The Painting and the Puppets
A/N: Still a fanfiction, still got no legal protection to do what I do. I apologize for the length of this chapter; someday I shall publish chapters that are short. In the meantime, bear with my garrulousness, enjoy, review if you feel so inclined and be sure to recommend it to others if you like it!
The next morning, some time after Calliope had woken up, she knocked lightly on Mark's door. "Are you awake? Breakfast should be ready."
"Um – give me a minute."
As Calliope waited, a stern voice from higher up in the gallery (one of the family paintings) sharply asked, "Young Lady, what do you think you are doing, inviting a Muggle into Hollywyck?" Several other paintings voiced their agreements.
Calliope glared up at them. "Hush, all of you, he's my guest. Be quiet."
The door opened. Mark, now dressed, smiled at her. "Good morning! Were you talking to someone?"
"Not really. Did you sleep well?"
He kept smiling, but with less enthusiasm. "I'm fine. Really. But not really hungry just yet."
"Hm. Wait, I have an idea." She brightened. "I'd like to show you something."
"What about Linus?" he asked automatically.
"He's already downstairs. Come on." She led him to the double-doors at the very end of the hallway.
"Uh, I'm having flashbacks, back to the last time I opened a door without permission…" Mark said, trying to hide his interest.
"But you do have permission. And I want you to see this." She opened the door. "This is the Master Bedroom. Really, Linus should have it, but he doesn't feel it's his…"
"Wow." Mark looked around. A wide window facing north showed the grounds, and the forest beyond. A fireplace and bookshelf (empty now, save for a few pictures) stood to one side. But what was most interesting were the large bronze-colored curtain that hung above the fireplace.
"Is that –" he pointed it out to his guide, "Is that my last duchess, painted on the wall – looking as if she were alive?"
"Close." Calliope went to the curtain, and tugged on the rope, just a little. "Hi," she said. "Are you all awake?"
"We will be in a minute," said a voice from – behind the curtains, it seemed like.
"What's going on? A hidden television set?" Mark asked.
Calliope answered by pulling down the one rope, and parting the curtains. A baby's scream came from the painting. When the curtain was fully opened Calliope gestured and said, "Meet the Ollivander children."
She laughed to see her friend's expression as he stared at the painting. There were three figures, who were all moving and speaking: a boy of about five, who was covering his eyes, a teenaged girl in a cream-colored blouse, and the baby she was cradling, a pink-robed little bundle of whimpers, who didn't like being woken up.
The teenager was alternately shushing the baby and saying to Mark, "So sorry about that, but you know it's just been so long since the curtains were parted, and it's so bright now…"
In the background was a shelf of books, partially covered by a dark curtain, and a small (still) painting in which the shapes of a violin, a scallop shell with a straw in it, and a human skull were vaguely discernable. Mark recognized the painting and bookshelf from a corner of the library. A green couch from another part of the library was in the foreground, but only the boy was on it now, sitting up and trying to look decent. The girl was pacing back and forth behind the couch, babe in her arms.
Mark shook his head a little, delighted. "Who are you?" he asked.
"We're the – ah – the Ollivander children. Weren't you listening?" Answered the teenaged girl.
"Ah, but are you who I think you are?"
"This here is Calliope, or the Shrimp, as we call her." (A kiss was here administered to the baby.)
"An' I'm Linus!" the boy declared. He smiled widely and waved at Mark (he didn't wear glasses).
"No way. You're Linus? Tell me, what are your hobbies?"
"I like, I like dinosaurs an' I like climbing trees. The graveyard out front is really fun to play in." He fidgeted and scratched the back of his head. "When I grow up, I wanna dig up dinosaur bones and test 'em out in potions."
"Mm! Muggle paleontologists aren't going to like that," Mark warned.
"I'm onna find so many there'll be enough for pale-e-o- pailyentologists. That or I'm, or I'm gonna be a Healer maybe." He sat up and turned around on the couch to ask his sister, "Is she quiet? Can I hold her?"
"Okay, Little Dude, but mind her head."
"I will!"
Mark asked, carefully, "Do you realize it's been years since you were originally painted?"
As the girl said, "Oh, sure – why, hello, Calliope!" she waved to the other person outside the painting. "Linus, say hello…"
"Hi..."
"You were cute as a baby," Mark teased Calliope. "The pink works on you."
"Heh, it doesn't anymore…"
"You should've seen her," said the girl in the painting, "Mum had picked out this white lacey poof of a dress with a matching headband and everything, for Shrimp here to be painted up in, and then Linus went and spilled blueberry juice all over it… so she got put in this cute widdle onsie wit a matching bonnet! Who's a fashion pwate?"
"Please, Benedicte, no baby talk," Calliope said gravely.
Mark looked from her to the painting. "Was it weird growing up in the same house as a painting like this? Do you in the painting age at all?"
"Don't get too philosophical with them," Calliope warned him in an undertone. "When he was fifteen, Linus spent a week quizzing the portrait of Socrates Ollivander to see if he was self-aware. The painting had to be removed to the attic."
"No, we don't age," the girl called Benedicte answered. "And we don't mind. Most of the time we just sleep."
