Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine, and I am not just speaking about republicans. Harry Potter, JK Rowling, and the rest you recognize are NOT MINE. I am making no money off this, so don't sue me.

WARNING: This story is rated M. There is bad language in this chapter, and if you squint funny and look at it sideways, implied prostitution, as well as child abuse. If this offends thee "cut it off" and go read something else.

A bit about the author in case you're curious: This is the first chapter with a Beta – who only reviewed the first 8K words. I am dyslexic – a mild case – so I had always intended to have one. Infinity Limited was actually the pen name chosen by my Beta (allowing her to be Infinity, and me to be Ltd – she's a perceptive one, really!), but she was slow to get on the job. Hopefully, this chapter being much more thoroughly reviewed will be worth the wait. Oh, and the fact that it's a double chapter at well over 10K words… there wasn't a logical break in the flow, and I wanted to get this part of my plot bunny killed in time for Easter dinner. Just made it!

Cheers,

Ltd.

Jena watched as the water boiled furiously and then dropped the small handful of oats into the water. Her father, whom she had successfully avoided, had not gotten into her small stock of food, except to drink all the milk. She had a bit of oats each morning, and either a few almonds or a small handful of dried berries with a bite of cheese each night. It was meager, but the food was filling. She was grateful that the professor had sent her three extra-strength nutrient potions. Although she was supposed to take them with food on Sundays, or so his note had said, she had figured out what approximately twenty-one portions would be and had been taking a small sip each night. If she could keep her strength up, and her chores done, then her father wouldn't have any reason to make good on his earlier threats, or so she hoped, anyway.

Her days had settled into a routine of sorts. Already accustomed to rising at dawn, she would make her meager meal of watered oats and start her chores. She would do things in smaller steps that could be quickly abandoned if her father appeared. Although her father went out for hours and hours at a stretch, she didn't want to be in the middle of something that couldn't be readily abandoned if he happened into a room in which she was working. Watching the weather carefully, she tended to the few things that she could do outside when the weather was fair. She worked until her evening meal, which she took shortly after dark, and then studied in her nook until the fire in the kitchen died down for the night. She lit the fire in the kitchen every afternoon; although her father had been eating elsewhere and she needn't be ready to cook. She supposed him eating elsewhere meant he didn't want her to have any more food available to her than she had already. However, she kept the fire lit as she remembered only too clearly the cause of her injuries at the beginning of the school year. She had been lucky so far and had managed to stay of the man's path. She fervently hoped her luck would hold.

It was Monday, and Professor Savoy sat in his office, contemplating the Ancient Runes teacher's compendium of dark runes. Well, it had taken quite a bit of persuasion to borrow the tome, which was irritating. It had been his in his earlier lifetime, after all, as Professor Severus Snape's estate left the books on his various non-potions topics to their respective teachers at Hogwarts, if still living at the time of the demise of the Dark Lord. Bathsheba Babbling's reticence to give him the book was clearly exasperating. She had had the nerve to intimate that her reticence was based on an overwhelming sentimentality for his former incarnation. He had toyed with the idea of legilmizing her to see what on earth she was thinking. She had been abrupt, overly proper, and occasionally downright hostile as a colleague, although his own behavior in his years at Hogwarts didn't lend itself to forming warm collegial alliances. But then, he thought shuddering, for the woman to have the gall to tell him that if it hadn't been for the war, that "we had a certain soul-level understanding, but tragically the war separated us. All these years I knew it… and look, he left me these valuable books that he treasured so much."

If that hadn't been horrific enough, the woman had eyed him almost approvingly and said that such romantic liaisons were 'quite common' in schools such as these, and had smiled suggestively at him. The woman was 5'2", with short curly hair, of indeterminate age and quite rotund. Not that any of that mattered, particularly, but she was, well… quite frankly not his type, and not in the least bit appealing on a personal level. Had her suggestive comments been delivered with subtly, it would have been a performance of a lifetime. Only twenty years of being a spy had kept the irritation off his face, and out of his voice. He had played the clueless man to a fault and gotten the book for his troubles.

However, his troubles had not ended there. Jena's tattoo was unique. There was a rune in the center vaguely like the dark mark, a simple skull without the snake, but the skull had snake eyes. The skull was bordered by a Celtic rune for "ancestral property" or "inherited," and that rune was bordered by yet another rune, this one inverted. Inverting a rune usually gave it an opposite interpretation, but he had no idea what happened when you combined the runes and inverted some and not others. What appeared at first to be three separate runes was actually at least seven, with some runes repeated and inverted. That was a very complicated spell in itself. Then, to have it set upon a magical creature, for all witches and wizards were exactly that, by an act of magic? The rune was powerful; no doubt about it, but the nature of its power was eluding him. Well, what he needed was an expert, and perhaps he could use the woman's delusional infatuation against her.

The former spy began to plot.

Jena woke from an uneasy sleep and heard her father come in late; long after she had finished her herbology essay and gone to bed. Her shoulders were sore and tired. Tomorrow, she would use her first potion and salve to ease the recovering joints that were complaining about to much work and too little rest, and the hard padding of her nook. She relaxed as much as she could as she listened carefully of the sounds of her father going about his nightly routine to make sure that he did not come into the kitchen.

With just over a week of the Christmas break gone, she had her herbology, transfiguration, and history of magic homework done, as well as the reading for DADA, but still needed to write her essay, and, of course, potions. Waking in the early morning darkness, she had started to get up and head toward the shower when she heard her father enter the kitchen. Her father rarely, if ever, came into the kitchen and never in the morning. She scampered back from the entrance, as his bulky frame lumbered in.

The man eyed her, but said nothing and stalked over to the barren pantry. He grunted something to himself and turned awkwardly to her.

"Use the last of the oats, and make us breakfast. Have it hot and on the table by eight." He ordered gruffly, and left.

Jena had no idea how to tell it was eight. He had pawned the only clock in the manor ages ago, she had no watch, and without being able to do magic outside of school, she couldn't cast a tempus. She immediately started making breakfast anyway. Better it be the wrong temperature than not ready at all. Jena tried to shove the worry about why the man would want to have breakfast with her anyway out of her mind as she lit the stove, and filled a pot with water. She placed the last of the almonds and fruit on the table so her father could use them as toppings if he wished, and put out the silverware. Her father re-entered the room, eyeing her mutely as she brought the porridge to the table. She stood their hesitantly.

"Sit down." He snapped, sitting in his own place and glaring at the cereal. He made no move to pick up his spoon either, so Jena sat there motionless. Minutes ticked by. It felt like centuries. She kept her hands folded neatly in her lap and her eyes on her hands. The man brought his pocket watch out for the second time in as many minutes. He got up suddenly, and Jena couldn't help but flinch, but he simply stormed by her, heading toward the front entrance. Jena could fell waves of anger, anxiety, and loathing. What could she do?

She heard the front entrance open, and slam shut, and her father's heavy tread return down the hall."

