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Wandering Plague

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An hour into their ride, Sergei startled him awake, "Harry. She's restless."

It was all the warning he needed. Snapping his eyes open, and disturbingly, right into her own, the young woman drew back as if struck, her hand that had been straying toward the pocket his wallet rested in snatched back as if burned.

"Somehow, I thought robbing a little kid would have been beneath you." Glaring, the girl huffed and turned away, a high blush on her cheeks for getting caught. "So the little story you wanted, just something to put me at ease? Make me lower my guard?"

"Shut up. You don't know anything."

"I know that what I have is mine, and you've no right to it," Harry pointed out, somewhat hypocritically. Not log ago, even the wallet he carried was someone else's. His need over theirs, however.

Turning to glare openly at him, the girl's mouth drew to a line. "Alright. I'm not proud of it, but I tried. I'm not sorry. I haven't eaten in a day or so, and this... whole thing is just so surreal."

"Aren't you going home?"

A bitter laugh answered the young boy. "Home? What are we? Look at us. You're running – to or away from something, who knows. Me? What, do you want a story now?

"Fine, a story then," the girl began, her accent growing thicker. "A long time ago, in a far away castle, lived a pretty little girl. Then, a terrible sickness came, and put her father in the grave. After that, the little girl stayed with her mother, till a nice gentleman came to know her. He had two children of his own, a boy, and a girl.

"The two girls did not get along at first, but grew to think of one another as sisters. The mother tried to love them all." A note of bitterness crept into her voice, then. "After a while, the older daughter, the one from before, grew ill. Already sickened with grief once, the mother cursed and grew frantic. One day she cornered the new man's daughter, for no reason she could understand. 'It's your fault,' she screamed, and pushed her from her room, striking her with a mirror. 'You did this! You wanted her place!'

"The girl had no idea what she meant. She came with her papa, loved him, loved to see him happy. These people became her family. She'd never had a mother, so the woman who was now screaming at her could have very well been cursing her own blood, with how she was breaking the girl's heart. She didn't understand grief at the time, how it makes people mad.

"But she understood being hurt. Understood unkindness. Rather than stay and be the woman's outlet for her madness, she wrote her father and brother a letter, and left her favorite jewelry box for her sick sister. She left her step-mother the broken handmirror she'd struck her with.

"Then she went away," the girl concluded, eyes closed and a quiet trail of tears streaming down her cheeks. "Not even eighteen years old, and out in the world. She never finished school, and wandered with what money she could find. Then, one day a nice boy promised her something, something grand.

"He said, 'I'll give you a place to be. You'll be welcome there.' Oh, she was welcome. They tried to... hurt her," voice cracking, the young woman turned away, breathing coming in rasps. "Took her money. She was lucky to keep her passport, but her wallet was gone. No way home. No way to find help.

"Then a strange little boy came, with these cold, cold eyes, and told her he would help her. The end."

Harry swallowed, his eyes stinging slightly. "Why didn't you lie?"

"Why did you?"

Shaking his head slightly, Harry kept his gaze on her, "I thought you weren't going home?"

"Not home. That place... will never be home again. I'm going back to my father, and brother," she replied quietly.

Looking away, he took a breath, settling his mind. "I'm... looking for someone."

"Harry, this isn't a good idea-"

"Be still, Sergei," Harry hissed, as the girl's eyes grew wide. "For as long as I can remember, I've remembered more than I should. I was not even two, but I could recall things, with such clarity. For the longest time I though it was normal, you know? How was I to know I was different. We can't see inside one another.

"Then I learned I was different. They called me a genius. A prodigy. But it wasn't... I didn't learn, to do those things. I just knew. No one else did, though. What did it mean?" He didn't know why he was telling the lost girl his story. Nothing in him had pushed him to do this before, but... something in her eyes, something he saw in the mirror sometimes seemed to dive into his chest and sink a hook into his words, drawing them up and out against his will.

It left him cold and shivering. "For a while, he felt like someone wearing a suit. Like this wasn't his life. Then it got better. The more holes in those memories, those things he knew that came up, the more he could fill them in himself. So he felt less... wrong.

"He studied. Tried to learn what was wrong with him," he'd never considered it like that before, but truths beget truths and he wasn't the only one raw and undone, there. "Then one day, a girl died. And he saw her. And then he saw her ghost."