Little Linus sat up on the couch, saying, "Yeah, my grown-up self says that I'm a s—a s…"
"Sus," his sister in the painting prompted.
"Suspended animation, yeah. I'm him, only I'm like in a little bubble."
"A bubble of time and thought, Little Dude."
"Yeah. 'S kind of fun."
"Well!" Calliope outside-of-the-painting said. "It's always a pleasure to talk to Benedicte, and Linus, and little Calliope, but Mark and I really must go downstairs for breakfast." She touched his hand briefly, and for a second Mark couldn't concentrate on anything else. "Oh! Oh, um, yes. It was very nice meeting you."
"Nice meeting you too."
"Bye-bye!"
Little Calliope gurgled a bit.
Calliope stepped forward and closed the curtain, then turned back to Mark. "Now… breakfast?"
"Oh, yes! So, ah, was it ever weird living with that painting? It's almost like the Picture of Dorian Gray, except –" he faltered, "except completely opposite to it."
She closed the door behind them quietly. "Well, it's not so weird for me, because I don't remember being painted. It's weirder for Linus, because he remembers a little bit of sitting for the portrait, and who he was then. I think maybe even that painting gave him his first fascination with Oneironomy and Psychomagery."
"Ah. Cool. And what about having – your sister there?"
"Well," she said slowly, "that painting's hung in Mum and Papa's room as long as I can remember, so I've never had that much access to it. Dora once asked me if was like having a 'clone' of Benny around – a replica, she said. I didn't quite get it; it's not real, she can't change or grow at all. I'm older and more mature now than she was when that painting was finished, or when she died. It's weird. That painting is just a relic, a memory of a time that won't return."
"The legendary time when Linus was called 'Little Dude,'" Mark said gravely.
Calliope laughed, but was silent until right before they entered the dining room. She asked, "Are you sure you're doing all right after that attack?"
"I – well, I had some nightmares last night," he admitted, "but I feel better now. I think the Scottish air is good for me."
"I'm serious. Are you sure that you're all right?"
"I'm fine. Seriously. Are you all right?" he demanded.
"I'm doing fine," she said. "I'm more… I'm much more shocked that Hollywyck was attacked, really, than the fact that I fought Dementors. I mean, it's my home. And I really wonder who must have sent them. They've been renegade over the countryside, but for three to show up at this precise house when you and I and Linus were all here…"
"You can talk about this with me, you know," came Linus' voice, a bit muffled, through the door. Mark caught her eye. "After you," he said, opening the door.
They stepped through to see Linus hidden behind a copy of The Daily Prophet. On the table were several covered silver trays, which Calliope opened to reveal…
"Chocolate chip pancakes?"
"With raspberry syrup," Linus announced from behind his paper. "And sliced apples, strawberries and shredded croissants with chocolate fondue. With hot chocolate to drink, if you don't feel like Irish tea. I think this is Scurry's way of making sure that we have no lingering effects of last night's attack."
"How… sweet."
"In more ways than one." Mark picked up a plate and started serving himself breakfast. Calliope followed, asking her brother, "Linus, are you all right after last night?"
"I didn't sleep very well – I stayed up late researching what protections I could put on this house – but Scurry made me go to bed before I could implement any of them."
"Just as well, probably," Mark sat down with his plate.
"No, not just as well," Linus said, folding over The Daily Prophet. "Calliope's right. The Dementors did not arrive here by accident. … Callie, what are you glaring at?"
"The Daily Prophet," she said. "That didn't get here by accident either."
"I have a subscription."
"If an owl could find you…"
"Look, it's a little late to worry about 'can a Dementor find me if an owl can.' Obviously both can find me. I wanted to know today's news. Today I swear I'll put the protections on the house in motion and that means this will be the last owl we get for a while. Happy now?"
Calliope fiercely cut apart her chocolate chip pancake. "Well enough."
"Any news about us in there?" Mark asked.
"Only a bit on the front page – saying where you can find a further story on our whereabouts. Not that there's anything new to say…"
"I should hope not," Calliope said darkly.
"It says that searches for us are… taking a backseat to hunts for convicted Death Eaters – that's good – though it indicates that Umbridge herself has a particular grudge against us."
"It says that?" Mark asked.
"Not in as many words. But it does mention that an Obliviator – that must be Amy – is 'staging her own investigation' – they don't frame it in very polite terms… But I'm glad of it anyway."
"Can I borrow that when you're done?" Calliope asked.
"Sure."
"Can I borrow it after you?" Mark inquired.
"Of course."
"So…" Mark took a quick bite of pancake, chewed, and swallowed, "who has control over Dementors now? You said they're renegade but…"
"Most of them answer now to You-Know-Who," Linus answered. "Which really makes me worry if one of them is looking for us…"
"They could have been after me," Calliope said, not looking up from her plate.
"I really think they were after me or Mark. Probably Mark – especially considering he almost received the Kiss. I expect Presumption is an atrocity to them, only slightly above Muggle-wizard marriages." He paused, turning a page. "But I deduced something. Whoever sent them had no idea that you're with us, Callie."