He stormed by her and she tried to suppress the flinch, but it was for not. He stopped.

"Cereal not good enough for you? I know what you are…" he said coldly. She could feel his glare cutting into her. She wanted to flee, but didn't know if it was safest to stay or run. She could feel his anger continuing to mount.

"Not answering me, huh? Not bothering to eat the food I provide, stuck here because of that damn bitch at the ministry, and my no good whore of a 'daughter' refusing a perfectly good breakfast, and ignoring me." His voice had become louder as he talked, and Jena scooted to the edge of the chair, preparing to run.

The blow fell swiftly enough that Jena didn't see it coming. He had been standing slightly behind her, just off her left shoulder. He had brought his hand down with great force, backhanding her to the side of her head, dumping her off the chair and sending her sprawling on the floor along the side of the table. Her vision was fuzzy for a moment as she sat stunned, and then started to scramble away.

"Sit still! That bitch from the ministry said she would be here at 8am. They said there were charms on the building that prevented me from drinking, and that if I hit you they'd know. I bet they lied. Bugger them! I will not live like a coward in my own house. I will discipline your worthless hide as I see fit. It's obvious that bitch has to reset the wards for them to work. No one cares about you, you worthless tramp, and it's about time you learned that." Running out of steam he sat heavily in front of the bowl of porridge, poured the remaining nuts and fruit on it and ate as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Jena shifted slowly, so her back was against the dining room wall and her knees were pulled up tight to her chest. She moved cautiously, as she kept an eye on the volatile man at the end of the table. He didn't once look at her as he finished the meal.

Without looking at her, he threw his napkin on the table and strode out of the room. She heard him return to his room, and then storm out the front door, slamming it. The house was plunged abruptly into silence.

Slowly, Jena made her way to her feet and into the small guest loo off the parlor. From the middle of her cheek, up the side of one temple and around her left eye was completely red. She was going to have one hell of a shiner, she thought, biting her lip. Marisa had said they would know if anything happened. Did that mean the Ministry knew? Then she deserved this. Her father said that the wards had to be reset. Did that mean there was a ward that had prevented her form getting hit earlier and it had failed? Why wouldn't' the ministry come reset it then? She sighed quietly and turned from the mirror. Her head ached fiercely, but it didn't matter. She should clear the table, eat what she could, and get her chores started. It might appease her father, and she couldn't let what might be the last meal she'd get in days go to waste.

It was twilight when she stopped with her chores. Her father had not returned. She took an old cloth and dampened it with cool water, pressing it gently against her face. She was sure it looked a sight. The social worker had not shown up and neither had her father. She pulled her DADA book out, and some parchment to start her essay, but discovered that her vision was blurry in her left eye. She changed the position of the cloth so that it blocked the vision from that eye completely and began to write, the parchment resting against the book propped on her knees. The handwriting was awful, but she couldn't stand the thought of going to the table to do the work. She didn't get very far; it was hard to concentrate when your head was pounding. Maybe she should send a message to Professor Savoy? But hadn't he said to keep out of her Father's way, and not to make him angry? He might see this all as her fault, and in a way, it really was, wasn't it? He had said, however, that he expected her to tell Marissa if she was sick or hurt, but that would just make her father angrier. She sighed and put her school work away. Best to just wait for Marissa to show up. If Marissa thought this was ok, then she was just over-reacting. Her father had only bruised her and hadn't really hurt her. She considered using the healing draught that Professor Savoy had left in the bag, but it made her really nauseous to take it without food. No, it would be best to just go to bed. Jena did exactly that.

"Enter." Called Professor Savoy, as he was shelving the potion ingredients he had picked up at the Apothecary. He turned to watch the Medi-witch enter, who eyed his supply cabinet appraisingly as she returned his greeting.

"So…" she said, clearly curious.

"I passed my Mastery, and with high enough scores to make medical potions for children." He informed her quietly, allowing a small smile to remain on his face.

"I knew it! Congratulations, of course. I can't believe you went to the Apothecary the week of Christmas, though!" she exclaimed.

"My family is far off; I didn't have much shopping to do otherwise. It was no chore." He replied dismissively.

"Well, that in part is what I came to ask you about. My family hosts here, at Hogwarts every two or three years, and it's my turn again. It's just me, my husband, and a few friends. I was wondering if you would be interested. We turn the infirmary into a bit of a dining hall. It's actually quite festive…" The woman trailed off uncertainly studying the man's face. It suddenly went blank, as if devoid of all emotion.

"You are inviting me to your holiday celebration? You haven't known me all that long."

"I realize it's a bit short notice," replied the Medi-witch, "but I think I know you well enough, she said with a wry smile.

"I… I accept. Thank you for your gracious offer. What was the other part you came to ask me about?"

"Well," replied the Medi-witch, a blush staining her cheeks, "I have the potions list for the infirmary, with marks where I have no useable potions… oh, I feel so thoughtless giving you this during Christmas!" she said worriedly.

Professor Savoy allowed the small smile back on his face. "Ah. So I see Christmas dinner is payment in kind. How very Slytherin of you."

"Eugene!" the Medi-witch exclaimed, clearly scandalized.

"Now, Poppy, from the Head of Slytherin, that is quite the compliment."

The woman was clearly flustered by his antics, but the blush didn't quite fade from her cheeks. "Well, yes, but um, the list you see. I was wondering exactly how high your Mastery marks were…" she trailed off, not quite meeting his gaze.

"Why do you ask?" he asked, scanning the list in his hand.

"I am out of dreamless sleep for the infirmary." She replied. "Gertrude can't brew it, even if she would, I wouldn't trust it. Besides, she would simply tell me that she didn't have the mastery level for it to get out of making it, as she does with other complex potion requests."

The smile faded from his face. Did it give too much away to tell her that he received the highest mastery, and brewing psychotropics was not beyond him, even for children? Well, the children needed it, and his colleagues hadn't even been suspicious. But then, there was Master Aeridus, who had figured it out all too easily.

His thoughts, as they had been wont to do this break, turned to a scrawny, mousey haired first year, stuck in a hospital bed with a nightmare. Austin had told him Jena's nightmares had not eased. How could he do otherwise?

"I can brew it. I passed the highest Mastery level." He said, feeling a blush stain his own cheeks.

"Full marks?" she asked incredulously, "Without studying?"

"To be fair, the Master was quite blind, and a bit cantankerous. I am not sure I would have gotten it, otherwise."

"Still. Are you comfortable with the list?"

He made a show of glancing at it again, and summing up the list.

"Yes, I'll manage the list. Hmmm. Yes, and I see you prioritized it. How thoughtful of you." He replied dryly. "Our Christmas dinner will be spectacular, no doubt." He said pointedly, clearly making a mockery of his unsubtle hint that a good dinner would be required as payment in kind.

"I think I can handle the pressure, Eugene." She said, and laughing, waved herself out of his office.

