The Imposter Complex, Chapter Twenty Eight: Dreadfully Distinct

:-:-:-:-:

It was a strange thing, walking free along the main street of Hogsmeade. I'd lived here for two years, and little had changed in my absence, yet I felt almost as out of place as I had wandering Dufftown after I was free of the Diary. Like an alien world.

Someone passed a little too close by me, and I tensed up, ready to fend off an attack that never came. I scowled at the involuntary reaction, though they hadn't appeared to have noticed.

Mercifully, it was not a students' weekend, so I was able to make my way home without having to deal with more idiot swooning Seventh Years.

I stopped dead a few feet from my front door. Oh gods, it was just now hitting me what I'd agreed to. At the time I'd only really been contemplating proximity to Dumbledore for a year. I had not at all processed that I'd be hanging out around snot-nosed teenagers the entire time.

'Bugger.' I muttered under my breath, and stomped much more grumpily up the path and into my home.

I had to roughly shove the door open, as its path was positively choked with old mail, nine whole months worth.

I sighed grimly, and slid my coat off. Time to get to work.

:—:

Bills... bills... junk mail... invoice for materials, fuck that's gonna have a hefty late fee on it. Ooh, an invitation to a party... that took place four months ago.

I'd started out on the sofa, but had eventually worked my way down onto the floor, surrounded by a small mountain of parchment and paper.

A pair of letters from the Flamels, the first a response to an alchemical query I'd been struggling with at the time and now only vaguely remembered. The second, a notification that they had learned of my incarceration from Dumbledore and that they looked forward to hearing from me upon my release.

I shook my head with amusement. Immortals. Ten years would have seemed like nothing at all to them.

More expired invoices followed, my pockets were going to be a lot emptier by the time I'd gotten through this mess. Eh, ought to be alright, Lord Voldemort had had about half a dozen full chimera corpses in stasis in his vault, and I was fairly sure I still had them in some box or another down in my cellar.

Actually, speaking of Lord Voldemort's old stuff...

I skimmed through the mail I had yet to parse, and plucked out all the stuff from Gerard Delacour. Like with my other associates, Gerard had sent me a few letters early in my imprisonment, before he must have learned of it. A Halloween party invite, and a few pieces of social correspondence. Nothing about the extremely enchanted chest I had entrusted him to crack open.

I chewed on my lip. I would have to crack the whip a bit on that one, I think. With Voldemort active again, I couldn't afford to wait on convenience.

Deciding to give myself a break from mail-sorting, I headed down into my cellar. I was greeted by the gently bobbing form of my new back-up body; the Stroj na golema had completed its work in my absence.

I gazed upon my own face, this empty sleeve. It was a bit creepy, to be honest. Staring soullessly forward with those identical grey-green eyes. Perhaps I should invest in a curtain.

I looked away from myself, casting my own eyes across the rest of the room. Just like the house above, it was precisely as I had left it, right down to the battered copy of Secrets Of The Darkest Art that lay open on my desk.

A light mellow tone sounded from above. I grimaced; it meant I had an extra bit of mail arriving. Wonderful.

I trod back up the stairs again and opened my kitchen window. An imperious looking eagle owl hopped through from the purpose-built perch outside, and deposited a small leaf of parchment bearing the Hogwarts crest on the counter. Oh boy, it begins.

Mister Grey

I would like to invite you to visit me in my office at your earliest convenience, there is some discussion to be had about your approaching role.

Yours Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore.

That. Decrepit. Wanker. He could not let me have even one day of rest and relaxation before yanking on my leash.

Well he can wait until I was good and bloody ready. Hardly my fault if "earliest convenience" happens to be a week from now.

Or two.

:—:

'More Blanquette de Veau, monsieur Thomas?'

Luca the immortal House Elf held aloft the tray of ragout, but I waved it away. I suppressed a sneer as it doddered around the table to instead scoop some more onto Nick Flamel's plate.