If the girl's eyes across from him had been wide before, now they were simply huge. "They came at him all the time after that. You know, because how many people can see, hear them? Imagine you're the only man in a city who can fix cars, yet everyone has one." Wincing, she nodded, before recalling that she didn't believe in ghosts... "He kept looking, for that tiny, single keystone of information that would make everything fit. Make him feel less like a freak.

"Then, he found magic." Looking around, and ignoring Sergei's warnings, Harry opened his palm in the half-lit train car. "Lumos," he quietly called, and the magic answered.

A tiny, unsteady, flickering ball of light floated restlessly over his palm. Beside him, uncertain hands reached out, finally poking the tiny glow warily. "It's cool."

"There's no heat," he murmured, letting the glow die out. "Magic. He found his keystone. But he had help, in a dead man who lost his daughter." She drew in a hissed breath, till Harry laughed a little, quietly. "No, not like that. This man's daughter was stolen away. So he made a deal with the boy who saw ghosts, to help him, if he would look for his daughter.

"Then, when he wasn't ready, but needed to go anyway, he found out that the stupid train attendants wouldn't sell him a ticket, because he was too young. So he found an out of luck looking young woman who he didn't think seemed as risky as the other people outside, and said he could help her. Little did he know she never shut up."

Laughing, if her eyes were still wet, the girl swatted at his arm. "You're horrible."

Nodding slightly, Harry grinned crookedly. "Yeah. I am."

Looking around much as he did, she whispered, "If you didn't make that magic firefly, I'd not believe half of that."

"I know. But... why are you going to France?"

Her face clouded a minute, but she took a shaky breath and began to speak, regardless, "I'm worried about papa. Worried he'll do something stupid. Worried about little Alexi – my brother – and I hate myself for it but I'm worried for Helen as well. I'm worried... that I'll never hear my sister's voice again," she murmured, burying her face in her coat. "I miss Cecile so much. And I left her."

Having never had a family that cared about him, Harry began to see why Sergei was so driven, and why he felt so... empty, sometimes. This was what it meant to be a real person. People were meant to have families. Meant to have love, and caring in their lives, not suspicion and fear and hate. It made him uncomfortable and jealous and envious and then just... hurt.

"Shh. Oh, I'm sorry," he was being held, for some reason. He could smell the grime and dirt of sleeping on benches, by the station-side where car exhaust was half the air. He could smell her fear and the slight salt trace of tears, on her hair. And then he realized, they were his own.

It just made more come. Reaching up, he clung to her, as she held him. For a minute, in his mind, she was kind and soft and smelled of warm things and comfort and there was a blur of red hair. And for a moment, his name was Alexi and younger and her little brother.

The moment passed, and they parted. Sniffling and laughing uncomfortably, they settled back in their seats, and Harry made a decision. "You can keep a secret," he said without preamble. Taking out his wallet, Harry set it aside. "I meant to do this anyway, but maybe you can help me a little when we arrive in Calais."

Nodding hesitantly, the young woman watched as Harry spied about them. When a man passed by, he focused on his pockets, and murmured something she couldn't make out.

A wallet appeared on his lap, new and shiny and bulging. "This is how I paid my way."

Laughing, she shook her head. "You're a pickpocket magician?"

"Shh," he hissed with a smile. "Not if you're loud."

A zipping gesture toward her lips and a quick conference later, and they had a plan. Harry summoned wallets and coin purses, as they walked down the alleyway between seats, while she stuffed them from where he passed them under his arm, with hers, into her coat. A quick round between them to the restroom – something both needed – and back to their seats and they had a dozen new wallets to empty. The first set they did so in the privacy of a loo. Harry also took a trash sack, to put all the wallets in later. "I can't use credit cards, and don't want to make them go through too much. We'll drop this off somewhere in Calais station."

"Yes, my little Black Knight," his companion chirped, making them both laugh. Quietly, unseen, unseeable to most, Sergei smiled himself. Who knew Harry would finally find someone worth opening up to, in such a place? Even he didn't know all the boy's story, and it was fascinating and frightening. Did his Elena have such problems? Despite feeling a bit cruel, he hoped Harry was the only one that carried his burdens. No child should feel so alienated, just by being.

Harry asked how much rail fairs ran across the continent, but the girl had no idea. Shrugging, he figured it would be easier to just think of the Channel trip like a ruler, and ask Sergei. "How far is she?"