Jena woke and started her day. Her father hadn't returned for three mornings. There was no food, and she was feeling light headed. She drank warm water to fill her stomach, and contemplated doing some chores. She knew she wouldn't starve to death, especially with the nutrient potions, but it certainly wouldn't be easy.

She was in the back of the manor attending to the magical washing when her Father came home. She tensed and listened. His foot fall was much heavier, and he was moving somewhat slowly. He was most likely drunk. Almost two weeks of the break was gone, and still no signs of Marissa, not that she thought the case worker would give her any help, really. The large bruise around her left eye contrasted darkly against her skin, but the vision had cleared even if the eye was still a bit puffy. Knowing she would catch her father's wrath if she woke him, she continued to do her chores, quietly.

When she entered the kitchen, she found a bag that had once contained an order of fish and chips, and had a handful stray chips in the bottom. She savored them as she removed the bag as rubbish; at least her father had brought home some food.

It was early evening when she heard stirring in her father's room, and she moved again toward the back of the house, but it was for not. She was startled to hear her father's voice as his footsteps came toward the mud room where she was putting away pots that has been pulled from the garden for the winter.

"Girl!" he yelled sharply, bringing her nearly at a run. "Where'd that useless… there you are. Get back here!" he snapped at her motioning her toward the kitchen. She hurried to obey him, even as her stomach plummeted. Her mind raced as she sought for what she could have possibly done or forgotten to do to raise her father's ire to such a state.

"Sir?" she questioned hesitantly, as she entered the kitchen, shoulders hunched as she opened the swinging door just enough to slip though.

"Where's that damn trunk you brought with you?" He snarled menacingly.

"My school trunk? It's in the cupboard by the nook." She said, puzzled.

"School trunk, eh? You aren't going back to school, so you don't need any of those things. I bet they'll fetch quite a price at the second hand shops. If I got to feed and clothe you, and you are going to go off and beg for charity, then it seems only right that I should get what comes out of that, not your worthless hide. Go now, get that trunk."

"But sir, my clothing is in there, and they aren't making me pay for school. There is just a few books and …" she tried to placate her father, but could see a dangerous glint come to his eye, and the waves of loathing turned sharply toward fury. She fell silent and stepped back away from the man in fear.

"Come. Here." He said, his voice falling dreadfully quiet and menacing. She felt she had no choice. She stepped forward.

When she stepped just within reach, the man's hand snaked forward and grabbed her upper arm roughly. He dragged her unceremoniously to him, stooping until he was nose to nose and peering into her eyes.

"Get that blasted trunk, now, or I will make sure you regret it." He hissed, and then shoved her roughly in the direction of the cupboard. Jena scrambled quickly to her feet when she fell. As she approached the trunk, she suddenly remembered the potions that Professor Savoy had made that she hadn't taken yet. She glanced back fearfully, and before she could reason what a bad idea it might be to defy her father, she opened the trunk to snatch the vials up and hide them. She didn't want the professor angry about not taking them. Unfortunately, she was not quite quick enough.

"What do you think you are doing?" He asked completely blocking the exit to the cupboard with his body. "What did you just put on the shelf?"

"Nothing, sir," She tried, but could feel a spike in her father's anger. Wrong move. "Really, they are just potions that I need…"

"Potions? For what? Never mind that. You aren't going back to that school, and you certainly look fine to me…. Taking the most valuable thing out of that trunk for yourself you little thief. You don't deserve those things!" Her father's voice got louder as his rant continued and she shrank back into the cupboard in fear. While the cupboard was almost as big as a closet, it was still a tight space, and her vision started to tunnel as panic set in.

"…did you hear me? Insolent brat!" the man growled and snatched the satchel that contained the potions off the shelf beside her, but she was too terrified to move. A sickening 'crack' reached through the fog of her panic as a burst of light flashed from what felt like it was behind her eyes and when she opened them the world was tilted sideways, and her head was mere inches from the floor. The rising nausea and the ringing in her ears almost drowned out the tirade as the man drug her school trunk behind him and out of the house. She felt wetness on her chin and wiped it away. It was sticky, and she could just barely make out the deep red color of blood. She was too confused to figure out where it was coming from, and after a few minutes, her eyes drifted close and unconsciousness overcame her tired mind and body.

Jena awoke to darkness. She managed to open one eye, but the other was glued shut, or so it felt. She tried to sit up, but her head started pounding, though it was more like the heavy thudding ring of a giant bell that played in time to her pulse. She could see that there was some light out in the kitchen. She didn't know what time it was. She lay there for a time, but whether it was mere minutes or hours, was uncertain. She dozed. Finally, she sat up slowly in fits and starts, and waited for the world to stop spinning. Once she sat up, and the world sat down, she was able to make out that the floor was slightly sticky with congealed blood. Hers no doubt as there was blood on her hand. She reached up to her face and gently touched the still shut eye. She must have a head wound that bled. It was dried blood around her eye.

Moving at a snails pace, she rose from sitting to standing. Clutching at shelves and surfaces, and she stumbled out into the bright daylight of the kitchen. Her whole body was achy, likely from sleeping on the stone floor, she thought. She finally made it to the bathroom and braced herself for several long moments against the sink before she allowed herself to look up and assess the damage. Her father must have hit her across the face again this time though a bit lower, and although her lip was split, it hadn't bled badly. No, she must have hit the other side of her head on a shelf or wall, and there was a gash, short deep and nasty, right at the hairline. She was afraid to touch it. She slowly cleaned the blood out of her eye, off her face and hands. The shirt was a total loss. Wearily, she made her way back to her nook and settled in, falling into a fitful sleep almost immediately. Her father didn't come home.

It was almost three full days later before she saw her father again. He stumbled in, drunk, and very late in the evening. She hadn't done much in the past few days, mostly sticking to her nook and sleeping fitfully. Her head still hurt, and without any food she was in sorry shape to do anything useful. She woke up at her usual time however, to find a half-eaten entrée from a local take-away shop sitting on the counter. Starving, she scarfed it down; hardly caring if her father would notice it was missing and punish her for it. Her stomach was almost immediately upset, so she retreated to her nook to rest. She didn't know how long she had been dozing, when the bark of her father's voice roused her.

"Girl! Get your worthless hide in here!" she heard from the far end of the kitchen. She rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet from her nook, keeping crouched. The way her head was pounding it would do her no good to bang it again on the overhang.

She kept close to the nook, a hand being used to steady her as she regarded her father fearfully at a distance. He stalked toward her, freezing when his quick approach caught her unawares and she looked up at him, startled raising an arm to protect her head. She felt irritation, an odd sense of hope, loathing, and suddenly, surprise also. She slowly lowered her arm to regard him carefully. Strangely enough, he was regarding her carefully as well. His lips were pursed as he considered her bruised and battered face. Her robe still had blood spatters that she couldn't get out and she had no other with all of her school things being taken.

'Worthless. Can't even pull her weight. Have to wait before she'll be worth much." he muttered to himself, yet there was a contemplative air about him, a calculating look in his eye that worried Jena.