"Really?"
"Yes. I think they were sent to capture me, and to destroy Mark – sorry if I sound cold – but they only thought that it would be the two of us. A Muggle, and a wizard, who could be easily overpowered by three Dementors. But they didn't count on a witch being there, who could cast a Patronus of her own – incorporeal as it is. The point is, they don't know you're here."
"Could Umbridge have sent them?" Mark twisted his embroidered napkin in his hands.
"The Ministry doesn't control Dementors any more…" Calliope tapped her fork on her plate.
"Yeah, but I did hear something about that. According to E.C. in my department, it turns out that while Dementors still were under Ministry control, Umbridge was the one who sent two to administer the Kiss to Harry Potter."
"Why on earth would she do that?"
"He'd said that You-Know-Who was back. The Ministry wasn't happy with it. You weren't in England, so you didn't realize how tense it was between Harry Potter and the Ministry."
"Did someone repel them for him?"
"No, he could repel them on his own. Apparently he can cast a corporeal Patronus."
Calliope's eyes widened. "What? But how old is he? He can't be more than fifteen now!"
"I think he's sixteen, actually."
Calliope thought. "So she has no problem with summoning Dementors to get rid of pests…"
Linus paused, blinking. "Wait, how did we get onto this tack again?"
"I asked if Umbridge could have sent the Dementors," Mark said.
"Oh! Yes. Sorry. My mind's been wandering. I didn't sleep well."
"Maybe you should try and rest today," Calliope suggested.
"No, today we have a lot to do. We have to prepare your defense," he said, indicating Mark. "We have to put up the enchantments on the house. We have to…"
"Could Umbridge have sent the Dementors?" Mark said calmly. "I want to have that answered before we do anything else."
"No. Not, not unless she has ties with Death Eaters. And she's… no. I don't think she does."
"Are you sure? She hates Muggles, and you've said that Death Eaters hate—"
"Logical fallacy," Linus insisted, not looking up from his plate, resting his head on his hands. "Because X possesses Y quality, and Z possesses Y quality, that does not mean X is Z."
"She's been in the Ministry for many years now," Calliope explained to Mark. "From what I know (just what Dora told me about when Umbridge was a teacher at Hogwarts,) her loyalty to it is absolute."
"Yes," Linus assented. "Yes. And you can't be loyal to both Death Eaters and the Ministry."
"I wouldn't say that, Linus… look at Lucius Malfoy, for example."
"Oh. Yes. Him."
"But, she's not clever enough to be a double agent. Not from what I've heard."
"You're probably right." Linus said to Calliope. He handed her The Daily Prophet. She took it and scanned the front page. "Tell you what, Mark. I'll give you arts and entertainment, and I'll read the front pages. When we're done, we'll switch."
"Sounds good to me!" Mark took the A&E pages gladly and unfolded them at once. He scanned over the headlines of the front page. Radio broadcast announcements, theater reviews, art galleries… a small box towards the bottom of the page caught his eye. It was red and had little hands gesturing towards it fiercely – catching people's eyes was likely the intended effect.
It read, in small, plain type, "Public Announcement from the Ministry of Magic: Topic of the Week: Dementors." Below, in more Gothic lettering, "DID YOU KNOW THAT:" what followed was a list of facts about Dementors, some very interesting, some very chilling.
Mark gave a little start. He'd read, "Dementors are more attracted to humans who are healthy and in high spirits. It has been observed that they favor the emotions or even souls of people who are in love over those of people who are unattached."
He swallowed, his cheeks reddening, and swiftly turned the page before anyone else saw it.
He was greeted by a two-page splash of celebrity wizards in elegant dress robes, evidently coverage of some gala or another. On the paper, hands waved, smiled dazzled, robes flared, and, occasionally, camera flashes blinded the people on the paper.
"Does every photograph in your world move?" he asked the two wizards.
"They have to be developed in a particular potion – which is really a very simple memory potion." Linus explained, "But it's a very ancient practice. The ancient Egyptian wizards developed the technology first. By now the magic's faded, but when they where first done, the catacombs of their kings' tombs had many pictures of slaves in addition to pictures of the king, so the king's portrait would have someone to talk to."
"Mark met the portrait upstairs, of you and me when we were kids," Calliope explained.
"Oh! Very nice. I hope you liked it."
"I did." Mark sipped the last of the breakfast tea and put his cup down. "But I have a confession to make. Linus, I took some photographs from your flat back in London."
"Why?" He sat up at once, glaring.
"Because I thought they were – well, nice, pretty, interesting. I wanted to study them more later. And they seemed like pictures that meant a lot to you." He started to stand up. "I'd be happy to return them to you right now if you want."
"What photos were they?"
"Just a picture of Calliope, because I've never seen a magical picture before… You and Calliope when you were younger – there was writing on it, something about you –" he nodded to her –"being sorted…"
"Into Ravenclaw?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"I remember that one…"
"And another photograph of the three of you on a big chair of some kind."
"The three of us?" Linus was a bit puzzled.
"Shall I go upstairs and get them?"
