Chapter Two – The Confessional

A/N: A special treat this week – we have two Canon Guest Stars! (My fic has just so many original characters, when a canon character breaks onto the scene it creates a stir.)

For the record, there will be more canon guest stars in the chapters to come.

Furthermore, I know that the Sycorax is an extremely inefficiently organized jail. It's basically the Jail of Plot Convenience. I need it.

Also, apologies for awkward transitions. I've tried to amend that in this chapter. Some parts may fit together oddly because they were written many months apart. Just roll with it.

This chapter is even longer than the last one - I swear the chapters will get shorter. It's because what had been the second chapter was split between what is now chapters one and two. Enjoy, because I really don't know when I'll post the next one. Let's just say May for the time being.

Thank you to mischief7manager and dal for your reviews! Very encouraging – just what I needed!

"So how did your visit go?" Thorfinn asked when he saw his brother that evening.

"Hold on a moment, still busy." Turpin was reviewing a report from the Obliviator's Department, but presently he folded it up and said, "Ah! Yes, my visit. Most satisfying. I could really get used to gloating in my enemies' faces, I tell you that."

"I'm not going to argue with you there," Thorfinn chuckled, sitting down.

"Yes, it went very well on the whole, but I'm not quite used to the dynamic – the gloating, overpowering, any of that. I got distracted rather easily."

"Ah. Can't have that. By the way, Nott got the word to me. About the transfer –"

"Yes?"

"In three days. It'll happen in the wee hours."

"All right. And where –?"

"To Bindweed Hall."

Turpin scowled. "Those sots."

"I know. But I'd say be grateful that the Dark Lord hasn't commented on your slip-up… yet."

"Oh, I'm grateful. And look at how I've repaired it! He'll notice."

"I ask you to take nothing for granted."

"I take nothing for granted, and neither do you – which is why we're still alive. I'll show him, though. I'll show them all. But thanks for your concern, all the same."

"I'm home," Blodwen's voice sounded from the entryway. She came in through the parlor, shedding her coat and hat. She kissed Thorfinn, and greeted her brother-in-law cheerily.

"You're in a better mood today, Blodwen," Turpin pointed out.

"Oh, yes, I just had a lovely time at the McLaggen's house, working out their order for their Hallowe'en party this year."

"But it's only early September – quite early to plan their Hallowe'en party."

"It's wise to plan ahead, especially when you're ordering such draughts as the McLaggens fancy. Thank you, Corky," she settled into her favorite chair and put on the slippers that Corky had laid out for her. "May I see that Prophet, love? Thank you."

After the three had talked over their days and had dinner, Turpin stood up. "I think I had best be paying a visit now to my captives… it's become sort of my habit at about this hour of night. Has Corky fed them?"

"Corky has seen to their dinners, yes," Blodwen answered. "Turpin – I have a request to make of you."

"To see to it that my experiments are done as quickly as possible and the inmates moved, yes, I know."

"I was going to speak of something else," she snapped. "If you might listen for once in your life."

"Wren…" her husband put a calming hand on her arm. Turpin turned to her. "All right. I'm listening."

"I would like to know more about the exact nature of the experiment you are conducting, and of why you suddenly captured Miss Ollivander."

Turpin crossed his arms. "Knowledge is dangerous."

"I'm willing to risk it."

Thorfinn smiled – discreetly, but proudly – at his wife.

"Okay. If you must know, what I am trying to determine is, whether or not it is possible to completely erase the memory of a person from the collective consciousness."

"Why?"

Turpin blinked. "What?"

"Why? What purpose does it serve?"

"Does knowledge for its own sake not appeal to you?"

"What practical use does this have?"

"An experiment isn't a – a tea cozy or something that to be practical."

"You mean you're endangering everyone in this house for the pure sake of knowledge?"

"No, that's not – true – I do have a plan. Really, I do. One that I am sure will please the Dark Lord."

"And that is?"

"Something I really do not feel I should tell you. For safety's sake."

Blodwen sighed. "Go on."

"For this, I chose Benedicte Ollivander. Why? Because she fits the parameters I wanted – the closest thing I could get to a test run on this experiment. I won't say any more. She was born in 1956 and died in 1976. I have – I thought – succeeded in erasing her memory from those who knew her personally. It turns out there were a few hitches, but the side-effects alone are very compelling." He gave a self-satisfied smirk. "Linus Ollivander says he hasn't slept in a week. I didn't have time to ask him more, but that's very encouraging."

"And this girl?"

"Yes. Calliope Ollivander said that she remembers her sister. From what I could tell, she was not lying. So, of course, I could not leave that experiment undone."

"But she couldn't…"

Turpin looked at his sister in law. "What?"

"Calliope Ollivander isn't old enough to remember Benedicte."

"Why, and what makes you say that?"

"The one downstairs was born in 1974. She would have been two when her sister died. I never heard of a child who could remember under the age of three or so, even a magical one. Surely you know that."

Turpin looked very alarmed. "No, of course not, the brain does not form conscious memories at that age. How do you know she was born in 1974?"

"I remember distinctly, because her mother, Philomel, placed an order with me to celebrate her birth. She ordered two bottles of our finest Iridescent Rose Champagne for the party she was giving. And then she attached a generous tip to the bill. It was an order to remember."

"You're certain?"

"Very certain. I could go into my old office and check the files, but, you know, it's occupied at the moment."

Turpin paused. "She lied."

"Apparently," Thorfinn cut in.

"I need some time to think about this," Turpin snapped his fingers. "Where's my notebook?" he rushed off in the direction of his room.

When he had gone his brother said to Blodwen, "He and I will work it out, don't you fret. I'm glad to see you two talking so civilly, by the way."

"Extinguish the lights! Nox."

"Why?"

"He's coming."

"Nox." It was easier to undo light than it was to make it. The light died just a moment before Turpentine opened the door.

"Good evening." With a wave of his wand he lit the two lamps on the desk, illuminating Mr. Ollivander on the couch and his grand-niece seated on the floor before the couch. She glanced to him. He said nothing, and so she turned to glare at their captor silently.