"All that crap in your trunk didn't bring but 20 pounds. Not much that worthless school provides for you, not that you deserve it. And those potions – they're nearly as worthless; they are not even made by a real potion master. I see you ate my food. I am going to bring more food tomorrow, and you better eat that too, and do something about that robe you are wearing. You are going to earn you keep, or I will damn well not having you live under this roof!" he snarled. She nodded once solemnly, and watched has he turned with a sneer, and left the house. Relief warred with fear in her heart; his leaving brought her a few hours of peace, but what did he mean by 'earn her keep' and why would she need food and her robe to look neater? She pushed the worry to the back of her mind and made her way once again toward the laundry. She would try to get the blood out, again.

Austin sat on his knees, in front of a carefully decorated tree, rich velvet ribbons and fairy lights glowing softly. The light in the room was soft from the frosted window panes and the merrily crackling fire. He knelt gingerly on a plush rug that he suspected was put there to spare his knees by one of the more thoughtful house elves. He was dressed smartly in new pajamas, robe and slippers – a gift he received on Christmas Eve every year. His parents were speaking quietly to his grandmother of nonsensical things from yuletides past, but were paying no attention to him. Of course not, he thought sadness and bitterness mixing in the pit of his stomach like a noxious cocktail; he was sitting next to the elephant in the room – the absence of his sister, these few years gone, her small, dark haired silhouette gone from his side. He thought to an even smaller, sharp-eyed girl, and hoped that her Christmas was peaceful and that she was ok. With a sigh, he took the first, brightly wrapped box hoping to dispel the gloom that had overcome his heart.

Professor Savoy sipped at his wine after the fine Christmas dinner provided by the medi-witch. She had a jovial extended family and relations were present from college age to Poppy's elderly maiden aunt. Good natured teasing of the engaged nephew about "getting along with it" and having some children to make it "a proper Christmas" had no heat or seriousness to it. The family was uniformly even tempered and obviously enjoyed each others' company often. The conversation had been lively and interesting; with the family having members as healers, apothecaries and curse breakers, conversation had definitely included the DADA professor. Quiet by nature, he sat back and realized how at ease he was, in this place, in this new incarnation. He used to sneer at such scenes, believing them all to be false and contrived, with people hiding their true natures. How could one believe otherwise with the dark days of isolation and pain that had been his school holidays? His mind wandered to Jena. He had not heard from her or the caseworker, so he could only assume that she was at least unharmed and fed. It was better than he had at her age. Guilt settled in his stomach. Should he do more?

Poppy Pomphrey watched her younger colleague. While quiet, he had a lively wit and was certainly well educated. The family seemed taken enough with him, certainly. He ate lightly for such a feast, and avoided sweets. His grey eyes were sometimes sharp, sometimes warm, but always watching. In fact, it was difficult to watch him unnoticed, not that she had tried too much in the company of her family. She was appreciative of the younger colleague, such a kind man, and all he had done for her and the children in such a short time. She knew he must be missing his own family, so when those grey eyes turned somber and pensive; she quickly changed the topic to something about curse braking. Uncle Hamilton, the old warhorse, would have stories for ages, and it would be the perfect distraction for the Professor until pudding. She smiled quietly to herself when her ploy worked.

Christmas day came and went for Jena, with no sign of her father or the meal that he had promised. She would gladly give up the food to be quit of the man. Christmas meant only a week and a day left before she could return to school. She worried about her father's statement that she would not be returning to school, and what her punishment would be for her missing things. She tried to push such thoughts from her mind as she gingerly got up and did a few chores. She was stronger and less nauseated than yesterday, or the day before when her father had taken her trunk… she hoped she had seen the last of her father's ire.

She had retired earlier than usual, and was up at daybreak again. The house was nearly spotless, even with her spending the last few days doing little. Her head hurt a bit less, even if her hunger was worse. She decided on polishing the dining room chairs and table. She could remain sitting on the floor and not move much. She had almost completed the chore when her father returned.

She heard the front door slam and cringed as she heard heavy footfalls head down the hallway and the squeaky swing of the kitchen door.

"Girl!" she heard her father bark irritatedly, and had not quite made it to her feet when he came into the dining room. He surveyed the table, which although worn with age glowed darkly with fresh polish. He didn't comment. Instead, he threw a sack on the table.

"Breakfast. Eat now, and be ready to leave as soon as you are done." he snapped. Not waiting for a reply he turned on heel and quit the room. Jena froze, uncertain, but didn't move until she heard the shower down the hall start. The Professor had told her not to leave the house, but that was because she was safe in the wards – but the wards had failed. Did it matter if she left? She moved to the bag, seeing it was a discount bag of day old pastries, she took the bag to her nook and fetched a cup of warm water to wash down the dry treat. There were a dozen or so in the bag – she quickly hid two behind an old shirt for later, and wrapped another two in napkins and hid them in the pocket of her robe. She ate one of the largest. She hoped her father would not be upset to find nearly half the bag missing, but this would give her enough food to get by on until she returned to school – if she could figure out how. She gingerly returned the remaining pastries to the pantry.

Her father came to the kitchen, in a clean robe, eyes blood shot. Definitely hung over and short tempered, she thought.

"Can't do anything about that ugly face, can we?" he muttered to himself. Jena looked down at the floor. She knew her face looked awful, and felt the injustice that it looked that way because of her father, but her entire life had let her know that such injustice was simply endured. She said nothing.

"When people speak to you, look down like you are now, and none of your back chat. Come on." He snapped and strode purposefully toward the front door. Terror struck at her, but realizing that her father's wrath was likely more dangerous than her destination she could do nothing but follow.

They trudged through a light snow, Jena a few feet behind her father, shivering without a warm cloak, up the gentle grade that led to town. Her father never once looked back, or acknowledged her existence. It was only a mile or so to the wizarding village that their property was near, but her father circumvented the village to the seedier side that neared the muggle suburb. Jena's head pounded from the quick walking, and she was nauseous again, but kept swallowing to keep her breakfast down. Her father stopped abruptly in front of a squat two-story shop with a sign that had a cartoonish drawing of the face of a brutish man, chin jutting and badly in need of a shave with the words "Ugly Mug" just beneath. Yes, it certainly was, she thought. Her father jerked open the door, and glared at her until she hurried inside.

"Beaumont!" her father bellowed, approaching the bar. Jena looked quickly around what appeared to be a tavern and eatery of some sort. The floor was dark and stone of some kind, sticky with spills and Merlin knew what else. Short tables with four chairs each lined the outside walls and windows, and taller bar height tables with tall stools sat clustered unevenly in the middle of the room. A long bar with a metal foot rest along it's width was on a far back wall, which had a door that likely led to a kitchen and what looked like the beginning of a staircase that went to a second level.

A short, squat wizard came trundling from the kitchen and regarded her father coolly. Jena stayed where she was near the door.