"You don't have to go get them right now, but if you really want to…"
"I'd like to. I shouldn't have taken them without asking anyway." He left the table, but paused in the doorway. "By the way, something I've been meaning to ask before I forget: Who's Harry Potter?"
There was a pause.
"Why are you both looking at me like that?"
"I'm sorry," Calliope tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "It's just – it's just – it's like I've just asked you, who's… who's…"
"Batman?"
"No, bigger than that. Bigger than that Camelot president…"
"Bigger than JFK?"
"Look, I'll explain when you get back, okay?" And Mark, nodding, left.
At once Scurry was at Calliope's side. She looked away from the door to the house-elf. "Is everything all right, Miss?"
"Yes, everything's fine, Scurry. Thank you."
"Miss –" Calliope bent down to hear Scurry better, "We is not sure if we should be telling you this, but we think that Master Linus did not sleep well last night."
"I know he stayed up late…"
"No, Miss, I mean, did not sleep. From as far as we could tell, he had maybe a nap or two, but those were short. Miss, we'd like you to help us in keeping an eye on him." She drew back. "Is we being too much of a trouble, Miss?"
"Oh, no, Scurry, not at all. Thank you for telling me that."
Scurry gently started to clear away the breakfast set with her magic. As his plate was levitated away from him, Linus remarked, "You know, this is the first time it's been just you and I since… er, since we got here."
"I know. You've been looking much more stressed since last Christmas."
"My job's become a lot more stressful lately," he said. "Incidences against Muggles and 'blood traitors' increase all the time. And people in Research and Treatment, like my friend Amy, keep coming across worse and worse cases. At least we've got a really good leader – T.R. He's the head of my division."
"You've written about him once or twice."
"Yeah. I almost wish I could send him an owl to clear my own name… but it's probably more important to worry about clearing Mark's name as soon as possible."
She nodded. "You're a hard worker, you're smart, I'm sure the reputation you've got will help you out. Mark's –"
"Got nothing. I know." Abruptly, he asked, "Did you ever write about him? I don't remember reading his name specifically."
"Of course I wrote about him, Linus, just not as much as some of my other friends."
"Why not?"
"I didn't think you'd be interested in hearing about him."
"During the trial, he described taking you to animated movies, and I realized you had written about him."
"Yes. I have. Just not as much and not by name."
"Okay." Again, an abrupt shift. "By the way – Hector and Tess and I decided to close the shop."
"I know." Calliope stared across the room at a still life on the wall opposite. "I visited it in Diagon Alley."
"Oh. I wanted to wait until we heard from you, but Tess kept saying we couldn't wait…"
"I know. I know. And it's… I can see why you did it. I'm okay with it."
Linus was quiet for a minute. "I'm sorry that – I'm sorry that you had to be dragged out of your life in Boston."
She shrugged. "This was more important."
"And your friends…"
"They'll be fine, I'm sure. They don't have a war over there. I was… I was almost getting sick of living in America while this war was going on here."
"And here I was glad to have you somewhere safe." Linus gave an ironic smile.
Calliope glanced at him. "It's not – quite – that safe. There've been demonstrations across the country on a monthly or so basis – a Pureblood Supremacy movement that's taking strength from the Death Eaters."
"It's safer than here. And… well, I worry about you, you know."
"I know. But I'm staying here. I'm not going back. Now that I've seen what you and Dora are doing – now that I've seen what's happened to Mark – I'm going to stay and fight."
Linus gave a sigh. "I know."
"It's what Mum would have done. What Mum did."
"I know—wait, what?"
"I'll explain later," Calliope said quickly. There was a pause, then Linus asked, "So you'll stay here even if Mark goes back to America?"
"I – " Calliope faltered. "I hadn't thought that far. But America is definitely safer for him than England. Maybe not one hundred percent safe, but far safer. And there he could have Andrew and other wizards looking out for him, not distracted by Death Eaters."
"If America isn't safe enough," Linus said casually, "We could always send him to Canada."
"Linus."
"Just a suggestion.." Linus was thinking. He was in two minds: one part wanted to ask, 'Is there anything – anything other than friendship – between you and Mark?' another part chided him, 'Who believes that? Umbridge? A journalist? No one worth believing. It's impossible. But…' Modesty checked his tongue, but curiosity piqued him. He was about to say, "So, you and Mark seem to be…" when footsteps sounded outside the door. Mark reentered the dining room, holding the photographs, and looking puzzled.
"I found the pictures," he said in a strangely careful voice. He walked over to Calliope, holding one out. "Is this normal?"
"Is what – " She took the photo, trailing off.
"What is it?" Linus asked.
"I – I've never seen this before. And no, this is definitely not normal."
"Can I see, please?"
"Here." As Calliope leaned over, handing the picture to her brother, Mark went on, "But when I first saw it the day before it looked normal." He paused. "For wizards."
Calliope frowned "Some potion spill, maybe? But I don't see a watermark?"
"Maybe the Dementors did it?" Mark suggested.
"I've never heard of Dementors doing this. But I have heard of them feeding off of portraits when there's no raw human emotions to be had. What about the other pictures?"