Turpentine smiled slowly and closed the door behind him. "How are you two keeping?" after a long pause, "Just as well. I have some news that may interest you – especially you, Miss Ollivander." He held out a copy of the Daily Prophet front page in his hand. "You recall the very agitated men that you and I left behind in Scotland?"

Calliope's face remained impassive – but unseen to Turpentine, she reached up towards her uncle. He took her hand without a word.

"Funny thing," Turpentine went on, taking his seat before the desk. "Last night, there was a break-in at my house last night. It appears that they were attempting a rescue."

He glanced at Mr. Ollivander. "Isn't it odd how no one came to rescue you? Not to get distracted… unfortunately for your would-be rescuers, there was no one there for them to rescue, or even fight. You see, I had not only left, but I had my house smothered in alarm spells to alert the Magical Law Enforcement of any break-in. Last night the intruders were apprehended and brought to the Sycorax Jail."

Calliope looked down. Her hand clutching her Uncle's was white.

"Still not a word, Miss Ollivander? Well, suit yourself. Yes, all three were apprehended."

She looked up at that. "All three?"

"Oh, yes. My student, Linus Ollivander, the Presumptive Mark Printzen, and, to everyone's surprise, Hector Gibbs."

"Hector?" Mr. Ollivander repeated.

"Oh, yes. Blonde fellow, skinny, grey eyes? Well, you all have grey eyes."

Calliope mutely nodded.

"I thought so. I saw him earlier today. In jail. I visited them all, you see."

Mr. Ollivander noticed how Calliope slumped as if greatly weakened. He squeezed her hand a little, trying to will her to be strong.

"Gibbs didn't bother hiding his cowardice from me. That was smart of him. Young Ollivander put on a show of stoicism. And you'll be glad to know, Miss Ollivander, that your Muggle's spirit isn't crushed yet. I expect that his new trial, and his very likely consignment to Azkaban, will change that. By the way, I was quite disappointed to learn something earlier tonight."

"What?" Calliope asked flatly.

"You lied to me, Miss Ollivander." Turpentine stood up. "You told me that you have memories of Benedicte Ollivander. Personal memories of interacting with her. You lied about your age – unless you have a superhuman, prodigious memory (which I admit is also quite interesting), you are too young to recall your sister. Now you are going to stand up –" suddenly his wand was out – "and you are going to tell me the truth."

Calliope was jerked into a standing position and forced to stand in front of Turpentine. At once the Death Eater had a bottle of perfectly clear liquid in his hand. He gave another twitch of his wand.

"Now, drink." Calliope's head was forced back, and though she tried to keep her jaw clamped shut, she could feel Turpentine's magic striking at her like a hammer –

"Turpentine! Stop this! Stop! You can do what you want to me, but –"

"Save your strength, old man, stay out of this." Turpentine poured the contents of the bottle into his captive's mouth, and then, when it was empty, forced her mouth shut. He kept his wand trained on her as she doubled over onto the floor, choking, until she swallowed.

"Good. Now – have a seat." He stepped away from the chair. Calliope straightened up from the floor and tried to sit with dignity on the leatherback chair. She glared at Turpentine with hatred, covering her mouth with her left hand.

"It's not going to work. Now answer. What is your name?"

Muffled, she answered, "Calliope Blithe Ollivander."

"You may as well remove your hand. It's just going to make life more complicated." When she didn't move, he jerked his wand once more and her hand was wrenched away.

"Calliope, you have the strength of will to resist him. I know you do," her Uncle coaxed.

"When is your birthday?" Turpentine said over the other man's insistence.

"February 7th, 1974."

"Do you have brothers or sisters?"

"Yes."

"Name them."

"Linus Fortitude Ollivander and Benedicte Clemence Ollivander."

"Do you remember Benedicte personally?"

"No." She appeared to shrink under his gaze. He continued to glower.

"Why, then, did you lie and say you did remember."

One hand went to her heart, as though she was trying to hold something in there. But slowly she answered, "To – protect – Mark."

Just as slowly, Turpentine answered, "Pathetic."

"Perhaps you would like to rethink that," Mr. Ollivander said, rising.

"Again, Mr. Ollivander, I advise you to stay out of this. Among my compatriots I am considered to be quite merciful. Miss Ollivander, do you know of anyone else who remembers Benedicte?"

"Mark does. I told him about her, and he remembers. Scurry, the Hollywyck house-elf, does not. Linus cannot remember her. Dementors attacked Hollywyck three nights ago."

"What?" Uncle gasped.

"They had no effect on him, or so it appeared. Linus was supposed to learn if Dora Tonks or any of the Hogwarts professors remembered Benedicte or not. But I never found out his results."

"Hm." Turpentine nodded, seeming to be making a mental note. "Thank you. And now, Miss Ollivander – if your Uncle will kindly sit down – thank you, Mr. Ollivander –you can help me make things all better."

She didn't answer.

"Are you listening to me?"

"No."

"Too bad. You have no idea how much your lie has inconvenienced me. But, as an eternal optimist, I've managed to turn a setback into an asset. Thanks entirely to your lie, you induced your cousin, your brother, and – your Muggle – to break into my house. Alas, they only that found both the terrible tyrant and the fair maiden he kidnapped were long gone. I expect that the Muggle especially was distraught – in case you didn't noticed, he's besotted by you. Probably why he stole your wand in an attempt at Presumption."

"He did not steal my wand and he is not Presumptive."

"But still, now he, your brother, and your cousin are all in prison. How does that make you feel?"

"Sick."

"Fascinating. But the fact that you are here, and they are there, still is a terrible inconvenience for me and for the experiment I am conducting."

"The one to erase Benedicte from the world."

"Yes. But I'm a planner. I've got a plan for how you can help with this experiment, to make it complete. Are you willing to go along with it?"

"No."