"Kearns. Here to pay your tab, finally?" the man spat.

"Beaumont, I told you I'd make it right. I brought the brat. She'll work here until it's paid. Girl, get your ass over here." Her father snapped.

She approached warily, but kept her eyes averted, trying to hide the bruises on her face as her father requested.

"How much work can a child as small as that do? What kind of a joke is this, Kearns?" The man replied waspishly. The man radiated irritation, disdain – did he loathe her, or her father? Probably both, she thought, as she sighed defeatedly.

"She small, but old enough to go to school, although she won't be going back. She can read and write well enough, and she can work. She won't back chat or be any trouble. You can use a firm hand if you have a problem, and no one will come looking for the brat. How much a day will it pay off?" he asked gruffly.

"Three galleons." replied the man who must be Beaumont. Jena's heart sank. Her father was leaving her here to work. No one would find her here, and she would be stuck. What would this man be like? Would he hurt her? She clenched her hands into fists to hide that she was shaking.

"What? It'll take two months to pay off the tab at that rate. Ten galleons at least!" her father spluttered enraged.

"Five galleons, then, but that's as good as you're going to get. And I'll not be responsible for the brat. You are still her sire, and what she gets up to is still your problem. And mind you she ain't going home until your tab is paid!" the man snapped. "I bet she doesn't even know what to do around a bar…" the man muttered.

"Fine then. She knows how to clean about anything – it's the only thing she's good for." He snapped, and marched right out of the tavern without a backward glance. Jena stood still, trying to blink tears away from her eyes.

"Well then. You got a name, brat?" the man said, addressing her gruffly.

"It's Jena Kearns, sir…" she replied quietly.

"Restaurant is open from noon to 3, we close 3 to 5 and restaurant and tavern are open from 3 to closing, which most nights is at midnight, but Friday and Saturday is 2 am. It 9 am now. I want this floor cleaned before we open for lunch. And make sure you do a good job of it; it hasn't been done in months. Cook's is in the kitchen, he'll tell you where the cleaning stuff is. If you finish before open, then find something to clean in the back that won't disturb the cook or the customers till I tell you to do somethin' else. And you best work hard and not sass anyone. I have no problem taking the hide right off of you. Are we clear?"

"Yes sir." She replied just above a whisper. The man considered her a moment more then left up the stairs. Jena gingerly approached the kitchen, unsure of what her new situation would be like, but terrified to get off on the wrong foot with the disagreeable man.

She came through the door to a find a squalor of a room. Food stuff will strewn about a long metal topped bench with a cauldron. A burly man with a fat gut in a sleeveless robe and tunic that was belted below the gut stood with his back to the door, tossing poorly peeled and barely washed root vegetables into the cauldron.

She watched him nervously for a time, and saw as he took a small squat bottle of something clear and took a swig every so often. After several minutes she realized he would not notice or acknowledge her.

"Sir?" she said as politely as she could. The man, as she only knew as cook grunted and turned.

"Mr. Beaumont said that you could show me the cleaning things so I can clean the front floor?" she said quietly.

"In there." The man gestured toward some smaller cupboards at the back of the kitchen eyed her for a moment disinterestedly before taking another swig from the bottle and continuing his task. Jena sensed nearly nothing from the man, and the way he had lurched when he had turned made her think he was no where close to sober. Edging past him quickly, she found an old nearly rancid mop head, a bucket, and some cleaning potions. She would have to start by cleaning her cleaning supplies. She sighed and got to it. Until she figured out what exactly was happening to her, it was best to be compliant and stay out of the way. Her whole life time had told her this was the safest thing to do.

She had barely a quarter of the large floor clean. Months of ale and grime had been ground into the hard stone that her scrubbing had revealed to be light grey. She didn't know how close it was to noon, but she knew without a doubt she had failed in this task. Her whole body shook with the thought of what Mr. Beaumont had meant by a 'hiding'.

The object of her current fear came down the stairs, and stood surveying the dining room.

"You only got an hour left, what is taking you so long, Kearns?" he snapped.

"The floor has to be scrubbed and mopped several times to get all the dirt off. I'm sorry." She replied not daring to stop in her task. She flinched as she heard the man cross the room in his lumbering way, and stop, surveying her work critically.

"Who do you think eats here, the queen of England? The floor doesn't need to be clean enough to eat from. Just mop it and get on with it!" snapped the man, and stormed through the kitchen. Jena was torn – if she would get punished for not finishing in time, or punished for not doing the work right, what was worse? Her arms and shoulders already ached, and her head throbbed. She would just have to do what the man said and hope for the best. She set the deck brush aside and concentrated on moping as thoroughly as she could.

Mr. Beaumont returned just as she was replacing the last of the chairs around the last table.

"Finally. That corner where you did the brushing looks odd, but I guess we'll live with it. You can do a bit more like it everyday until the floor looks right. Get that crap back in the kitchen so we can open and go get something to do from the cook." The man walked away before she could answer, and she scurried to comply.

She rinsed and hung the mop and then did the same for the bucket and put the remaining supplies away.

"Sir?" she asked quietly to the cook who sat slouched against the wall."

"Huh? Whaddya want?" mumbled the man, who woke from a drunken stupor.

"Mr. Beaumont told me to see what you needed done?"

"Who 'n the hell are you?" snarled the man, obviously not happy about his brief nap being interrupted.

"I'm Jena Kearns" she said, not sure why the man was asking.

"Whaddya think yer doin', Kearns?" growled the man.

"She works for me, Bart." said Mr. Beaumont as he came through the door. "That drunken bastard that run out on his tab brought his brat in to work it off. She stays until he's paid up, and I don't want her underfoot or slaking off, Bart. Keep her working, and out of the customer's sight. Well, day customers anyway. She looks pathetic." The man spat, and left out the back door into an alleyway.

"Dishes, then, Kearns." he said, motioning to a sink already stacked with the things he had used to get the lunch items ready. The next few hours were a non-stop parade of dishes of all sizes and shapes. At some point a rough looking woman with a short apron had come in, and had hardly spared the girl a glance except to tell her not to expect any of the tips because she wasn't 'bussing', whatever that meant. Mr. Beaumont had come back, too, and must have been doing something out front. The cook had seemingly come out of his stupor and was surly, but managed at keeping up with the lunch orders. He didn't wash his hands or wipe the counters, she noticed, and was repulsed. Good thing the customers couldn't see the kitchen.

She finally washed out the sinks, and the rough looking woman had dropped some coins on the counter for the cook and departed just moments before. Jena was tired, and achy. She longed to sit down for a few minutes and get some water. She had to find a loo, too. Mr. Beaumont came in and looked at her, somewhat bemusedly, she thought. There was no kindness in his eyes, but no apparent hostility either. She sensed a bit of loathing and something else, satisfaction? Greed? She hadn't really sensed it before, so wasn't sure what to name it.

"Kept up, did you Kearns? Maybe you're worth a couple of galleons after all."