"Yes—" Mark had them in his hand and showed them to her. "but they're normal. See for yourself."
"You're right. Linus, what do you think?"
A moment to describe the picture. It was mostly the same as when Mark had first studied it: a teenage girl, a toddler, and a baby on an overstuffed armchair, sometime in the 70's. The image shifted slightly in a recreation of the photographer's hand. So far, normal. Only one thing is out of joint: Benedicte Ollivander does not move. Her image was slightly blurred (wizard photographs have a longer exposure) and completely inert. Her brother and sister squirm, confined by her clasped hands (but they are just as happy as they have been for the twenty years since the photo was developed).
Linus looked at the photo for a little while before asking, "This was on my mantelpiece?"
"Yes."
He held the photograph against the light. "Could the developing potion have been faulty?"
"Don't ask me, I was just a baby when it was taken. If Dad developed it, you know he was good with those potions…"
"Wait a minute – you guys still develop pictures?" Mark looked from one to the other. "Like, for everyday?"
"Yeah, of course," Calliope said.
Mark, looking thoughtful, said, "Okay…"
"The basic principle to understand here is that this memory," Linus said in an official, diagnosing voice, "has been suppressed."
"What, it was beaten as a child?" Mark asked (Calliope shushed him).
"Which in layman's terms," He ignored him, "Means the memory is still there, but inaccessible. Frozen. The bit of movement and spirit from its subjects has now been reduced to an inert, halted image. As you can see. But that by itself isn't strange; a well-placed Memory Charm can render a page of writing utterly unintelligible, strip it of meaning. It can also freeze a moving photograph. But this has been applied here only partially – now that's weird."
"Yeah," Calliope said, leaning over her brother's shoulder. "Only on Benedicte."
Linus turned around to look at her. "Sorry, who?"
The thick late morning light from the window illuminated the mangled photograph in his hand. Calliope looked at him with a startled expression. Mark was a little ways apart from them, arms folded, glanced from one to the other.
Calliope pushed her hair out of her face and said, "What do you mean?'"
Linus flicked his hands in an uncomprehending gesture. "I don't know who you're talking about."
"I mean Benny."
"I still don't see…"
"Oh, come on, check the back of the photograph!" She half-instinctually reached for it; Linus pulled away from her and read aloud, "Benedicte, Linus, Calliope, July 1972." He looked back at the other side and said, "Okay, so who was she, a friend of the family?"
Calliope stared at him, agape. "Are you kidding?"
There was a gaping, openmouthed pause, and Linus started, "Who –"
"She was our sister."
Linus was silent.
"She was exactly eleven years and eleven months older than you. A Gryffindor. My godmother."
Linus' brow furrowed.
"She had short black hair! She disappeared when she was nineteen and they never found her—"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Come on," Mark said, "even I know about—"
"Shut up." Linus snapped. Then, calmly, "I'm the oldest in our family, Callie."
"Then who is my godmother?"
He frowned. "Um… wasn't that Aunt Dahlia?"
"Close! But no! She was Benny's godmother!"
"Calliope, calm down, okay?"
"Why are you acting like this?"
"I remember no such person."
"That's her picture right there!"
"It's blurry – it could be anyone."
"Are you accusing me of lying?"
"No, I know you aren't lying – mistaken, yes…"
"There's a –"
"Shut up, Mark."
"Don't talk to him like that!"
"Portrait!" Mark exclaimed. "Portrait! Upstairs! You're there –" he pointed at Linus, then Calliope, "And so are you, and a teenaged girl! If that's not Benny…" he didn't finish. Linus was glaring at him.
"Mark's right," Calliope said. "Let's visit the portrait upstairs."
"Who else would that be?"
"Well, can't be a 'Benjamin,' certainly…"
"Not Benjamin, Benedicte!"
Linus glanced at the picture, frowning. "Well – I kind of assumed it was Mum. Back when she had long hair, and it's blurry…"
"Don't be ridiculous," Calliope said sharply.
"Ridiculous? I was just stating the possibility!" He gave an aggravated sigh. "Look. Listen. Scurry would know. I'll call her in and ask her about it."
"All right, let's do that."
Linus gave a call and the house-elf appeared with a crack. "Yes, Master Linus?"
"Scurry, Calliope and I have a question. Did Mum – Philomel Ollivander – ever have any children other than Calliope and myself?"
Scurry opened her mouth, then paused. Mark and Calliope glanced at each other. Scurry thought about it a minute. "We wants to say yes, but then we can't remember any other children. It was only just Linus and little Calliope. And sometimes Tess and little Hector. But… why do we feel like there was someone else? Maybe a nanny? But…" she faltered. "Sir, we aren't quite certain…"
"Don't worry about it, Scurry," Calliope urged, "just a yes or no."
"We – we have to say no." The house-elf nodded.
Linus turned to his sister. "Do you need more proof?"
Calliope scowled at the floor. Linus dismissed Scurry, "Thank you, that will be all." She curtsied, and with another crack, was gone. Linus looked to Calliope. "What more do you need?"
"The portrait. Come on, we're going."
