m sure now that we know Reaper’s on the move they’ll be out for him in short order.  I... I need to get back, but I’ll be in touch.”  He Apparated, leaving Riddley Wildeve and Damien Dervish alone with Angeleigh.

“We should be going to London... there’s nothing more we can do for her here,” Riddley spoke up.

Damien nodded and looked down at Angeleigh.  “You’ll be alright, love,” he whispered to her.

But Angeleigh did not hear him.  She had tucked herself away in a comfortable corner of her mind where nothing existed besides herself, her secrets, and the knowledge that she had won.  The could bend her and break her and cause her pain, but her mind was her own.  Her secrets were her own.  Nobody, and nothing, could force her to say anything or do anything she did not want to.  She was victorious.  She was free, and she would live to tell what she’d been through.

But not today.  

Not today.

Epilogue: Negative Capability

“You were acting under an Unforgivable, for the umpteenth time,” Antigone said to Vanora, her voice soft and kind.  “The Wizengamot found you innocent on those grounds.  Your record is clear.  You need to forgive yourself.  Move forward.”

Vanora sighed.  “That’s easier said than done.  I just want to move back to California and leave this wizard thing behind,” Vanora said, leaning against a wall.

Antigone stiffened and turned narrowed eyes on Vanora.  “Are you really going through with it?”

“Yeah... I just... I can’t keep doing this after all that happened this year.  I mean, hell, I spent most of the year in a trance, so I’m behind in my work.”  She shrugged and pasted on a goofy smile.  “I’m sure to have failed everything.  Except maybe Care of Magical Creatures.”

“So... you’re leaving me alone with Cy next year?”

“And Lance.  And maybe... maybe...”

“I get it, it’s ok,” Antigone said quickly.  “And... probably not.  I don’t think she’ll be back to school.  But Cyrus is a lot more bearable now.”

“The future Head Boy is bearable?” Vanora asked in shock.

“No... Cyrus wasn’t in the running after the whole Hogsmeade thing.  Look... your train’s coming,” Antigone said, forcing the words through her tightened throat.  “Will you at least keep in touch?”

“I don’t know.  I was hoping to make a clean break.  It’s nothing personal, Anee.”  Vanora bit her lip and did not meet Antigone’s gaze.  “You were a great friend and I couldn’t have gotten through any of this without you, but... I just need to break it all off completely.  I may even get Obliviated once I hit the states.”

Antigone nodded, feeling more and more tightness in her throat and chest.  She took as deep a breath as she could muster, then let it out and forced herself to smile.  “Well... don’t Obliviate too much, m’kay?” she said.  “Wait, what are you doing?”

“Severing ties,” Vanora said softly, snapping her wand in two pieces and then tossing the splintered pieces onto the tracks.  Within moments they were smashed further by the wheels of the train.  “Well... g’bye... we had some good times.”

“Yes, we did... remember those.  Forget all the crappy stuff, but try to remember the good stuff.  Getting drunk in Hogsmeade and playing pranks on Magic Boy,” she said gruffly.  She reached over and awkwardly patted Vanora on the shoulder.  “Take care of yourself, Vanster,” she said.

“You do the same, Anee.”  Vanora turned quickly and ducked onto the train, burrowing into the crowd of passengers already aboard.  The doors slid closed and Vanora left Antigone Windemere’s life forever.

Antigone started walking and tried not to feel.  She had coached herself carefully to accept Vanora’s decision and accept that it was just the first of many partings in her life.  There would be more, and to grow so emotional so early on in her life and career was ridiculous.  She focused her mind so completely on feeling no pain or regret that she nearly bypassed the old-fashioned looking red brick department store completely.  Most people, Muggles, passed it by with no notice; it seemed there was always a “Closed for Refurbishment” sign in the window, yet very little refurbishment ever seemed to be made.  But Antigone stopped anyway.  She waited for a group of Muggles to pass before casually walking at the door, and then she passed through it entirely.