"Too bad. If you don't cooperate – well, I don't suggest trying to pit your mind against mine. I'm much more practiced than you, young lady. Just ask your Uncle there." Again that cold smile lit up his face. "Then again, if you do cooperate – give me free access to the memories of your sister – then there is a chance that I may have pity for your friends. It is within my power to clear up the tragic misunderstandings that have plagued them for so long. It is in my power to name them all innocent – even of Presumption. Do you understand, Miss Ollivander? I said, do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Very good. You learn fast. I'll give you a little time to think about it."

Then he was finally gone.

In the darkness, Uncle Servaas said "Lumos." It revealed that Calliope was still sitting ramrod straight in the chair. Her hands covered her face and small sobs escaped her.

Her Uncle said softly, "He's gone, Calliope. He won't hurt you any more for now."

She said nothing. Finally her Uncle said, "I will be whatever you need me to be." He added, "I know you've always liked keeping secrets."

"I – I cannot, I cannot stay quiet!"

"I know. It's the potion."

"The Sycorax, Uncle… The Sycorax… I can't believe it – Mark and Linus and Hector and it's all my fault—"

"It's not."

"And after I said they would rescue us, too—"

"They were attempting to rescue us. You were completely right."

'But it's my fault."

"No, it's not. You did the right thing to protect your friend."

"Mark… oh, Mark…"

"Don't let anything that filthy minded man say matter to you…"

"Uncle, what he said about Mark isn't true. He's not – well, he is a Muggle, but not the way that he says it, as if the word were full of garbage. Mark is a good man. Yes, maybe he's impulsive – but he always tries so hard to do the right thing. He laughs and asks questions and he's… he's kind…"

She turned her face away, her cheeks reddening.

Servaas didn't want Calliope to go into further detail, in fear of what he might say in a knee-jerk reaction. 'Back in my day,' he thought, 'we had a very different opinion of Muggles… but,' he thought, 'I might just be wrong.'

Quietly, Calliope whispered, "I've caused him so much pain…"

"You meant him no pain." 'I'm getting old. I'm probably wrong.'

Again, silence. "I can't believe they're in prison. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to hope."

"It won't be easy. But we'll help each other."

"Yes…"

"I know this is a dangerous thing to say, considering our captor, but, we have each other, and we have our memories to comfort us."

Finally Calliope got up out of the chair and sat on the couch. Her Uncle watched her face until she looked at him and lightly said, "I'm glad you're teaching me wandless magic. It'll come in very useful."

He only continued to watch her. She looked away, into the shadows. Finally her uncle sighed. Slowly, he asked, "Do you love this Muggle – this man?"

Very softly, she replied, "I think that I do. Yes. I love him." She said it like she was testing out the words. "Oh, Uncle, this is all so strange!"

"Love is strange," Uncle said, as much to himself as to her. "But it is also patient, and kind, and good. Don't be surprised that the Death Eater doesn't understand love." To himself, he added, "I wonder if I understand it, myself."

Dora marched to Dumbledore's desk and slammed the Daily Prophet down on the mahogany surface.

"Tell me he's okay," she demanded, her eyes bright and her voice sharp. "Tell me he's okay."

Dumbledore did not need to even glance at the headline – "Werewolf Raid and Capture in Manchester." Instead, he fixed his bright blue eyes on Dora's face.

"Yes, Remus is at present slightly injured, but he will soon recover. He is fine."

Dora slumped and gave a sigh of relief. "I couldn't take it," she babbled, "if someone else…"

Dumbledore put a hand on her shoulder. "Dora. Look at me. I realize that these past few days have been unimaginably difficult for you. I want to remind you that you do not have to suffer alone. I am here. Minerva is here. We must all trust and rely on each other. There's no need for you to only open your heart when your emotions reach the boiling point."

"No, Professor – I'm sorry, I overreacted, I shouldn't have—"

"There is nothing to apologize for."

"I just wanted to make sure – I guess I just went clean crazy…"

"Your actions are totally understandable."

"Thank you, Professor. I'd – best be getting on, leave you to your – um – you know – work."

"I am in no hurry, Dora. Feel free to have a seat. Take a sugar quill."

"All the same, Professor D," she nodded, giving a forced smile. She left the office as quickly as she had entered.

After she left Dumbledore put the tips of his fingers together in thought. He heaved a sigh, and at the same moment, the phoenix on his perch arched his neck down and gave a mournful keen. The old man glanced at his longtime friend and gently said, "If you think it will help, then by all means, visit her later."

A timid knock sounded at the door to Hagrid's hut. The gamekeeper gave one more prod to the fire and went to the door. Checking his crossbow (just in case), he opened it. At first he thought he saw a student – Dora Tonks had always been petite, and she looked even smaller, hunched over in the big doorway.

As she tried to say, "Wotcher, Hagrid. Can I – " he had already taken her shoulder and tugged her inside. "Come on in, Tonks, let's not be getting cold on the durestep."

"Security questions?"

"Oh, ye know I can't be keeping them questions straight in me head." His eyes twinkled. "And that's how ye know it's me. And as for whether you're you, I think I know that expression well enough. C'mon, Tonks, sit down. What brings ye here?"

She sat at the vast table and was silent for a time, then her mouth started trembling.

"Is it about that raid on the werewolves?"

"That – Dumbledore told me Remus is all right, but – that, and – Hagrid, Calliope is missing. She's gone. She was kidnapped."

"I was readin' somethin' like that in the paper. Calliope, the little quiet one that used ter come 'ere with you sometimes? The bairn of the Ollivander family?"

"Yes, she was taken away from her own home by a Death Eater – and then – her brother and friend went out to try and save her. I saw her brother earlier that day. Why didn't he come and see me? What, did he forget I'm an Auror? Why can't I save anyone – not Sirius, not Remus, not my best friend? And now the rest of them – Linus, her brother, and her Muggle friend – are in the Sycorax jail!"

Hagrid patted her on the shoulder – not a gentle gesture, but a kind one, and put a steaming mug of tea on the table before her. "There, there, cry it all out. But do explain to me what this is all about. Mebbe we can make a little more sense of it."

She told him everything she knew, and a few things she suspected, and many thing she feared. When she was done Hagrid poured her another cup of tea and offered her a plate of stone-like scones, which she declined.