Sitting beside the strange young boy, a lost little French girl discovered that there were still fairytales in the world, and they found you in the strangest places. As he carried on a conversation with no one quietly, she began to wonder if she too were going mad, but pushed such things away. She was going home. After risking and almost losing so much over childish anger and upset, she was going home... it wasn't the time to question her good fortune.

Going still, Sergei thought as he could, a ghost's odd senses being things he couldn't hope to explain. He felt the tether, growing tight and uncomfortable, of his body and site of death back in London. It felt like a great, tight, hooked rubber band had been strung through his chest.

Opposite, he felt Elena. Again, the feeling was intense, but rather than barbed, this was made of warmth, tempered with worry. Still, it was so stretched, so feeble. And he could tell it was only growing more so, but it was still. Moving as they had, he could gain a better idea of where she was.

And, with a wrench of sorrow, he knew he'd never make it there before his death-chain reeled him back to cursed British soil. Coming out of his contemplation, he sighed. "Far to the east. Much too far..."

Sighing as well, Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Alright, well. I can do this again as I go. We'll split this, and – well, you'll be able to get home right? With that much?"

The girl nodded, smiling faintly. "And then some. You can have some of it-"

Harry shrugged. "I can get more. Take that. I don't have any idea where I'm going, just a direction. So I'll get more as I go."

Sergei did not tell the young man about his suspicions, that he would not be long for this trip. How did he plan to find his Elena, without a guide? He had to try, though – had to. No choice. No choice.

–

Soon the train pulled into its next stop, at Gare de Calais-Fréthun, on the French coast of the Channel. A slight delay as passengers boarded and disembarked let them coordinate, and by the time the train began again, they were still in place, tickets now set for Paris.

Anne, as it turned out his companion's name was, told him that this was the 'wanderer's route', if he intended to head to points in or around Russia which he was tentatively planning on based on Sergei's information. "Most routes go through Paris, or Brussels. This way will hop from Calais, to Paris, to Berlin, then Moscow. I figure that's central enough, but either way, most lines after Berlin can be more specific."

Thinking of Sergei and Russia, Harry turned to the dead man, noting how... washed out he appeared. He had become quiet on the trip abroad, only speaking when absolutely needed. Harry was beginning to wonder if ghosts could get... well, sick. Had he been alive, that would have been his first guess. Shrugging it off for the moment, he turned to other concerns.

They had a little over another hour before arriving in Paris, so he wanted to nap some, now that Anne was no longer a danger to him. Honestly, she never really was... had he just let her take what money he had, then all he'd pocketed since would be his alone, and it wasn't a small sum. The wallets they'd pilfered were safely tucked away behind a trash bin at the courtesy counter back in Calais as well. No need to carry evidence around. Still, it warmed him a bit. He could honestly call Anne a friend, and those... he had very few of. None, if he were to be honest.

She was ahead of him in planning, sleeping soundly as one could with their head leaned against a train window. Being smaller, Harry had no problems getting comfortable by leaning his chair back.

The next thing he was aware of, blearily, was the call in French and English that they were nearing the Gare du Nord, in Paris. Nudging his travel companion, Harry pulled open his backpack and downed some of the bottled water he'd kept aside. A quick tour outside the station would be a good thing, he thought. No telling what kind of food situation he'd find from train to train, or the time to take advantage. Thank you, Sergei.

Anne came awake with a flailing start, scaring him backwards and nearly into the isle till she calmed. "Sorry, sorry... bad dream."

"I'd say so." Offering his water, Harry shrugged. "Usually helps me."

Grinning sheepishly, she took it gratefully. "Me too. Thanks, little Knight."

"Hate that nickname."

Anne laughed, "Well, you're certainly not pleasant enough to be a Shining Prince. So a Black Knight you will be."

Wrinkling his nose, Harry was subjected to another ruffling of his hair. His frown faded. Slightly. "So, where do you go, from here?"

Brow furrowed in thought, Anne tucked a stray hair behind an ear. "Rennes, then home to Baulon." Seeing Harry's blank look she grinned. "West of Paris by about four hours. Opposite direction from where you're going."

Harry's face fell slightly, but he recouped and hid it quickly. "Alright then. I suppose this is goodbye."