'I admit.' Nick said, between enjoying his veal. 'That which you have laid before us is quite the conundrum. And frankly, not one quite within my wheelhouse. Peri?'

The elder Flamel tilted her head in consideration, midnight-blue eyes aglimmer. Most people who knew of the Flamels assumed Perenelle to be the brawn to Nicolas' brains, given that most of her most well-known feats were on the field of battle. But I'd known the pair long enough now to recognise she was a master scholar in her own right, just in a more… esoteric field.

'Tracking a wizard through his own Horcrux... it is an intriguing idea. I have heard of it being attempted previously, though without success. Even for one such as myself, that kind of soul magic may be unattainable. Indeed, the Scandinavian ministry in particular would probably kill to have such a technique. Tell me, is it Sigmar the Twin that you hunt?'

I shook my head. 'No, I'm not one for bounty hunting. I'm more interested in Dark Lords myself.'

Nick frowned. 'What current Dark Lord bears a Horcrux? Doctor Thorne? He seems the type. Or perhaps Yokai?'

I suppressed a twitch at the name.

'I certainly hope not. No, it's Lord Voldemort.'

The two exchanged an alien glance. 'Does Albus know about this?' Perenelle asked.

'That Lord Voldemort is alive? Yes. That he has a Horcrux? I don't believe so. I reckon I'll keep it that way for now. A clueless Dumbledore is my favourite kind.'

Nick - apparently still grumpy over their spat over the Philosopher's Stone - snorted. Perenelle just looked exasperated.

'Are you truly going to keep that kind of important information a secret from your own allies? I thought better of you, dear Thomas.'

I did my best to look chastised. It was impossible to tell if they bought it. 'Sorry Perenelle. I know it's not exactly pragmatic, but... well I'm not the trusting type at the best of times.'

'Yet you spoke freely of this to Peri and I.' Nick pointed out.

I was becoming uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. 'Well, neither of you ever tried to make me an indentured servant. Yet, anyway.'

They chuckled politely at the joke, and Nick mercifully changed the subject, slowly transitioning into one of his ruminations on the nature of the universe.

My query remained not properly answered, though I sensed it would be poor form to try it again tonight. I would have to try to broach a soul magic discussion with Perenelle another time, perhaps.

:—:

The next day, I awoke in one of the many, many guest rooms in the Flamels' Spring home in Provence. After bidding the immortals farewell, I apparated to Carcassonne.

I was running early as I approached the small café Avery and I had agreed to meet at. It was a lovely little place, built right into the side of one of the old city walls. Garrow, naturally, was there already. He sprung up immediately at the sight of me, and pulled me in for a hug.

'Ha ha, look at the free man! Damn it's good to see you again!'

I went stiff at the contact for a long moment, before regathering myself and hugging him back. 'Good to see you too, Gary. I'm glad you haven't managed to get any fatter in my absence.'

Garrow put on a mock-affronted expression. 'What do you mean "fatter?"

He poked at his admittedly modest beer-belly, then chuckled.

'Heard from Gerard today?' I asked as we sat down.

'Yes, he should be running on time. Word to the wise, he said he was bringing your lady love with him.'

I sensed Sirius' hand here. I refused to rise to the obvious bait. 'What, Celestina Warbeck?'

Garrow laughed. 'You're about fifty-five years late on that one, Tom. She's a bit past her pin-up years. More of a housewife's darling at this point.'

I made a face. 'Are you trying to tell me I'm out of touch?'

'Honestly I don't know how you manage to fit in with the kids of today.'

'I don't, I spend all day with you and the reprobate.'

We continued to bicker about nothing for a time, between occasional glasses of wine. Sure enough, at precisely the agreed-upon time, our third ambled into the café, with company.

'Ah, gentlemen! It has been far too long!' Gerard exclaimed, and indicated to his companion. 'You recall my daughter, oui?'

I paused for a bare fraction of a second on seeing her, though nobody seemed to notice. I'd assumed Garrow had been simply messing with me. I pulled on a polite expression, and quashed my instinctive reaction under occlumency.