The great man then spoke gently. "Tonks, ye can't be frettin' away for aye that's happened. Ye dinnae tell 'em to go right off n' rescue her, but they did, an' you woulda done the same."

"But if I had gone – "

"Ye'd have been one less guard fer the school. Yeh knew yer duty. And they knew theirs. Besides, tho' the Sycorax en't the best place fer a Muggle – or anyone – at least this way he's safe from them Death Eaters."

"But Calliope… Hagrid, the Death Eater that kidnapped her? He's an Obliviator. I know his name, but I can't bring him to a trial yet, to properly accuse him – I can't, and I have so little proof! The Ministry is happy to turn a Muggle into their scapegoat, but when it comes to one of their own…"

"Ah know how that goes. Aye, how I know." His black eyes were full of sadness.

"And, Hagrid, I know he'll keep her alive first – the Obliviator is planning something, something that really freaked out Linus – and Linus is pretty near unflappable. The Death Eater – the Obliviator – he can do awful things to her mind, practically make her into a different person." Another sob forced its way out of her.

Fang trotted to her feet and leaned his heavy black head on her knee. Automatically Dora set one hand to work scratching his ears. Then she was rubbing his head with both hands, still giving little choked sobs.

"There, there. Have yerself a good cry now."

"I'm sorry to burden you with all this."

"Oh, no. I'm more used to it than I'd like to be. Every day, almos', there's some student comes knockin' on my door, needin' someone to talk to – their neighbor's gone missing, or a parent in hospital, or even their favorite park blasted to bits – get all kind o' slurs thrown at 'em in the hallways – and they come to Ol' Hagrid. An' I've seen it all. An' Fang, he's always got the strength fer a little comfortin', even if I don't."

Dora wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. "You're a good man, Hagrid."

"Nah – nah. I just tell 'em all the same – jest what I'll tell you. Have yer cry, have yer dark nights, fer there's no shame in 'em, and I'll be here as long as you want to talk, but don't let this defeat ye. Go out with yer head held high. You'll find the strength to wear this out – and don't waste it in worryin' over what ye can't control. Mebbe it's not the best advice, but it's what me dad always told me."

"Thank you, Hagrid." Dora got off of the chair and gave Fang a hug. "And thank you for listening.'

"I may not be any Molly Weasley," he admitted, "But in a pinch, you know I'm here. Come back any time."

"Thanks." She buttoned her coat back up and walked towards the door, when Hagrid stopped her. To her surprise, she found herself wrapped up in a big hug, as gentle as Hagrid could be. She hugged him back, eyes closed.

The warmth of that hug stayed with Dora as she ran over the cold path to Hogsmeade, and it sustained her through all the night.

The very next morning she had an owl from Kingsley Shacklebolt. Once she had decoded it, it read, "Have posted a watch on the houses of the Rowle brothers. Will keep you in the loop, top priority. Remus sends you good luck. Keep faith."

Mr. Ollivander, in front of the glowing lamp, watched his niece, who stared fixedly at the dark globe in her hands. Into the silence, she said "Lumos." After a pause, he addressed her.

"I know this is difficult. I know. But magic with a wand was difficult when you were first learning; now you are past mistress of it."

"Lumos."

"Willpower. Concentration. Self-control. All magic requires these – which is why we invented wands, to aid us."

"Lumos."

"Picture it like the suit of Wands, in the tarot deck – the suit of power, control, self-direction, inspiration."

Silence.

"You hold your wand in your mind, Calliope. Linden. Nine and a half inches. Phoenix feather. Deceptively pliant. You know the course of direction that it gives you. Now bring that control to your hands. Bring it to the globe in your hands. Bring it to light."

There was silence and darkness.

"Lumos."

Then there was light.

She leaned heavily against the desk.

"I also know how taxing it is," Mr. Ollivander guided his niece to the couch. "But you've done it, my girl. As I knew you would. You learned it faster than I did."

"Thanks…" she said weakly. "Uncle, I didn't know you understood Tarot."

"Of course. The deck is quite a respectable tool of magic – and there's much about me that you don't know. You've done well, Calliope. Rest."

A guard patrolling the corridor said to the inmates, "There's a chaplain hearing confessions right about now. He comes in twice a week. Would any of you care to see him?"

"I'll go." Mark stood up, looking at the two wizards. Both shook their heads.. Mark, glad for the chance to stretch his legs, followed the guard into the mess hall. Prisoners stood in a line, waiting to get into a little tent that reminded Mark of a voting booth back home.

The prisoners in line stared at Mark contemptuously. He ignored it. He was getting used to them. What drew his attention was that some of the prisoners waited in line to see another counselor. At the other end of the mess hall, a girl in her late teens sat at a table.

Mark squinted. Was she reading Tarot cards? But that was ridiculous. Or was it, to wizards? Certainly the men (and a couple of women) sitting in front of her studied the cards as anxiously as if they meant life or death. The reader herself fixed her eyes intently on the cards, as far as Mark could see. He wondered if he should ask her a question – then stopped himself. He may be trapped in the legal roulette of a secret, magical world while the love of his life was kidnapped, but he still had his standards.

Then again…

He debated with himself the merits of a Tarot reading or not as the line moved slowly forward.

At length, he dropped the notion of a Tarot reading and asked himself what he would say to the confessor. 'Now, the Sacrament of Reconciliation,' he thought, 'is the very last thing I expected to find in England. After wizards.' At last the line dwindled, and the last wizard left the confession booth.

Mark opened the flap. Seeing the inside, he gasped. It was spacious – or as spacious as a confessional booth should be – dramatically lit by a single candle, and for all the world paneled in stained pine. There was a lattice window and everything necessary except for monks chanting in Latin.

The sound of a throat being cleared brought Mark back. "Ah – sorry, Father."

"No need to call me Father." The voice on the other side of the window was male and surprisingly young. "Reverend will do. Please, be seated."