"Sir, may I use the loo?" she asked timidly. "I need a drink of water and a minute, please sir?

"Take a break kid. You can rest until the barman gets here. Bart here goes home and the barman's in charge. Not back talk to him, either." He said, but whether it was her quiet deference or the fact she wouldn't actually look at anyone that made him less fearful of her defiance, she wasn't sure.

"Where?..." she asked nervously.

"Over by the stairs." She nodded her thanks and quickly moved by them and out in the dining room. She locked her self in the small dingy space, and took a breath of relief. Her head pounded and she did her business and drank a few handfuls of water from the tap. Not sure when the barman would return, she took one of the stale pastries from her pocket and savored it slowly, with a little more water. The pounding in her head eased, and her hands didn't shake so badly. So, this was her lot, but for how long? Would her father really not let her go back to school? Professor Savoy said if she didn't go back, he would come find her, but how? How would he know she was here… and even if he did find her, would he be able to get her away from Mr. Beaumont? She sighed and slumped with her back against the door, resting as long as she dared, and then stood to go find the barman.

A tawny owl with white eye rings tapped gently at his window. Habitually an early riser, he set down his morning cup of tea to allow the bird entry to his chambers. Relieving it of its small burden, he scanned the missive quickly.

'Hello Professor Savory,

"I hope this letter finds you well. I apologize for intruding on your holiday, but I have yet to hear from Ms. Kearns. I have sent her two messages, and yet have not received a reply. I realize there is only a few more days until we return to school, but I cannot help being worried. I hope you have heard from her and that I am worrying needlessly. Again, I apologize for the intrusion, but I would appreciate it if you are able to reply with any news.

Respectfully,

Murphy.

"A Murphy?" muttered the man with a chuckle. He composed a quick reply that he hadn't heard from the girl but that he would check into it and gave it to the owl that had patiently waited for his return note. He picked up his cup and approached his desk. He had a scathing missive to certain small-brained social worker to pen.

Jena sat perched precariously on a bar stool. She was still very tired from the day's work, and didn't know what to expect from the barman. She heard someone coming down the stairs and slid off quickly in case she wasn't allowed to be sitting. She was expecting Mr. Beaumont, but the feelings weren't quite right. She sensed bitterness, and apathy, a sour feel, just before a hard-eyed peroxide blond made her way down the last few steps. She wore no makeup, but had the dark rings of a woman who wore more mascara than can be removed in a single washing. A kimono style robe and matching slippers were all she wore.

"Who are you?" she asked dully, as she walked behind the bar, and got a large jug of something tomato orange from underneath the counter.

"Jena Kearns, Ma'am." She replied quietly, looking down to hide her face.

"Pretty shiner, there, kid. Who popped you?" she asked, taking down a pack of cigarettes from a shelf over the bar.

Questions! Jena knew questions were trouble. She fumbled nervously with the hem of her tunic, not making eye contact.

"What, cat got your tongue? Wasn't anyone here, was it?" she asked harshly. Jena sensed curiosity, and a bit of anger, but couldn't figure out what she had done wrong. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

"Well, I guess that's at least something, then. Why are you here? Wait, Kearns, did you say? You're that loud mouth "Lord Kearns'" brat, aren't you? Merlin, I didn't really believe he'd bring in his own kid to pay for his…" the woman trailed off. Jena was watching her from the corner of her eye. She saw something harden, and felt trepidation and fury boil up from the woman like a storm.

"And exactly, what, are you doing to earn your keep?" the woman snapped harshly. Ah, thought Jena, relaxing a bit. She was used to this, to know that she was a burden and unworthy of care she couldn't earn.

"I mopped today, and did dishes. Mr. Beaumont said to take a break and wait for the Barman, and he'd give me more to do." She replied quietly.

Something seemed to simmer down in the woman, she felt the fury abate.

"Well, that's alright then." The woman muttered, as she glanced about the place. "Well, I guess you did mop. That's something, anyway." Just then the front door opened allowing a tall, thin man with long hair and a thin dark mustache.

"Here's your barman, kid. His name is Arnie. I gotta go put my face on and get ready for customers." She said downing the tomato concoction she had poured herself.

"Amy, what's with the kid? One of yours?" the barman asked, hardly sparing the girl a glance.

"Very funny, Arnie. That's the Kearns brat, here to work of her dad's tab. She's already done the floor and dishes. Beaumont told her to wait for you for more to do." She said as she lazily made her way to the staircase.

"And I suppose you put the drink and the fags on your tab, right Ames?" he said resignedly.

"Don't I always?" the woman replied with a harsh laugh, as she headed out of sight.

"What time did you get here?" asked the man, considering her. He seemed calm, and not openly hostile. She felt mild irritation, and tiredness, a bit of boredom, but nothing threatening.

"I think it was about 9, sir."

A grunt answered her.

"This your first break?"

"Yes sir."

The man sighed. "Fine then. You can clean and stock the low shelves at the bar. I'm tall and it's hard on my bones to be bent down like that. After that, you can help with the kitchen duties, and stay in the kitchen. We close the kitchen and just have the bar stuff at 9, so you'll be done then. Your dad coming to fetch you?"

"No sir, I don't think so. Mr. Beaumont said I had to stay until the tab is paid." She replied. "But I don't really know…"

The man sighed again, and now she could feel irritation. She heard the man muttering under his breath. She thought she heard the words "bloody greedy bastard" and "I have my own damn kids to mind" but she wasn't sure. Not wanting to ire the man further, she hurried to the cleaning supplies and got to work cleaning. By unspoken consent, they started their work on opposite ends of the bar, with the only communication being the tall man explaining to her what to stock and how much to fetch from the back. Her shoulders were beyond tired and were screaming their unhappiness at her, so she made several smaller trips, not daring to carry too much and drop something.

She didn't know how long she worked when the front door opened, and Mr. Beaumont entered again.

"Good." He grunted upon seeing her enter form the kitchen. "You got the brat doing something useful."

"Craig, a word." He said, stopping the man as he headed for the stairs. "Kearns, get the kettles filled an on, and the produce delivery that's in the back unpacked and organized so we can start the kitchen prep." She glanced nervously at the man, as she hadn't finished stocking, but something hard in his eyes, and the smoldering quiet anger she had felt from the man for the past hour or so made her obey without question.

She heard voices, muffled at first, but finally something distinct.

"Craig, I don't care what the man owes us. Did you look at that kid? She's been beat to a bloody pulp, and working her like a dog is not right. I got kids of my own, too. Would you have them in here working 12 hours a day if I owed you money for booze? You got your own brother here working every day as a cook to stay in the hooch. What's next, you gonna shove that kid upstairs and put her on Amy's crew? It's bloody disgusting!"

"Damn it Arnie, she ain't your kid. She's some bloody drunk's kid, and see her getting smacked around here, do you? Blood well doin' the whelp a favor. She's paying off five galleons a day toward her old man's tab. That's twelve days – hardly an eternity."