'Yes, I believe I remember us meeting once or twice.'

Garrow snorted into his wine. Traitor.

The Triwizard Champion accepted my offered handshake with an imperiously raised eyebrow and a flick of her inhumanly flowing hair. It had been tied back into a long braid, and her aura had been receded to a barely-perceptible shimmer. This was, after all, a muggle café. Yet even still, you could sense that every one of the muggle men in the room was hyperaware of her presence.

Fuck that must get old fast.

She sniffed. 'As though I could be forgotten.'

Her English had improved substantially. The ego hadn't, though I suppose I could hardly be one to talk about arrogance.

They sat down, and we finally got a chance to demand some grub. The waiter stumbled all over taking Fleur's order from nervousness, which had her and Gerard rolling their eyes in long-shared resignation. Come on man, have some dignity.

'So Gerard, how goes the chest I entrusted to you.'

Gerard looked about. 'Should we be talking freely? Many Muggles in Carcassonne speak fine English.'

Garrow smiled. 'We erected a ward shortly after Tom got here. Any non-magical ears are just going to perceive whatever we say as boring and not worth remembering.'

'Well in that case,' he said, brightening at the question. 'Very well indeed, I actually have made great progress since Fleur has returned from her time in England. She has practically become my right hand at this point.'

Fleur, to my surprise, blushed at this praise, and gave him a little shove on the shoulder.

I frowned. '...you mean shortly after I gave it to you?'

The Veela shook her head.

'Non. I have returned to France only the other month. I have been doing work at Gringotts in London, in their curse-breaking division. A mere desk job, but Bill - er, my supervisor, he thinks I may be ready for the field next year!'

Well that explains how her English got so good.

'Field work already?' Garrow remarked, looking impressed. 'Gerard, you were telling me they usually keep graduates in the bullpen for at least two years before sending them out Egypt or Mexico way.'

'Yes, to keep us humble.' Fleur said quickly. 'But they think I'd do more good out there cracking things open than de-trapping artefacts others bring back.'

All haughtiness had dropped away from her demeanour as soon as the topic of curse-breaking had come up, it was a rather dramatic shift.

'Where do you think they'll send you?' I asked, smiling involuntarily.

'Well I'm hoping for Egypt, my Mdju Netjer is better than my Olmec, and it's where Bill is usually assigned. So I'll have someone I'm familiar with to work with.' She added a tad unnecessarily.

'Usually assigned?' I asked.

Fleur nodded emphatically.

'Yes, they bring in the veterans every few years to help coach the new people, to help...' She looked uncertain of the word for a moment. 'Circulate? Yes, to help circulate knowledge.'

We were briefly interrupted by our food arriving, though discussion of Fleur's career prospects continued for some time.

Eventually, the topic curved back around to Lord Voldemort's ebony chest.

'So yes,' Gerard continued, wiping crumbs from his short beard. 'We have, if you excuse the word-play, made a couple of break-throughs, and I actually believe we could feasibly open the chest within the next few days. You're welcome to stay with us Tom, if you don't want to make the trip twice in such a short time.'

Fleur had, to a nearly imperceptible degree, stiffened at that suggestion. Clearly I had not quite yet earned friendship through a single group conversation with her. A pity.

I smiled apologetically at Gerard. 'As much as I would embrace the opportunity to bully a master of runes into giving up some trade secrets, I'm afraid I cannot. I've just accepted a position as the Defence teacher at Hogwarts, so there's probably going to be a lot of scurrying about that Dumbledore will want me to do to prepare. But please, flick a letter my way once you've cracked the thing, I'd love to treat the pair of your to another lunch.'

Gerard looked disappointed, but accepted it with a cheery shrug, and slid the bill my way. 'Two free lunches you say? So generous!'

I laughed, and reached for my wallet. A close French friend was, it seemed, still French.

:—:

'Come in, mister Grey.'