"Give me a break!" Linus exclaimed (though he followed her and Mark followed him.) "Are you now doubting Scurry's word? Why, is she insane all of a sudden? And no, wait, stop."
Calliope stopped and glared at him. "What now?"
"Portraits are just paint and a little memory potion spread onto a canvas. They don't even have to be all of the same person…"
"And your point is?"
"Paintings are incredibly unreliable, that's all!"
"This is a family portrait, Linus. You remember sitting for it. It was done by Papa's friend Dewberry, you remember him? I never accused Scurry of lying or of being insane, but you have already accused Dewberry of faking our family portrait."
Linus frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. "All I'm saying is that Scurry is more reliable than a painting. That's all. Lead the way."
When they passed through the upstairs hall, Calliope stopped, pointed to a door, opened her mouth, and Linus cut her off. "Okay, stop, let me guess, that was Benny's room."
Calliope dropped her hand and glowered at him. "You don't need to be sneering."
Linus reached forward and tried the doorknob. "Oh, pity. It's locked. How convenient."
"I can still get in, there's a door in my bedroom, right next door."
"Guys!" Mark said as Linus was about to be even more sarcastic, "Let's just proceed to the Master Bedroom with minimal bickering." Calliope gave him a half-grateful look (the other half was disbelieving exasperation) and strode down the corridor – forcing the men to hurry to catch up.
They entered the Master Bedroom. Calliope pulled the rope in front of the curtain. "Here goes…" The curtains parted.
Mark jumped and exclaimed, "Where did she go?"
For now the painting only held the little boy in formal wear, sitting placidly on the couch.
"Oh, hello again!" the boy Linus-in-the-painting exclaimed.
"Mark, relax," Calliope put her hand on his shoulder – he was still a little spooked. "The people in a painting can travel to other pictures in the house."
"Yeah," the painted boy concurred. "The girls went off to the painting of a lake in the library, but I think they'll be back soon. Yeah."
Linus squinted at the plaque at the bottom of the frame. "Benedicte Clemence, Linus Fortitude, Calliope Blithe."
"Hi Linus!" squeaked the boy in the painting.
"Hey there, little guy," Linus said cordially.
"That's got to be so weird." Mark shook his head.
"I think as long as you're here you ought to expand your vocabulary," Calliope suggested wryly.
"Marvy?" Mark attempted.
"Far out!" chorused painted Linus. "Oh! They're coming back!"
The girl entered the frame, balancing a cooing baby on her hips. "Two visits in one day! Can you believe it, Shrimp?"
Real Linus smirked at his sister. "Shrimp…"
"I'm taller than you are," she said, straightening up. To Linus, she asked, "Do you recognize the other girl?"
"No."
To the girl in the painting she asked, "You are Benedicte Clemence Ollivander, are you not?"
The girl paused, then glanced down to the bottom of her frame. "Um – well, I'm their older sister. I really don't need more identification than that. I mean, this is a painting of two sisters and a brother, we don't need names…"
"Then what are their names?" Calliope asked, pointing.
"Oh, this is Linus, of course, and this is Calliope." She readjusted the baby's position, as if it was a sort of shield.
"But you don't remember who you yourself are?"
"No – yes, that's right – " the girl put her free hand on her forehead, distressed, "Oh, this is so upsetting – I'm so sorry, could you close the curtain? I don't – this is awful…"
"We're sorry to have disturbed you," Calliope said sincerely, and she pulled the rope to block the painting from the world.
There was a pause.
"Well," Calliope said at last.
Linus sat down on the bed, then splayed himself out. "That was very interesting. The plaque said the third member of the painting was a Benedicte Clemence – no third name given."
"Linus, it had to be her middle name –"
"I'm not finished. The girl in the painting said she was our older sister – or, more specifically, the older sister of the children in the painting."
"I.e., us." She said bluntly.
"But could not name herself."
Mark seated himself on the edge of the bed. "I wonder – if I may speak?"
"Sure, go ahead." Linus crossed his arms.
"Can a painting go insane? I mean, on its own? It seems to me that a self-aware entity with something of a cloned or copied identity, sitting in the same locked area for years, decades at a time, sometimes in total darkness, no stimulation – seems to me a perfect recipe for crazytown."
"True. But for your information, paintings and portraits aren't self-aware as we understand it. There's a famous book dictated by a portrait on that very subject." Linus tapped his foot in an annoyed way. But that said, a lot of paintings do go insane – it could be related to the state of mind of the sitter, or the painter, or the quality of potions used, or maybe where the painting had to hang – but unless the 'real' Benedicte went insane, this has very little reason to do so."
"So are you saying you believe me?" Calliope said hopefully.
Linus screwed up his face. "Ugh. It doesn't match up, and I'm still not believing you. Scurry says no, my own memory says no – the girl could be a long-established immigrant from another painting. Let me think this through – a great ancestor of ours, all alone and half-mad from years in the attic, abandons her own frame and comes to a painting of two babies who need a chaperone. She convinces herself that she's their big sister and that she belongs. Kind of sad, but it makes sense."
"Doesn't explain the plaque," Mark pointed out.