"I'm no baby sitter, I told you. I come to work to get away from my brats, not find more! And what do I say to the Kearns bastard if he comes back?"

"Serve him. We got collateral!" the man barked, slamming his fist on something hard. Jena couldn't help but flinch even though neither man was in the room. "This is a bloody business, not a bleedin' heart's kid's home!

"You know what, Beaumont, you're too much! She's just a little kid, not some house elf. Merlin!"

"Well, I don't care what you think. It's my joint, my decision, and that man owes me. Think I care about some street urchin? She seems quiet and dead useful. All you complained that there's too much to do around here, and the place needed some clean'n. Well, here's your answer. Don't like it, you can find another job. Clear?"

Jena was startled by the door being pushed open harshly, and a purple faced Mr. Beaumont freezing as he came through the door. She had the produce unpacked and had been cleaning and taking off the wilted leaves, getting it ready. The man stared at her, gazed around the kitchen. The sinks were clean, she had wiped the counters before starting with the produce, and all the boxes were stacked neatly.

"Don't know what the man's complaining about. You seem to do fine. Get back to it." He snapped sharply.

Jena turned back to her task, a small feeling of warmth not able to let go of the fear she felt. Perhaps she could earn her keep here. She stretched her shoulders gingerly and continued the work.

The barman, who had told her to call him Arnie, finally called her out to the bar. It seemed late, but she was just very tired. The bar was dark, and there were few patrons. None seemed to notice her appearance at the kitchen door.

"Kid, you're done. Go 'n find someplace to crash." She nodded gratefully, and headed toward the back of the kitchen. She had looked in vain for an elf nook in her brief lull between dishes and helping with the cooking tasks, but had found none. One of the cupboards only held dry goods, and had a bunch of empty flour sacks hung on a nail. She took a couple of them down. They were shorter than she was tall, but she put one on the stone to keep her off of it, and one over herself. She had mostly closed the door to block the noise. Exhausted, even her fear at the new place didn't keep her awake. She was asleep in minutes.

The next day followed the first. The cook, who she generally was able to piece together lived somewhere in the building, was Mr. Beaumont's brother. He didn't seemed surprised to find her in the pantry when he came in, and she took a few minutes to wash up in the loo, taking the time to eat her last pastry. Ten more days she thought disconsolately. Maybe they would give her some food? She wasn't brave enough to ask right away, and she kept her head down. She only spoke when spoken too, and tried to do exactly what was wanted. Amy, who everyone seemed to call "Ames" came down just before the barman arrived again. Last night she had found out that the tomato stuff was some vile drink called "bloody Mary"; she hoped feverently that blood wasn't really an ingredient. It smelled of rotten tomatoes.

"You still here, eh kid? I thought after a day like yesterday, you'd try 'n run off." Amy said in a tone that clearly indicated that she didn't care one way or the other.

She didn't know what to say to that, so kept silent. Just then her stomach growled, loudly.

"You hungry, kid?" she said with a chuckle. "They ain't feed'n you yet, are they?" she said.

"I don't know if I'm allowed." She replied carefully watching the woman, "but I am hungry."

"Jesus, kid, I didn't think you'd be serious?" the woman exclaimed. "Beaumont!" she bellowed, but as it turned out the volume was unnecessary as the man was already coming down the stairs, finishing the last few buttons on his shirt.

"Ames, what's the matter with you!" he replied testily.

"You starvin' the kid, Craig?" she snapped. "I ain't got a problem with her being here, but you could at least let the brat have a meal. She can't go days without a meal!"

"I told her good for nothin' sire that he's responsible for her. If he ain't bringing her food, how is that my problem?" he snapped back.

"How do you expect her to be able to work then? It's in your own interests to keep the kid fed." She said blandly. "Stupid old fool…" she muttered darkly.

The man "harrumphed" as he went about pouring himself some of the same vile, "bloody Mary" stuff.

"Fine, brat. You can have some soup at your break, but I'm dock'n you 3 knuts a serving for it, hear me? That means you'll work at least an extra day." He snapped.

"Thank you sir!" she said, relief washing over her. A meal a day she could manage. Her hands were still shaking, and her head still hurt. Her shoulder burned, and well, she just felt awful. But a meal a day and maybe she would make it. Maybe this was really better… if she couldn't' go to school, she thought, swallowing hard, at least she was someplace with food. She quickly went to get a bowl before the man changed his mind, and ate it quickly in the kitchen where the man couldn't see, in case it reminded him of his generosity and he regretted it.

It was the fourth day at the Ugly Mug, and Jena was having her soup and quietly waiting for the barman. She had started helping Bart make it – she tried not to think about how disgusting it was that she had to eat some before she started helping given Bart's hygiene habits, but at least she wasn't hungry all the time. It was hard to wait until her break to have a meal, but she was grateful for it none the less.

"Kearns," the barman nodded as he walked in. He looked at her bowl, "He's charging you three knuts for that?" the man said tiredly. Jena nodded briefly, but eyed the man warily. Questions never led to good places. The man pulled a roll and some butter out of the counter and put one on a plate and slid it over. "The soup at three knuts comes with bread, kid." He said gruffly. He eyed her again. "Don't you have anything else to wear?"

Jena looked down at the shabby robe, tunic and pants she wore. The work got her really dirty. She was too tired at the end of each night to do more than collapse. In the mornings, she had been trying to rub the worst of the spots out with water in the loo, but she knew she was still a mess.

"I have a few more things at home, but this is my only robe." She replied quietly, seeing no hope for not answering. "Thank you for the bread. It's good." She ate it quickly. She didn't know if she really was supposed to have it, but she didn't want trouble with Mr. Beaumont.

"Well, it's Friday night and the busiest night of the week. I'll be needin' you to come out to help and you can't look like that. Where is Craig?"

"Uhm, I really don't know, sir, I'm sorry." she murmured quietly.

Something in her answer seemed to anger the man sudden. "Brat, why the bloody hell are you always so polite?" he snapped, "It ain't natural. My own kids…" he quietly fumed. Jena didn't know what she'd done, or why the man was at first nice and now angry. He was confused, too. Well, she just seemed to do that to people. She sighed and took her dishes to the kitchen where she quickly washed them, and began to stock for the evening shift.

It wasn't very long before she heard Arnie bellow.

"Craig, it's been four days and we haven't seen that brat's father. She can't wear the same thing forever. Merlin, what will the customers think?"

"It's bad enough we got to feed the brat." She heard the man yell back. Her stomach twisted in knots. She had to take the things to the bar; it was what she was supposed to do. She could get more stuff out and ready instead, but there was no room on the kitchen counter. She braced herself, and came carefully out to the bar.

"Look, just look at the kid. She's filthy, Craig. You want her out like that?"

"I can't help it she lives like an animal." The man spat.

"She lives like an animal in your own bar, so of course you can help it, you cheap…" the man began to shout.

"Pipe down!" Ames called from the stairs. "What the hell is your problem, tonight?" she snapped at the two men.