I sneered at the closed door, before rearranging my face into a mask and entering Dumbledore's office. It was as coated with tacky nick-nacks as ever.

'Good morning, please take a seat.' He indicated to the chair opposite his own across his enormous desk.

I sat, and folded my arms at him.

'How was your trip to France?' He enquired when I made no attempt to engage conversation.

I scowled. Of course he was keeping tabs.

'Productive,' I drawled. 'Good to know you're wasting resources on me rather then, I don't know, tracking down Crouch?'

He looked unapologetic. 'I could hardly afford to let you simply skip out on our agreement the moment you are free. I did go to some considerable expense, after all.'

I made a noncommittal grunt. 'Well I didn't. So what do you want?'

'Clerical matters, mostly. Have you been reading the paper since your release?'

'Not really. Been busy hunting Lord Voldemort as you apparently can't be bothered.'

Dumbledore frowned sternly. 'That is hardly fair, mister Grey. My responsibilities to this country and indeed to the ICW cannot simply be set aside.'

'Oh indeed, heavens forbid you give up being the power behind the throne for forty seconds of your life.'

'That is not-' He cut himself off. 'That is not what we are here to discuss. As you clearly have not heard the news, it falls to me to inform you that Professor Joplin has regrettably passed away.'

'Oh my, what a shock, who could have seen this coming.' I deadpanned.

'Mister Grey, please! A modicum of respect for the dead.' He rebuked.

'We literally discussed this inevitability months ago.' I said flatly.

'Many past Defence Against The Dark Arts teachers have left the role with life and limb intact. There was no cause for anyone to anticipate such a... brutal end.'

A brutal end, you say?

'Yet you comfortably consign me to the same fate. But tell me, how did Joplin die.' I leaned forward, cradling my chin in one hand.

'We are not here to discuss that either, mister Grey. We are here to discuss your new role as his replacement.'

I scowled at being rebuffed. 'Ah, yes, right. The part of your grand plan where you hobble my efforts to hunt Lord Voldemort just as much as you hobble your own.'

Dumbledore sighed, clearly nearing the end of his patience. 'If you continue to snipe at me upon every second sentence, we will find ourselves sitting here all night. If we could please stay on topic?'

I leaned back in my chair with a sneer. 'Very well, I've had my fun. What's business?'

He almost looked relieved. 'As you might imagine, I have become, regrettably, rather practised at inaugurating new Defence teachers by now. Your services will not be required until the new school year has begun, as student exams have already begun.

'Thus, I have only three tasks for you. By the end of this semester, you are to specify a prescribed textbook for each year group. We generally prefer to advise book sellers well before school letters are actually sent out. I will also expect you to submit a syllabus to me within that period. Most of our past Defence teachers found it most efficient to focus on a specific area of the Dark Arts to teach about, as you will most likely not be continuing on next year.'

I nodded along; I had expected as much from hearing about Sirius' time at Hogwarts.

'Lastly, I need you to sign this employment contract.'

He handed it to me on a little clipboard. It was far briefer than you would see from any muggle legalities; the benefits of magical law's simplicity. A year's binding of me to the employ of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, listing all of the duties expected, blah blah blah.

The payscale did however take me by surprise. I looked up at the Headmaster with a raised eyebrow.

'Is this the rate all teachers get?'

And here I'd always assumed Slughorn's sumptuous lifestyle had been fuelled by his potioneering work.

'Ah, no, not quite. The salary for Defence teachers is rather larger than that of the other subjects. It must be, else finding anyone willing to take the position would be even more arduous.'

I smirked. 'Well I'll try not to brag to the others too loudly then.'

'Indeed, it would be in exceedingly poor taste.' He said seriously.

'I do have a couple of caveats I would like to add here though. Specifically weekends.'

'What about them?'

'I want them off, guaranteed. No supervising kids on Hogsmeade trips, no curfew patrol.' I raised my hand to stay his objection. 'I'll pull extra duty on weekdays if you want. But I want my weekends free to work on hunting Lord Voldemort. And the Grindelwald problem, for that matter.'