Letting the flap fall (only on this side it was a fine red curtain), Mark sat before the window. He noticed two icons on the wall above him: a crucifix, and a picture of an old man, his head bowed, holding a lantern in which there danced a star. It was labeled 'The Hermit.' It reminded Mark of the Tarot cards that the girl had been reading – and reminded him that this was not normal Catholicism. What was he doing here, anyway? He was just a Muggle…

"What is on your mind?" prompted the man on the other side of the lattice.

"Oh!" Mark took a deep breath. "Bless me, Reverend, for I am innocent." He added quickly, "I know that's not the proper thing to say in Reconciliation, but it has been a while, and…"

"If I may?" the reverend interrupted. "Please – don't feel you need to confine yourself to a ritual. If you want to talk, I'm here to listen."

Mark gave a short laugh. "Gotta warn you, once you start me talking it takes me a long time to stop. Typically."

"I'm quite ready."

"I'm – I'm also really curious." Mark couldn't help himself. "Are you an actual Catholic priest?"

"Well," Mark could just make out the man's silhouette behind the lattice, "I'm a man of God, but I'm not a priest, I'm a minister. A reverend. And I'm not Catholic. I serve in the Holy Church of Christ the Magician."

"Christ the Magician?"

"You've never heard of it?"

"No, sorry."

"Are you Muggleborn?"

"Yes, I am," Mark said quickly.

"And American?"

"Yes…" suddenly Mark felt very uneasy.

"You wouldn't happen to be from New England, would you?"

"Utah!" Mark exclaimed. "Midwest! Mormons! Lots of Mormons there. Wizarding Mormons. I was raised a Catholic, though." He felt a stab of guilt – lying in a confessional. He would have to go to Confession for this! Why couldn't he tell this man the truth?

"Okay. I was just wondering – I've heard a bit about the Presumptuous American Muggle, and, naturally, kind of wondered…"

"I just got here, sir."

"Yes. This is about you."

"And my want for reconciliation. God and I haven't been on good terms lately."

"Well, I'm good at mediating with God."

Mark paused for a long time. "I – I can't understand what's happened. It's just overthrown, everything that I thought about how the world would work. I cannot believe a loving God would let this happen."

"Ah, yes." The minister sighed.

"You probably hear that a lot these days."

"A lot. But no two stories are the same. Go on."

"But I mean it. Before God, I'm innocent. I'm innocent of everything – except maybe stupidity. And, and I know life is not fair. But I have never asked for too much. A good job. Friends I could trust. An occasional vacation someplace special, that preferably didn't end with me imprisoned… twice. But now – someone I care about deeply is in terrible trouble, and it's my fault, and no one will believe me and there's no way I can help her. No one will even listen." He added, "to tell you the whole story would take much longer than we have time for, I'm sure."

"Maybe so. And to give you a really satisfying conversation would also take more time than we have." The reverend sounded uncomfortable. "If we had time we could enter into a long discussion of the problem of evil, and the Ministry's scapegoats, and injustice, but… as we don't have much time, I want to remind you, at least, of what Christ's Beatitudes read: 'blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice…'"

"'For they shall be satisfied.'" Mark finished.

"Very good."

"But my friend…"

"I'm really sorry about that. Give me her name, and I'll file a Missing Persons report, if it hasn't been filed already."

"Okay."

"Remember, my son…"

"You're not old enough to pull a 'my son' on me."

"I know. Thought I may as well try it. My friend… remember that the ways of the Lord are mysterious. For yourself, you have to persevere. If you work yourself into an emotional frenzy you'll exhaust yourself, and you need to gather your strength for whatever is coming next. Pray for calm and fortitude – trust that God will bring good out of evil. Your innocence will eventually come to light, and…" he faltered. "I know this all sounds rather flimsy…"

"No, it makes a certain amount of sense."

"And of course – I hold a Mass and confession here every week for the prisoners. If you are having a crisis of faith, ask one of the guards to send word and I'll come as soon as I can. Here – take my card."

A little square of paper was pushed under the lattice. Mark didn't take it yet. "So all I have to do is ask for you?"

"Yes. Ask for me by name – Reverend Januarius Fell, of the Holy Church of Christ the Magician. But I'll be around just later this week."

Mark took the business card and flipped it over. There was a picture on the back – another Tarot image, he thought – labeled 'The Magician.' "That's really nice of you. Are you sure you aren't Catholic?"

"Quite sure." Januarius Fell's voice was pleasant. "The word Catholic comes from a word meaning – do you know it?"

"Universal."

"Yes. Our Church is not universal."

"How so?"

"We do not believe Muggles are capable of salvation."

Mark was speechless. Januarius Fell obviously took his silence as a sign of interest, and went on, "Muggles don't have the same sort of souls that wizards do – their souls are of a lesser degree. It's all about magic, you see. If you have magic, that is the indelible sign of God's love, and you may be saved. But Muggles…"

"I don't – how do you come to that conclusion?"

"Well, Adam was made in God's image, yes? God is the great Magician. He is the source of all life and magic and, of course, morality, so Adam had all those things, and was a wizard. That's how he was able to name all the animals and plants. But Eve was made from a part of Adam – not directly in God's image. She was the first Muggle."

Mark swallowed, his eyes wide. "And do you blame her being Muggle for the fact that she – fell to temptation?"

"You are sharp! That's – a delicate theological debate. Many people think so. I myself haven't made up my mind on the subject. But the next generation was where things really were defined."

"Cain and Abel?"

"Exactly. After Abel was slain, his blood cried out for vengeance from the earth – that's the image the Bible gives us, a very powerful one. God answered. He set the Mark on Cain – specifically, in his blood. With that, He blocked Cain and his descendants from the light and magic of God forever."

Mark didn't say anything.

"You see, it all makes sense. I'm not saying it all happened exactly like that, but, that's the gist of it, that's what I believe." The reverend noticed the silence. "Are you all right?"

"I'm – I've never heard that logic before."

"Bit of a shock?" Januarius Fell asked, not unkindly "I expect you've been a bit sheltered. Well, I'll be here later this week and I can give you tracts or –"

"The Mark of Cain was meant to be a mark of protection," the prisoner stated bluntly. "God set that Mark on Cain to warn other people not to hurt him."