She was, of course, at St. Mungo’s, the wizarding hospital.  Instead of taking the lift to the fifth floor visitor’s tearoom she took the stairs, easily jogging up them.  The physical exertion felt good.  At the top of the stairs she came out into the tearoom and immediately caught sight of her Aunt Opal.

“Anee, you made it,” Opal said warmly, rising to embrace her niece.  “I’m glad... I have great news for you.”

Antigone’s heart leapt in her chest.  “Is it Ange?” she asked excitedly.

Opal’s face fell slightly, but she remained smiling.  “No, love.  Physically she’s improving steadily, but none of the Healers are sure the spell damage can be undone.  But I do have other good news.”  She held out her left hand, and her grin spread as she heard Antigone’s gasp and subsequent squeal of glee.

“Who is it, Aunt Opal?” she demanded, her eyes gleaming.  “Wait, do NOT tell me it’s Wildeve.  I couldn’t deal with it if it was!”

Opal laughed.  “Neither could I, darling.  But it’s not Riddley, dear that he is.  Damien proposed.  We’ve been making sappy lovey-dovey looks at one another since our Hogwarts days, and finally we’ve decided to make good on our affections.”

“That’s... that’s great!” Antigone said, feeling her emotions in upheaval once again, but this time there was some joy and happiness involved.

“We haven’t made any plans yet... too much going on with Angeleigh and all.  But I thought I’d tell you.  And you know what this means.”

“I have to wear a dress.”

“Well, that too... but it means you and Angeleigh will now be related to a degree,” Opal said with a smile.

“Speaking of Angeleigh...” Antigone began awkwardly.  “Um, is it alright for me to see her?”

“I don’t see why not, but you have to understand... she’s not really herself.  There’s not much of who she was in there right now.  The Healers are working hard to figure out just what sorts of curses she was hit with, and the severity of them... in addition to any of the other torments she was put through; and with her in her current condition, she’s in no position to share that information.”

Antigone nodded, trying to ignore the sudden chill that swept over her.  “Well... I’ll just keep that all in mind.”

“When you get there, love, can you have Damien come see me?” Opal requested.

Antigone nodded and made her way to Angeleigh’s room.  She felt herself tense and guilt flooded her.  “Um... Mr. Dervish, my aunt wants you,” she said awkwardly, startling her soon-to-be uncle from what looked like a catnap.

“She wha... huh?  Oh, right,” he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.  “You know... I think she’s getting better,” he said hopefully, but his eyes looked red, puffy, and tired.  He patted one of Angeleigh’s bandaged hands.   “Angeleigh, Antigone’s here,” he said softly.  “She’s sleeping right now... but if she’s awake, don’t worry if she... if she doesn’t react to you.  She’s been like that...”

“That’s okay, Mr. Dervish,” Antigone said, still having a hard time meeting his eyes.  After all, only ten days had passed between the awful day in Hogsmeade, then that night in Inverness, and this day.  She felt the need to apologize, but didn’t know how he would take it.  And then he had exited, leaving her alone.   Antigone approached Angeleigh’s bedside slowly.  How would Ange react to seeing her, if at all?  The last time she had seen Ange the girl had been unconscious and practically dead...

She lay on her stomach, resting her right cheek on the pillow.  The bruising on her face was beginning to fade, but the gashes on her back were having a difficult time healing.  Her hands were bandaged, as well.  But the true extent of the damage was unseen, buried deep within her, a secret Antigone now knew Angeleigh was capable of carrying to the grave if she needed, or even just plain wanted to.

Antigone sat down and watched Angeleigh for a long, quiet time.  Eventually Angeleigh’s pretty topaz eyes opened, but she only stared straight ahead.  She did not show Antigone any form of recognition.  She simply stared, awake but oblivious to the world outside of her.

How could she close herself off like this?  Antigone wondered.  How could Angeleigh live inside  her mind, oblivious to the world, oblivious to the people who cared about her?  Was Angeleigh weak for succumbing to catatonia, or was she the strong one for recoiling to a place where no one could hurt her?