He sighed. 'You are hardly in a position to be making demands, mister Grey. But very well, under one condition: You must leave this Grindelwald business alone. Of the two of us, he is my problem to deal with, and I shall do so.'

I scowled. 'His escape was both our faults. He's my responsibility too.'

'Concern yourself with one Dark Lord at a time, mister Grey. Even I was not so ambitious at your age to pursue two. Remember, Grindelwald's escape is public knowledge; Voldemort's survival is not. I have far more resources to call upon in his regard.'

I leant back in my chair, arms folded across my chest. 'Fine. But I want to be kept in the loop anyway.'

'Agreed.' Dumbledore said firmly.

I signed the contract.

'Has there been any news on the Grindelwald front?' I asked as Dumbledore accepted the clipboard back. With a wave of his wand, it duplicated itself in front of us both.

A look of irritation passed across his face at the question, though not, I think, directed at me.

'Perishingly little. Not even a sighting. Alas, he always was a master of disguise, so even that means little. Every government in magical Europe is on high alert, which of course makes it the least likely place for him to resurface.'

'Do you think he will try for America again?'

'Not terribly likely, unless he thinks there is something of value for him there, though at this time I cannot think of anything.'

We stewed in thought for a bit, before I noticed I was sitting amiably with Albus Dumbledore.

I swept to my feet, snatching my copy of our contract.

'I'll be in touch.' I said curtly, and took my leave.

:—:

A few days after my conversation with Voldemort, I again found myself in Carcassonne, this time hopefully not to leave empty-handed.

Château Delacour was as dazzlingly picturesque as ever in the twilight. I trotted up the intricately carved sandstone steps, and found the great indigo doors swinging open for me before I could even knock.

The entrance hall was empty, but Gerard soon came into view as I strode in. Gone were his usual luxurious robes, cut in the latest fashion. He was dressed more similarly to how I had first met him; a simple, functional tunic, and trousers. His work clothes.

He took my hand in both of his in his characteristically enthusiastic handshake.

'Welcome, welcome once more dear friend to my humble home. I don't believe you've been to the workshop before, no? I think you shall quite like it.'

'You know me Gerard, I love a good man-cave, though I doubt it will be anything approaching humble.'

He chortled, leading me down one of the Château's many corridors.

'You flatter me my friend. Well in truth it is perhaps not so much a man-cave as it was, now that Fleur's earned her place there.'

'She doesn't have a workshop of her own?'

'Oh of course, but it is rather less well equipped. Less dangerous, you see? I gauged her skills finally ready for a proper Master's equipment.'

'Speaking of Fleur, is she not joining us?'

'Yes of course, she's as keen to see what is inside as I. She's just having a meeting with her boss now, she should return soon.'

We entered a chamber which was far different from its elegant neighbours. Here, a thin layer of sand coated the floor; its deep reddish hue betraying it as iron-rich sand, a magical insulator. A rarely necessary precaution, just what did Gerard like to get up to in here?

The walls were, of course, lined with countertops, and every crafting tool you could imagine, both magical and mundane. Athames hung next to callipers, hacksaws alongside runestones. A lot of the more advanced-looking gear I couldn't even ascribe a name to, yet the place reminded me a little of my own cellar all the same.

In the centre of the room sat the ebony chest. It still looked bizarrely innocent, not so very different from what you might see being sold in a higher-end furniture store. Particularly now that the glint of its runic protections had largely gone dark.

The far wall was one great window overlooking the grounds. To take my mind off the chest, I ambled over to admire the view of the amber-rose evening sun, just in time to see a pair of people crack into existence a few dozen feet from the Château's entrance. It was Fleur, and... a Weasley? Yes, the attractive one, who I'd met at the Potter boy's birthday party.

Ah, of course, Bill. I'd not connected the dots in my head before. William was, after all, even more common a name than Tom.