"Of course." Fell's voice was soothing, "And that's why it's our duty to protect Muggles – even from themselves, if possible. Of course, that relies on certain laws, boundaries, if you will, being set in place and never violated…"

"Reverend Fell, I have a confession to make." Mark interrupted.

"Um…"

"I lied to you earlier. I'm not a Muggleborn wizard. The truth is, I'm the Muggle that's been accused of Presumption." He cleared his throat. "My name is Mark Printzen."

"What?"

"I've never even been to Utah. And I shouldn't have lied. I'm sorry."

Now it was the reverend's turn for shocked silence.

"Listen, I am innocent. And if you give me a minute I can explain everything."

From what Mark could see of the silhouette, it looked like Reverend Fell was resting his forehead on his hand. "I cannot ask you to leave a confessional booth. But I think that if you stay here, neither one of us will benefit at all."

"Can't I tell you why I'm innocent?"

"It's not going to do you any good."

"You're not going to listen to me because suddenly you think I don't have a soul – just because I can't do magic?"

"There's no need to lose your temper."

"I – am – not – losing – my temper. I just want you to understand my point of view. I'm innocent. I would never, ever hurt Calliope Ollivander. I'm her friend." After a pause, "Are you listening to me?"

No response came from the other side of the confessional. But Mark heard a clack of beads.

"Are you praying the rosary to get out of talking to me?" he demanded.

No answer.

"You know, for a priest you're doing a crummy job of making me feel empathy for my fellow man."

A tap sounded from outside the cell. Mark thought it was someone outside his door, but then realized it was on the reverend's side.

"Jan," said a small voice, a girl's voice. "Jan, something's going on. I'm worried…"

Mark opened the door to the confessional – at the same time as the Reverend Januarius Fell did. They looked at each other, with the same expression of surprise and disapproval. Januarius Fell had a pointed face, mousy brown hair, and spectacles. Around his neck hung a rectangular medallion with the image of the Magician on one side, and a cross on the other.

"Can you hear it?" the girl asked. Both of the men looked at her. She was the same girl who had been reading Tarot cards earlier – she still clutched her cards in her hands. She must have been Januarius' sister – darker hair, but the same features. Also, Mark saw, both of them had shoulders that were noticeably uneven.

"Listen, Jan!" she said. And now Mark heard it: there was a distant screaming elsewhere in the jail.

A guard strode up to Mark. "If you're done with confession, you should come back with me to your cell."

"What's going on?" Mark asked.

"We've got some – very difficult new arrivals. Some will be lodging in the Muggle wing."

"What?"

"Which is why I rather insist you come with me so we don't have to meet them. And you, Reverend Fell, I suggest you get out of here soon as you can."

"All right." Mark followed the guard, taking just a backwards look at the reverend and his sister.

When Mark was brought back to his cell, Linus was already at the door, asking "What is that sound?"

The screaming could be heard echoing far down the halls. It got closer and closer.

"I don't know," Mark said honestly as the door was shut behind him. The guard hurried off. The noise died off for a time, but soon began again.

Presently, the screams, hollers of protests, and shrieks grew louder, along with the tromp of boots. All three men looked to stare at the new arrivals as they were dragged past.

Of all of them, not one looked older than seventeen. All were fighting furiously to escape their captors, to no avail. All of them bore scars of scratches and – bites?

There were three young men – one tall and tattooed, one thick and muscular, who tried to brawl his way out, and a short one with unkempt and uncut black hair, whose cries were low and loud, more like howls. The last was a girl. She had dark brown hair cut very short and a wiry frame. She swore loudly at the prison guards in Spanish.

The three boys were locked into two separate cells (the howling boy had a cell to himself) on one side of the wall. The girl was imprisoned in the cell next to Mark, Linus, and Hector.

Once all the doors were locked shut, the guards took out their wands and intoned, in unison, "Silencio."

A ringing silence fell where there had been noise. The prison guards started back down the hall. As one commented, "Not often you see this wing filled up –" Hector stood up and went to the door.

"Excuse me, but could you explain what this all's about?"

One of the guards stopped. "Recent captives – Muggle punks – from Fenrir Greyback's gang." He shook his head. "Werewolves, the lot of them. And there's more stored in the wizard's section. Prisons are getting pretty crowded."

After the guard had left, Mark asked, "Werewolves?"

"Don't get any romantic ideas," Linus said, holding up a warning finger. "Werewolves are bloodthirsty, vicious, and dangerous. Everything bad you've ever heard about them is true."

"Circe's cup," Hector whispered. "I don't want to spend the night surrounded –"

"I know," Linus agreed, "but what are we going to do?"

"Aren't werewolves only violent at—" Mark dropped his question when a round of stomping, clapping, and slamming sounded from the cells with the teenagers. Evidently they were seeing just how much noise they could make without using their voices.

Linus took Mark's shoulder. "Look, technically, yes, they're only dangerous at the full moon. But, these guys are from a pack. Fenrir Greyback is absolutely insane. He's feral. When they live in packs, they get very –"

"Unstable," Hector offered.

"Very. The latent violent tendencies that they have as humans are brought to the fore. They have less self-control –"

"They're less human," Hector blurted.

"Are you sure?" Mark replied.

"Everyone knows that, who knows anything about werewolves." Linus said firmly, brushing dust off of his prison robe (a dull orange, faded and stiff). "So how was your visit with the chaplain?"

"Um..." Mark looked to the door again, and the sound of the werewolves continued to echo.

"Ignore them," Linus said.

"The chaplain. He's a reverend, actually. In a church that is oddly Catholic, except for the parts where he thinks Muggles are scum. I don't like him very much."

"Did you get his name?" Hector asked.

"Yeah..." Mark took out his card. "Januarius Fell."

"Fell? Januarius Fell? Here?" Hector sat up.

"You know him?"

"Oh, sure. He's a really good friend of Tess."

"Tess is friends with..." Linus remembered, "Oh, right, Tess found religion."