"Oh, that's – what did it say? Benedictine clement? That's Latin, right, a blessing of mercy? Could be the name of the painting."
"It's not very accurate Latin…"
Calliope insisted, "No, no, Papa named her because Mother was unconscious while giving birth. You know Papa loved the romantic names, he named her so because she was a blessing of mercy, both she and Mum lived when they might have died."
"Who told you this?"
"Papa!"
Linus took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, I'm so tired. Let me try another route. Mark."
"Yes?"
"You said that even you knew about Benedicte, the sister. When did you learn and from whom?"
"Calliope told me – it was January, I think? I was looking at a book of hers, and Calliope tells me whose name is on the flyleaf, and stuff like that. "
"I know what book you're talking about," Calliope said, pointing, "Give me a minute and I'll get it." She hurried out.
Linus' eyes were wide as he muttered to himself. "I don't know why I'm not recalling anything. Either her memory's been tampered with, or mine is, and I know exactly where I've been the last few days –"
"Found it! The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga, by Allison Bath!" Calliope re-entered, holding the book up.
"Ta-da!" Mark added.
"So, what's the evidence?"
"Here. The Ex Libris page. She owned this book and shared it with a – uh, Bartemius Crouch. It's in different handwritings, see…"
Linus' eyes widened. "Barty Crouch?"
"Yeah, they went to school together. Benny was a few years ahead of him," Calliope explained.
"Well, this certainly does push the 'related-to-us' idea…"
"Aside from the last name?"
"Wait," Calliope said, "Listen, there's one place you have to go…"
"I have an idea. Why don't you assemble all of your evidence in one place and then show it to me in a clear-cut and organized fashion?"
She paused. "No, I'd rather show you one last thing."
She led the two of them out of the room and opened the door to her bedroom, saying to Mark, "I haven't redecorated it in so long, so please ignore it." They passed through it, and then she opened the door in the wall to Benedicte's bedroom.
Mark and Linsu both looked around the room, wide-eyed and blinking at the sunlight streaming in past the vermilion bed curtains. Calliope walked around the room, pointing to or picking up various items.
"Gryffindor banner? She painted this herself. This doll was a gift from a friend of hers who took a summer traveling all over Asia, Huo Quinn, he used to visit us pretty regularly. Here's a picture of her in Dublin – and another one when she was in Morocco, and one in Egypt."
"All of the pictures are frozen," Mark observed.
"That is very eerie," Linus muttered.
"Here's the poster from a show she was in…"
"She was in Peter Pan?" Mark asked.
"– or she was a technician, at least, don't know if she acted in it – and these were some of her favorite books. Please have a seat on the floor."
They both obeyed, still looking all around. Calliope went to the chest at the foot of the bed and took out a cedar box from inside of it. She opened it and showed Linus the carved initials on the inside of the lid: "B.C.O., Benedicte Clemence Ollivander."
"Okay."
Then she turned the box upside down and unceremoniously dumped all the pieces onto the carpet. Linus looked at her, shocked, and Mark ventured, "Are you supposed to do that?"
"It doesn't matter." A large, dark blue cloth, along with several carved wooden puppets, painted in different colors, and several silk ribbons of different colors and sizes, and a little hourglass, plus a folded piece of paper, dropped from it. She picked it up, set the box aside, and pulled out the plum wand, holding it over the pieces. Mark and Linus leaned forward interestedly, not touching the carvings.
"What is this, a hand puppet movie theater?" Mark started to ask, when Calliope started, reading from the paper, "Once upon a time."
All the pieces suddenly sat upright, mostly little men, a diminutive centaur, and a little woman. The hourglass placed itself in the center. "… in the age of heroes, and the land of heroes – Greece."
The dark blue cloth spread itself across the floor, stretching itself out neatly as the puppets lined up on it, "There was a man, a Parselmouth, who made a deal with a serpent."
"What's a… what, a Parasol-mouth?" Mark asked.
"Someone who can talk to snakes," Linus replied at the same time that Calliope said "You can talk to umbrellas."
"Don't confuse him," the bespectacled man chided his sister.
"Oh, Linus, I'm only joking."
"No, seriously, what is it?" Mark looked from one to the other.
"Someone who can talk to snakes, like this guy is doing right now, see, he made a deal with a snake, there he is…" Calliope pointed to the cloth stage: a painted puppet of a man in black waved and gesticulated (clumsily) in conversation with a "serpent" made of wire and green silk. "'The serpent knew all the healing arts, and the man agreed to work together with the serpent to heal and make life easier…' Linus, does any of this seem familiar at all to you?"
Linus picked up one of the figurines, which trembled in his hand, as though it were made of metal and the cloth below was a powerful magnet. "Yes… it feels all very familiar, but I can't place it." He replaced the figurine. "Like a dream… please, keep going."
She resumed. "'But the man tricked the snake, binding her to the wood forever.'" She looked over her parchment at the puppets. "Guess the magic may have gone stale…"
"No, look!" Mark pointed. A white ribbon flew up in the air and struck the puppets of the man and the snake. As it did, the serpent puppet flew into the man's hand, and spiraled so it looked like it was twined around a wand.