As I watched, they laughed at some shared joke, before embracing. They kissed before parting, and the man disapparated.

I did not let the scowl bubbling up within me rise to the surface. I reminded myself once more that I was above such idiotic, discomforting emotions. It was Veela influence, nothing more.

She soon joined us in the workshop.

'Papa. Hello Tom.'

I pulled up a smile. 'Evening Fleur. Are you ready to finally crack this thing open?'

'I've been ready for weeks!' She exclaimed, her face lit up. 'What do you think is inside?'

'Well that's the thing isn't it. I haven't the foggiest! Could be anything. Ancient scrolls, powerful artefacts, a mountain of iridium... only one way to find out!' I stepped forward, but before I touched the latch, Gerard cleared his throat.

I looked to him. 'It is safe, yes?'

Gerard nodded slowly. 'On the outside? Absolutely, I guarantee you by all my decades of experience and skill, every defence on the chest itself been deactivated. As for what lies within... well that is another matter, one which we cannot know until it is opened. If I may, I would suggest a containment circle around the container and yourself as you open it.'

I looked back at the chest. This was Lord Voldemort after all. 'Yeah, probably wise.'

Gerard handed me a little billhook-looking implement, so that I could open the chest without touching it. The father and daughter pair erected the warded circle about me. The moment it was complete, I reached for the latch with the hook, and began to lift it.

I awoke, wet.

Well, half of me was, the half currently dunked in water.

I shot into full wakefulness, looking about wildly before me. Blackness. Naught but blood-black nothingness. I sat in a shallow pool, but a mere few inches deep. I knew that feeling, the same void I knew each time I stepped into battle with my other selves. The chest was a horcrux?

But no, this was different. There was no eternal gleaming light on the horizon, no mocking other Me. Just that terrible blackness.

I felt... something behind me. I turned, and beheld it for the first time. Dreadfully distinct against the dark, a tall white fountain played. Its design I could not describe; its waters trickling silently, ever silently into the pool without end.

And as I beheld it, as it loomed, I felt a dread. A deeper, and colder dread than any had chilled me before. I beheld it, and knew the end of all hope.

I stumbled, fell back, scuttled crablike as far back from the chest as I could, pressing myself up against the magical barrier that contained us.

I was gibbering, I realised, my mouth spilling forth nonsensical sentences strewn across all of the languages I had stolen over the years. I couldn't stop.

I was still in the Delacours' workshop. Fleur and Gerard were still there, looking petrified. They were calling out to me, but I couldn't make out the words through my own racing thoughts. The magical barrier lifted, and they rushed to my side.

The words they said then, I could not process at the time, but would later remember only in snatches.

Fleur, desperately. 'What is it, what's happening to him?! Some kind of terror curse?'

Gerard, scared but professional. 'No, I can't find a spell on him. I think he's having some sort of panic attack. Get me a calming draught, now!'

Fleur, dashing out of the room, hair trailing a blaze of silver.

Gerard, jabbing his wand at the chest, its defences humming back to life across its surface.

Fleur sprinting back in, potion in hand.

The pair of them, struggling, trying to make me drink. I was too strong.

'Impedimenta!'

My movements slowing to a crawl, the potion pouring down my throat.

Clarity became a liquid that flowed through my body, sweeping the gripping terror up and containing it, an ugly little ball in the back of my mind. I was myself again. Mostly.

The impediment jinx ended, and I sagged.

Gerard held my head in his hands. 'Tom, Tom can you hear me?'

'Y-y-yeah, I c-can. I'm alright.'

'Like hell you are. What was it, what happened? What's in the box.'

Even through the potion I shuddered. My occlumency defences were in ragged tatters.

'B-bad. Just... bad.'

'He's still shaking.' Fleur said, and conjured a blanket. Gerard wrapped it around me.

'You kept saying "The End". At least in the languages I could make sense of. Over and over. What does it mean?'

'I d-don't want t-t-to talk about it.'

I looked over at the chest again. It glimmered innocently at me.