"Yes, she did, and Jan is one of her best friends. He does a lot of volunteer work. He's really nice... to wizards," he added, on Mark's glare. "Was Julietta there?"

"I'm... guessing that's his sister who reads Tarot cards?"

"Yes!"

"Yeah, she was there. But they left when the werewolves arrived."

"Oh! Of course... naturally... I mean, you can't expect them to hang around with... werewolves. No... Julietta's a fragile sort... I'll stop talking now."

And they dropped the subject, to everyone's relief. And then the guards arrived to try and quiet down the teenage werewolves. It wasn't until later that night when Mark had the chance to think, 'Everyone knows that Muggles are ignorant, backwards, selfish brutes. Anyone who knows anything about Muggles.'

"Tonight," Thorfinn said as he came home, holding out two vials of sleeping potion to his brother.

"Tonight," Turpin had repeated, holding the bottles in his hand lightly.

"Tonight," Blodwen had sighed with relief in front of her bedroom mirror.

Corky had obediently stirred the potions into the soup for the captives, and fed it to them. Neither Mr. Ollivander nor his niece noticed anything – except a slightly sweet aftertaste that was unusual for tomato soup. They both fell asleep too quickly to notice the suddenness of their drowsiness. And in the night, Mr. Ollivander was taken away – very quietly, effectively, and without undue fuss, just how T.R. liked it.

He felt a pang of regret, knowing he was very likely seeing the last of Mr. Ollivander, but quashed it. He went to bed himself, as soon as the hubbub had died own. He had a busy day ahead of him.

Mr. Ollivander woke up slowly, heavily, in a strange new prison. He knew not if it was day or night. He was alone.

At first he took it for granted – then he realized that Calliope should be there – and then he realized that she was not. He felt in his breast pocket for his notebook – but it, too, was gone.

He bowed his head.

He whispered, low and clear, "God bless you, Calliope, my dear. God bless you and keep you."

Calliope woke up slowly, heavily. She was having a strange dream, where her hands could summon a gigantic wave of water, but the water surrounded her and froze into a glassy prison – and trapped in the ice she could make out the figures of those she loved – she forced herself to wake up.

"Uncle?"

Silence.

"Uncle?" she called louder. She stumbled off of the desk to look for him on the couch. He was not there. But her foot kicked something small. She bent down and groped in the darkness – and found it. It was a tiny notebook.

She groped for a lamp, concentrated hard, "Lumos," and there was light. Good. She huddled close to read the words. It was Uncle Servaas' handwriting, his words, his faint hope of rescue, his desperately scribbled notes about Benedicte Ollivander. Then, at the last, his note saying they had brought Calliope. "She sleeps. Childlike."

Calliope lowered the notebook. The silence and emptiness of the room seemed unbearable.

She picked it up again and held it as she paced back and forth around the tiny space. "He's not coming back. He knew it. He's not coming back. But they won't kill him. They need him. They need his knowledge. They just moved him. Yes. Yes. This makes sense. He's still alive – he will still be alive – long enough."

There was a quill on the table. Calliope searched vigorously through the drawers until she found an inkpot – old, but unopened. She broke the seal and dipped the quill in the pot. She carefully wrote in the notebook, leaving a single line after his last note:

"I will find you. No matter what." Then she signed her full name.

She closed the book and pushed it away so her tears wouldn't stain the pages.

First thing in the morning, Turpin opened the door to the basement. Inside, Servaas' grand-niece paced back and forth in fury. "Just you wait," she said when she saw him, her voice cold, "I'll tell the world about this when I'm out, my uncle told me all about you, your job, your family, I'll find him, then I'll find you and we—"

"Obliviate."

Her eyes unfocused. She blinked slowly a couple of times, and then came to. She looked around, startled. "How did I get – " she saw Turpentine. "You! Thief! You stole Benedicte's memories – how dare you—"

"Yes, I did," he said shortly, "and I'll let you choose, Miss: shall I 'steal' your memories of Benedicte now or later?"

Calliope stumbled backwards and seemed to shrink, even though she and Turpentine were the same height. Hours of sleeplessness and fear flooded upon her without the comfort of memory, and she could just collect herself enough to stand steady and say, "Later."

Turpentine sighed. "Just as well then."

As he mounted the stairs, he couldn't resist turning to say, "And by the way, Miss Ollivander – you're very fond of that filthy Muggle, aren't you?"

He smiled at her expression, at the way her hands immediately balled into fists, and said, "A pure-blooded young lady like yourself… throwing yourself away on him… tsk tsk. I can't help but wonder, what would your dear uncle say?"

And he was at the top of the stairs. He closed the door, leaving her in silence and darkness.

The first day of captivity was long.

Enough sunlight leaked into the little room for Calliope to explore and investigate. The business folders in the desk drawer would not open without a password, but she found a stack of business cards advertising "Blodwen Gwyneodd." Calliope remembered the Gwyneodd Family vaguely – Welsh, wine dealers – and wondered what the Death Eater's connection to them was. There was a corner stuffed with old children's books, loved long ago but now discarded.

For some reason which she herself could not determine, the lamps on the desk drew her and fascinated her. They had a light shroud of dust, but there were brushes as though someone had touched them recently. She made a note and investigated the small door to one side – it was a water closet with a sink and mirror.

Looking into the mirror gave her a shock. She had not been so pale – so ill-looking – yesterday, at Hollywyck! Had the shock been that bad? Had she been given a poison?

She wasn't sure – the place felt weirdly, achingly familiar, but she was sure she'd never seen it before…

The day passed slowly.

That night, Turpin Rowle entered the little office again. He expostulated for some time about science and expanding the borders of knowledge. At length he drew out his wand. "Miss Ollivander, The path I'm to take is clear. If it's secondary source memories I must erase, then I'll erase them. And look who I've got here but a nice bank of them. But first I'm going to make sure – " he drew his wand out of his pocket, and like a wave was back above her again, "that this is as easy as possible…"

He pointed the wand at her and she seized up, feeling the Full Body Bind take effect.