Antigone sighed and tried to meet Angeleigh’s gaze, but she seemed to stare right through Antigone.  Why Angeleigh would want to live in this new twilight, wraith-like existence was alien to Antigone; with injuries and torture so severe, most people would rather have died.  But then again, she had to admit that she hadn’t been with Angeleigh throughout the duration of her ordeal.  She did not know the entirety of what Angeleigh had endured.  No one did, and Angeleigh was not telling.  “Where are you?” she whispered to her friend, but Angeleigh did not so much as blink at the sound of Antigone’s husky voice.  It was a moot question, but one Antigone had to ask.  All she had in her mind now were questions, questions that demanded nonexistent answers.  And the fact that her questions may never be answered was yet another thing Antigone had to learn to come to terms with.

“Ange...” she began slowly, uncertain of what she was doing.  “I..I know you probably can’t hear me.  And if you can, you don’t care.  You have more important things on your mind, I’m sure.” She tried to smile.  “I... I had to come to terms with lots of things this year, you know?  And it was hard, harder than Wildeve’s final is going to be.  But... well... one thing I’ve had come to terms with is the fact that this year was more of a learning experience than my other five years of schooling put together.”  She held her breath, then let it out slowly, composing herself.  “I had to admit things too.  Like the fact I have weaknesses.”  She chuckled mirthlessly, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.  “I can’t do it all, or save everyone and I need to...strengthen them, not deny them, or fight them.”  She felt almost glad Angeleigh would not respond to her; she hated having to admit these things, even though it was a necessity.

“But some good came from it, at least, you know?” she asked rhetorically.  “I forged new friendships, at least...”  She could not help but grin when she thought of Cyrus.  “Next year will be fun, at least, with all the opportunities to corrupt Cyrus.  I wonder what he’s like, hungover?” She giggled slightly.  “At least that’ll be something worthwhile about seventh year.”

She sighed and cleared her throat awkwardly.  She had made great strides in this short period of time, but there was still more to say, more to ponder... more to admit.  She dropped her voice to a whisper.  “You know what I learned  most of all?” she said, peering into Angeleigh’s blank stare.  “I learned more about risks and consequences, responsibility and blame...more than I thought I knew.”  She clenched her hands into fists, feeling her nails dig into her palms, not caring if she began bleeding.   Her previous beliefs had taken a beating this past year.  “The worst thing... well, it’s not bad, but it’s just hard.  That’s what I mean by worst, hard,” she stammered.  “The worst thing I have to do now is this learning that there are always going to be questions I can’t answer–or find the answers to.  And there are always going to be mysteries that remain unsolved.”

She closed her eyes and caught her breath.  Accepting that she did not, nor could not, know it all, was just going to be a part of growing up.  She was not a puppet, and she was not a game piece, but she was still underage, still very much a child, and still had a ways to go.  And, she supposed, admitting that was probably the first step.

She opened her eyes again and stared at her friend.  Angeleigh did not look happy, but she did not look sad, or angry, or in pain.  She just... was.  Antigone sighed.  Just maybe Angeleigh had realized these things, and that was why she now shut herself in her mind.  Maybe Angeleigh had found everything that she had been looking for during her year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  And how she chose to deal with it was simply different than how Antigone would deal with it.  Antigone knew she would never understand it, but she could at least accept it.  It would not be easy to do that, but since when was anything easy, if it was something worth doing?  And if Angeleigh could do it... if Vanora could do it... then she, too, could do it.

“Perhaps true strength is not the capacity to fight back after all,” she said quietly, rising from her chair and exiting the room, headed for the tearoom and the security and joy of her aunt and soon-to-be uncle.

Perhaps true strength was the capacity to accept what came her way, even if she did not understand it.   But accepting it, without getting mired down in if-onlies and what-ifs... without trying to change the unchangeable... perhaps that was the true definition of strength, at least for a young Secret Keeper named Angeleigh St. Martin.