'W-we need to b-bury it. Bury it so d-deep nobody ever finds it.'

They exchanged looks.

'...he's clearly still delirious. We should take him to Saint Luc's.' Fleur half-whispered to her father.

'No!' I said sharply. 'No healers. I'm f-fine.'

I'd rummaged around in the minds of some of the world's finest healers. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing they could do that I couldn't do for myself. I'd rather take a year in Azkaban than let some amateur kook with a cardboard legilimency license take a look in my head.

Hell, Azkaban's probably where I'd end up if they did.

Gerard made an exasperated noise. 'You can't be serious Tom, look at you. You can't even stand.'

I shook my head violently.

'I just n-need-' I needed time alone. I needed solitude and silence to properly reconstruct my occlumency from the ground up, ideally before the calming draught wore off. 'I need to meditate.'

'"Meditate."' The Delacours repeated in perfect unison, in the same dubious tone.

'T-trust me. Please.'

Fleur threw up her hands, and walked out of the room, muttering something uncharitable about the English. Gerard sighed, and helped me to my feet.

'Fine, but not here, with this... thing. We've got a good place for it, but if you aren't improved in an hour, you're going to Saint Luc's. Even if I have to stun you and drag you there myself.

:—:

Fortunately for Gerard, I was confident he would not wind up having to get into a duel with me. As soon as he had shut the door, leaving me alone in a small tower room, I left my body behind, and entered the shapeless void that was the Gaunt Ring.

Doing so was, I knew, something of a double-edged sword. Here, free from all possible distraction, I could work on putting my psyche back together much more quickly. On the other side, I had no protection from my own trauma here.

Building an effective mental defence with Occlumency was hard. Extremely hard. Don't believe that rubbish you read in dollar-store manuals about mind-palaces or memory walls. It was all tosh, things that people had heard used as metaphors (metaphors even I have used) and taken literally.

No mere construct of the conscious mind could possibly be effective against Legilimency. Maintaining an effort upon one's own mind was doomed to lapse, and thus failure. As Merlin the Lesser once famously wrote, the mind was a complex and many-layered thing. Consciousness was merely one such layer.

The problem, and the reason why being a master Occlumens remained such a rare skill despite its obvious value, was that it was an entirely implicit skill. It couldn't be described with words, only learned of through experience. How could one possibly describe the sensation of not thinking about a thing, when all logic would indicate such a thing impossible?

In short, there was a reason why to this day the most effective way of learning the basics was for a Legilimens to simply savage your mind with your worst experiences until it figured itself out. Fortunately, I was far beyond the basics, and well accustomed to dealing with terror.

It was an arduous hour, haunted by flashback after flashback. Tormented by the phantasms of my past.

'Your death shall be slow, mortal. I shall make it last centuries!'

'We are Lord Voldemort!'

'Rest well, combatant, and know that you did better than any could hope to.'

'Avada Kedavra!'

:—:

By the time Gerard returned to check on me, I had recovered enough control over my mind that, upon returning to my body, my hands no longer shook at the slightest indication of danger. My voice no longer quavered.

It wasn't a complete job, and wouldn't be until I had more time to myself, but for now it was enough.

:—:

I spent the night in Château Delacour. The next day, Fleur, Gerard, and I travelled by portkey to the Mariana Islands, a bit south of Japan. They had abjectly refused to let me go alone.

Few words were spoken between us, and even less about our cargo. We travelled by private charter boat out to the little section of Pacific Ocean that lay above the most famous and deepest sea trench in the world.

It was there that we hurled that blighted chest, and watched it sink rapidly beneath the waves. With any luck, never to be seen again.

I hoped.

:-:-:-:-:

A/N: The tall white fountain is a visual inspires by the Vladimir Nobokov novel Pale Fire, though it does not represent the same thing it does in that book.

For those of you concerned that I may have wimped out of an explanation of what is in the chest, worry not. An explanation will come in time.

Don't forget to review and follow.