"See? I'm learning," he said as he produced more bottles from out of nowhere and stood over her on the couch.

"But of course, resistance of the body is very little compared to resistance of the mind. I'm going to make you a deal, little lady."

Now he knelt, with some difficulty, on the floor by her head. She could feel his breath, and this revolted her beyond expression. 'I hope you see all of this disgust, all this hatred, when you look in here—'

"Listen to me. Do you know that your brother, Linus, your cousin, Hector, and your Muggle are all imprisoned now, on account of you?"

No, she didn't. And he knew that.

"It looks like they might be on their way to Azkaban, for varying lengths of time. Unless, perhaps, their high-ranking, respected plaintiff steps forward and intervenes. Unless I put in a good word for them." He smiled. "But what reason would I have to do that, if you were difficult with me in any way?

"The deal is simple. Cooperate with me, and your friends will go free. Make my work more difficult, and not only will you suffer far more than is strictly necessary, but your darling Muggle will be old and bent before he walks under a free sky again. Do you understand?" He paused. I'll give you a minute to think it over."

After a minute, "Do you accept?"

She couldn't speak, but he saw the answer in her gray eyes, and smiled.

"Benedicte Ollivander. Leglimens."

Deft as an acrobat, he shifted through the ring of memory evoked by that phrase until he found –

Benedicte's bedroom – the first time she had explored it.

It was the secret door, the door in Calliope's bedroom. She had opened it, copying the "Alohomora" spell that her father had used. The door opened with a loud creak.

The room was quiet, with the bright red curtain, and the paintings of Chinese animals. For an hour, two hours, three, Callie looked at every photograph, picked up and felt every figurine, in reverent silence.

This was Benedicte, gathered by her own hands, cherished in her life, all that she had left behind.

Calliope was aware that Turpentine's left hand was on her head, pressed with all the poise of a surgeon. His wand was at her temple. He pulled it away.

If she could have screamed, she would have – she felt a needlelike pain as the memory was displaced, extracted – no, no, she loved that memory, don't take it away – Her balance spun as she realized that the Death Eater was done. Into one bottle it went, a white coil of fog, and Turpentine corked the bottle carefully, and then checked her pulse.

"Normal," he muttered. "You're in good shape. I'll fetch us some water." Upstairs he went, and came down with the glasses of water. He waved his wand and Calliope felt the Full-Body Bind loosen, just enough for her to open her mouth and swallow some. He checked his watch. "I suspect that's been long enough," he said, and put the glasses aside. He knelt over her again and put his wand to her temple and his hand on her head. "This time I'll do two at once. Benedicte Ollivander. Leglimens."

Calliope ran along the blue, scratchy carpet and into the parlor. She climbed onto the couch opposite Mummy. "Yes, Mummy? What is it?"

Mum's legs were folded in front of her, and Callie swung her little legs into Mum's lap. How lovely it was to sit like this!

"Calliope, dear," Mum said seriously, "you asked me earlier about who Benedicte was. You already know a little, yes?"

Callie nodded. "She came before Linus and I, and died before I could remember her."

"Yes, that's true. I'm going to tell you more about her, so you know. She was your godmother…"

Calliope felt the memory being pulled away, and tried to cling to it –

"You know, dearie, of all the choices I've made – that your father and I made – one right one was naming you Calliope Blithe. You have been nothing if not a joy to me." Callie folded herself into her mother's arms… Don't take this away…

Calliope didn't remember what happened after that.

When she woke up, it was late morning, and she was alone in an office. There were two slices of toast laid out for her.

Once she had eaten – quickly, like an animal in the wild – she took stock of her situation. Now she had nothing left to do but wait…

And to try desperately not to be bored.

When she had read almost an entire shelf of the books, and couldn't stand to read any more, she reorganized everything on the desk, arranged the books by color, and overturned the couch cushions.

She stopped. A small black notebook – could have fit in the palm of her hand – lay there among the lint and coins. She took it up at once and set the couch to rights again.

Then she sat on the couch and started to read the notebook.

"My name is Servaas Ollivander, and this is the first day of my captivity."

Her breathing became very shallow. She brought the book closer to try and read in the best light possible. She knew every trick and tip of that methodical, slightly swerving cursive.

The notes were not many. They didn't sound coherent. There he strung together bits of the family lullaby. The abbreviations he used were almost incomprehensible. But he was worried about his memories of Benedicte. He knew what was happening to him. She flipped another page – and the door opened.

She stuffed the book between the couch cushions hurriedly. A middle-aged house-elf tottered into the room, carrying a tray with two sandwiches on it and two glasses of water. The house-elf, who wore a striped pillowcase, blinked at Calliope.

"Eh, wot," he grumbled, "So there's one gone."

He left the room quickly, so Calliope had no time to make him stay, to ask him who he belonged to, why –

Why there was food and drink for two on the tray.

She would have puzzled over the question, but she was too hungry to worry. She ate the simple bread and cheese sandwich, and wrapped the other one in a napkin and set it aside for later. Now – back to the notebook. She felt a little shiver as she picked it up again. Uncle had held this – written in it – he had likely been in this very room!

She opened up to the next page. "T—took my blood. Will use it to reach H." (That must mean Turpentine and Hollywyck.) Then, on the next line, "Calliope is here."

She stared at those words.

"What?"

The exclamation broke the silence of the room. She turned to the next page. "Stunned. T. is moving." She began reading, the sense of the words sinking in only slowly. "L., H, and a M in Syc. Teaching C. Wandless magic. Wwx school." That was probably the Weatherwax school, of which Calliope knew nearly nothing – or did she?

"This will not last long." The book visible trembled as she approached the last page.

Then, in her own writing, she read the words "I will find you," with her signature.

She put the book down slowly. And, all alone, she began to shiver.

Postscript: A final note: the character of Januarius Fell is in no way supposed to represent my views on religion or priests. No. He's a character, not a statement. I'm not bashing any faith or praising it.

ETA: I honestly thought I fixed the formatting. This is getting annoying. I shall implement stern formatting from now on. I apologize for the inconvenience up to now.