"It's clumsy, but for a young girl, it's very impressive," Linus muttered.
"She wanted to be a toymaker when she grew up. 'And so,'" she continued, "'the man gained great powers of healing, but the serpent also got her revenge. She poisoned the wood of the wand, so that after a few years, the man grew sick and weak.'" The little man puppet wobbled around as the hourglass in the middle turned itself over several times (Mark commented, "Symbolic"). "'The man realized that he had to'…"
"Wait for it… let me guess." Linus interrupted. "He had to use the wand very rarely, so that it wouldn't sicken him?"
"Almost," she said. "Actually, what you're describing is what Asclepius does later in the story."
"Wait – Asclepius?" Mark repeated. "You mean the guy from Greek mythology?"
"It's not mythology, it's history. A lot of things are," Calliope told him.
"Get on with it," Linus said.
"All right… 'So the first healer passed the Rod on to his student after a few years, and the student, in turn, passed it on to another after a few years. In this way, the Rod kept being used, and no one would be sickened by it.'" The toy Rod was passed from puppet to puppet, stiffly, but regularly, as the hourglass tumbled on. Eventually, the wand passed to the one centaur puppet in the ensemble.
"And let me guess. Centaurs are real too."
"You're catching on," Linus answered Mark.
"'The Rod came to the centaur, Chiron. Now, centaurs, as everyone knows, have little regard for the rules of humans' – this is true, Mark – 'and so the centaur did not use the wand himself. He took on a human student – only one – and Chiron taught him well, and passed the Rod to him when his training was over. However, he did not give him the proper warnings about how the wand was to be used. But the human student had ideas. His name was Asclepius.'"
"You really pick up the Greek and Latin in this world, don't you?" Mark asked.
"Oh, sure. Just ask our cousin, Phthinophoron."
"Your cousin what?"
"'Asclepius was the first to see the Rod as a tool of profit, in addition to healing. His knowledge was so great that he was able to do without the Rod for most of his work, only calling upon its powers in the direst of cases. In this way, he practiced medicine for many, many years, and developed great fame.'"
A little puppet lifted a trumpet and provided a tiny fanfare for the little Asclepius. Then a puppet painted with a tiny skeleton was brought before him on a stretcher, along with a large gold coin. Behind him, a puppet of a girl stood behind Asclepius, and she tilted her head from one side to the other in apparent thought.
"And now it all turns into The Nightmare Before Christmas…"
"Mark, please. 'But one day, Asclepius was brought to a very strange case – the case of a man who was already dead. He was hesitant, but when enough gold was offered, he took on the case. His daughter Hygenia warned him against it, but he took on the case anyway. Then, on a dark and stormy night…'"
"Naturally."
"'He took the Rod and went to the burial ground to do the impossible – and raise the dead.'" She squinted. "There's a little note, 'Insert Ominous Music' here. 'But as he prepared the incantation, a bolt of lightning came down from the heavens…'" She paused until the white ribbon bolted upward and struck the figure of Asclepius holding the Rod, "'and killed Asclepius on the spot.'"
"Is that the end?" Linus asked. "It doesn't feel like the end."
"Because it's not the end. 'By some miracle, the Rod survived. Hygenia, although greatly frightened by her father's death, took the Rod up, and it chose her to be its next wielder. And so in secret, she, too, began to wield the Rod of Asclepius, and no one knows where it is today.' The End."
Calliope put the paper down. "Any questions, Linus?"
Linus picked up the little fallen figure of Asclepius. "It's… it is familiar. I have certainly seen this before. But… I can't remember who would have shown it to me."
"You showed it to me, when we were young. You had to have learned it from someone."
"But… But I don't." Linus shook his head. "This doesn't make any sense. You're suggesting that something like a long-distance Memory Charm was placed on me, causing me to forget a member of my own family? That's preposterous." He looked from one to the other, the dark circles under his eyes very clear. "I mean, if I could be made to forget my own family – and I couldn't – what else could be done to me?"
Taking off his spectacles, he covered his eyes with his hand. "Put them away," he said. "Please, they're making me feel dizzy."
Mark said carefully, "Remember when we first met, you said you could look into my head and inspect my memories individually, or something like that, if you really had to?"
"Yes?"
"Could you – do that to yourself?"
Linus' reply faltered like a malfunctioning radio. "If I wanted – to – I could try, I suppose - but that would be very dangerous, to try and study my own mind with no outside supervision. Do you have the slightest idea? I could get lost in there! Or come out a babbling wreck!"
"I'm just saying –"
"Well, you don't know a thing, so I suggest letting me work this—"
"Linus. Calm down," Calliope said sternly, as she finished trooping the small puppets back into their cedar box. "Mark didn't mean to upset you. But, brother," she reached out her hand, and patted Linus', trying to be comforting, "it's clear that something has happened to your memories. There's too much evidence to ignore. I'm not wrong, but you… you are."
Linus sat there, silent, for a minute, but when his sister asked "Linus?" he stood up and walked out, pausing at the door only to say, "I'm the psychomagical expert around here. Until I'm sure it's happened, maybe it hasn't."