Shaking her head, Anne pulled him into a hug, ignoring his suddenly tense posture. "You helped me so much. I don't think I could have gotten here safe, without you." Ruffling his hair again, she grinned, "You're a good person. Just prickly."

Huffing and poking her about the sides, Harry stalled when she pushed a small piece of paper into his hands. "What-"

"Home. Mine. If you can, call ahead. But," shrugging a little, she continued, looking away for a moment. "Father wouldn't... turn you away. If you need somewhere... you know. After."

Harry looked at the scrap of paper, no larger than a business card, with eyes that could not really comprehend what they beheld. "You'd... let me into your home? Willingly?"

Anne shook her head, as if faced with a troubling puzzle. "Yes, you silly boy. This," turning the paper over, she pointed to a long phone number, easily ten digits. "Is the long, international version. See the bracket?" Harry nodded. "From inside France. Can you speak French?"

His lips quirking up, Harry pulled out the tiny pouch he'd hidden in his pocket. From it, he pulled one of a few polished aquarium rocks, and a hollowed out ear plug. Concentrating, he gripped them in his hand and murmured, "Vertere loquor."

Pushing the earplug into place, he settled the tiny stone below his tongue. Then, in a passable continental drawl, "So, how would I do, do you think?"

Clapping, Anne threw her arms around him and laughed again. "Such neat tricks! Too bad you cannot teach me," she said in her home tongue, with a rich Bretagne accent.

Chuckling, Harry declined to mention he had no idea it would even work, before trying it. Taking off his glasses, he did the same spell, feeling the slight drain of it on his small reserve of stamina. He hoped the charm would last till he was on his way again.

They parted ways at Gare du Nord – North Station – in Paris, as they made separate paths to different trains. Anne was on her way to Rennes shortly after, with cash to spare she assured him, while he figured the general route toward Berlin would work for now. Supposedly, the closer Sergei was to Elena, the better he could guide him. That seemed counter to the specter's inclination, as the ghost was growing wan and dim the further from Britain they traveled. Harry made a point to speak with the ghost once they were ensconced on a train.

As it turned out, service from North Station to Berlin via the TGV was out that day, but the attendant suggested he head to East Station, to inquire with the Deutsche Bahn owned City Night Line. Confused and a bit intrigued, Harry asked directions and was pleasantly surprised that East Station - Gare de l'Est – was less than half an hour away. Harry was quickly forgetting his wariness to travel, when it was clear he could use his little cheats to circumvent the most rocky issues, like reading and speaking the language.

Outside, he stretched and peered about, noting the time. "Only eleven? Not bad. Sergei?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"What's wrong?"

The two, if only one were visible, walked toward the station by following the markers provided. It was a few minutes before his dead companion spoke, however. "I weaken, so far from the place where I died. I had not thought it so... painful."

"That's... not good. How much farther will we need to go?" Harry's question caused the specter to stop, and he could discern the vague shaking of the dead man's head. "What?"

"Much farther. Perhaps... too far."

Harry didn't like the sound of that, and frowned as they completed their trip to East Station. City Night Line was an overnight train, slower than the TGV they'd taken to Paris. Reading over the German brochure, Harry winced. "Almost an eleven hour trip. Sergei..."

"Yes?"

Lips thinning, Harry shook his head. "Nothing. Lets get a ticket."

Rather than taking a single fare, Harry opted to pick up a InterRail pass, figuring it would help to just have that on hand for later station transfers. The brochure he'd picked up showed that the railways covered by Deutsche Bahn ran all over the portion of Europe he wanted, from France to the other side of Germany. Beyond that, it would be a simple matter to take another train whichever direction Sergei indicated, till they found Elena.

Besides, he may want to visit Anne in Baulon later.

The railway was more accommodating than Eurostar, which had required him bring an adult. Perhaps it was also his cunning coming to the fore, as he snatched an unattended travel bag as he went, checking it for passport. Finding one, he purchased a ticket for his guardian, "Wilhem Trovst", and himself for the same double sleeper unit.

He just hoped Wilhem wasn't actually going to Berlin. That would not be a conversation he looked forward to.

The train was scheduled to leave in nine hours, but rather than idle about the station, Harry chose to look around Paris itself. Having never been to a large city, he was a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of people, places, and things available. It was a rather beautiful city, outside of the metro zones as well.

And, he found, it had rather pretty witches as well.

–