"Arnie's on his high horse about the brat again. Says we should be clothing her as well as feeding her. She's working here, we didn't bloody go and adopt her!" he snapped at no one in general. He was an arm's distance from Jena now, and his tone made her flinch and she tried to ease around him, keeping the garnish plates between herself and the man, hoping that wasting his stock would prevent him from lashing out physically. She didn't dare stop working.

"Well, look at the wretch. No one wants to look at that. If this place didn't already smell to high heaven, you'd probably smell her from here, too." Jena didn't look up and kept working, but her cheeks turned pink in shame. She did what she could, it wasn't like there was a shower and washer here, and even if there was, she didn't have anything to change into.

She heard rather than saw Mr. Beaumont start to splutter in rage, just as she felt a sharp spike in the man's fury. She felt bemusement from Ames, and something else, triumph? She wasn't sure what that meant, but the fury cared her. Arnie seemed sad, and resigned. She edged further away from Beaumont on the premise of cleaning a shelf, not that they needed it. She had been keeping them spotless.

"Stuff it, Craig. I'll take the chit upstairs and get her cleaned up. One of the girls will have something she can wear. I swear. Men! No sense at all. Well, what are you waiting for brat? You got to get back down here before dinner. Come along." Jena looked at the two men with trepidation. Mr. Beaumont simply threw his hands in the air and stormed into the kitchen. Arnie, shrugged, and Jena slowly followed Ames up the stairs.

Jena hadn't been upstairs before. She had seen women, and some men, and sometimes both together go up and down the stairs. Since she had seen both Mr. Beaumont and Ames come down stairs bleary eyed and in various states of undress, so she figured they lived up there, so there must be rooms. Jena had thought maybe they had tenants.

When she got up to the top of the stairs, just a few stairs behind Ames, she froze. There was a hallway, with many doors. Some were opened, and some were shut, but there were 5 women standing in the hallway in various states of undress. Waves of apathy, anticipation, worry, resignation hit her. It smelled floral, but in a very unpleasant way… the woman took little notice of the new comer and were talking of the evening's plans.

"Hey, one of you have something we can shrink down for the kid to work in?" snapped Ames, the women turned doleful eyes to her, and Jena was suddenly aware of what this place was. It was a place like before, where the deatheaters… Jena froze in panic. A rushing noise filled her ears, and she couldn't get a breath.

"Well, what's wrong with you, brat?" snapped Ames who grabbed her by the arm and shoved her through an open doorway. "There's the shower. The girls have to get ready, so be quick already, but wash that hair!" she ordered tersely, not realizing the panic the child had fallen into. The slamming of the door and shutting off the sight of the women in the hall allowed Jena to take her first breath in what felt like ages. Tears came to her eyes as she slowly slid down to the floor, her back against the closed door. She was in and old, grungy looking bathhouse-style loo. She sat there, thinking of nothing, until she heard a pounding on the door made her jump.

"Kearns, I thought I told you to hurry up!" It was Ames. "I don't hear water!"

"Aye, Ma'am," she called, but her voice sounded strained to her own ears. She didn't think she could be heard like that through the door, so raised unsteadily and fumbled to get the water turned on. She hesitated at disrobing. She didn't want to feel exposed here. Her hands shook badly, and it took her much longer than usual to work the fastening. She carefully lay the clothing over the edge to the sink. She had no others and didn't trust anyone to bring her more; regardless of there state she would have to put them back on. She stepped into the steamy shower and quickly got wet, and closed her eyes for a moment as the hot water hit the painfully tired shoulders. She couldn't linger, she reminded herself firmly. She noticed a wider variety of various soaps and shampoos, obviously belonging to the women. There was a host of fragrances, mostly fruit and flower choices, all of the cheap. She chose one that was a little fuller than the others and it looked the least expensive of the lot and quickly washed her hair and skin.

Something tried to rear its ugly head into her thoughts about where she was and that she would always be dirty, but she pushed that thought away, turned up the heat in the shower again until it stung, and washed her skin again. She took one of the towels off the stack. It was thread bare and dingy, but at least clean enough to use and toweled off. She covered herself quickly with the towel when the door was shoved open, but it was only Ames, and a smaller woman whose head only came to Ame's shoulder. The smaller woman, who looked no more than 20 herself, and had big brown eyes and brown hair, but a large hooked nose, giggled.

"You ain't got nuthin' we don't." she said and hooked a hanger on the back of the wall. "She is a little 'un, though, ain't she, Ames? Well, I guess'n this'll be alright even though a bit fancy 'n all." The woman said with a shrug.

"Jesse got you some clothes, kid. Throw those things in the bin over there. Laundry will have them back to you on Monday." She said, closing the door with no further ado. Jena sighed in relief when the door closed again. The clothes were too big, even though they had obviously been shrunk some. They were clean, but she winced at how soft the silky undershirt was. If she wore these cloths for 3 days, there is no chance this shirt would survive, she thought. The shirt was a pale pink with a darker pink print of large roses. Jena figured some girls thought that was pretty, but it just led back to the feeling of dirtiness that she was trying desperately to squash. She rinsed out the shower, a little bit despondent to see how dirty it was after she used it. She had really needed a shower. She found a broken comb in one of the cabinets, and made quick work of her wet hair, and hurried back down the stairs without a look back to the women's rooms. She wanted to thank the girl, Jesse, for her generosity, but she would never go up those stairs again if she could help it. She determinedly started her kitchen work, with only the briefest acknowledgement from Arnie.

Professor Savoy took his place at the head table between Minerva and Poppy. Christmas break had been productive, all things considered, but he found himself anxious to have "his" house back. In his past life, he had never really gotten attached to his students. He was finding that the more he cared, now, the more rewarding his work seemed to be. With out the distractions of war, spying, or a history to damn his every action, he was realizing how much he missed in the past 20 years.

"My, it must be quite the doom and gloom to put such a pensive look on your face, professor." Minerva chided, gently breaking him from his brooding.

"I was just contemplating what it meant that I missed my students," he said lightly. Sometimes the truth was the easiest way to mislead a friend off the subject you didn't want to discuss.

"It means you enjoyed your break. You won't miss them any more in May." She said dryly with a chuckle.

Students were still trickling in from the train. The Slytherin table was nearly half full before he saw Austin take a seat and look up at the had table, and shake his head briefly.

"Damn." He muttered.

"What is it, Eugene?" as Poppy concerned.

"Jena Kearns was not on the train."

"You wrote to the social worker, maybe they are bringing her?"

"I didn't receive a reply, Poppy, and the child hasn't returned any owls." He said, worry evident in his voice..

"I am sure we can figure it out once the children are settled in their classes." Interjected the headmistress disinterestedly, before standing to start the returning feast.

The man known as Eugene Savoy shook his head. A cold feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew Minerva would miss the obvious, but he would not, could not, not when one of his own was in danger. Besides, he had given his word. He would find the child.