Newt Scamander steps out of the fireplace, offering his hand to Professor McGonagall as he looks around at the unfamiliar setting. She holds an index finger to her lips, signaling for quiet, the instant before he nods and whispers, "When we left the habitat, I thought I heard you say La Ruche."

Nodding, she whispers back, offering a slight correction. "I said Briard cottage, La Ruche." She gestures toward the wizard kneeling on the floor beside the caged bird. "This is Terry Briard. He's the caretaker for the property."

Newt nods and absent mindedly shakes the caretaker's outstretched hand, his eyes already focused on the sickly bird. "Yes, of course, Mr. Briard and I have met. It's been quite a while since I visited here though. I used to come out to check on Fawkes every once in a great while, if Dumbledore thought it was warranted. Not that there's much that I can do for a well-cared for, mature, phoenix. Most anything that ails them can be cured with a good burning day." Without waiting for any sort of reply, he reaches out to touch the cage, drawing back a millisecond before contact is made. "Any chance of jinxes or curses on this thing?"

McGonagall shrugs. "It's not impossible, but I've checked for everything I can think of. It's also highly unlikely there is anything that could be triggered by contact alone. Mr. Briard and I carried her here from a hidden room beneath the barn."

Taking in the wretched condition of the now softly crying bird, Newt says, "It might have been better to leave her there. The trip here might've been too much for her."

Briard nods. "We would 'ave if zat were an option. Zee subterranean room she was kept in was nearly freezing, courtesy of an absolutely frigid enchanted waterfall that was spilling directly over 'er cage. We 'ad to move 'er to safety just for Professor McGonagall to attempt vanishing the waterfall, and when she tried, it caught fire and could've burned down zee barn wizout some very fast action on her part. She deprived zee barn of all oxygen. Good thing zee 'orse is still outside tonight. We 'ad to run to get zis little one out, then we walked 'er 'ere as slowly as it was possible to do."

"Right then." Newt says, matching their whispered tones. "That explains why she's wet, and also why she couldn't ignite and free herself of those dreadful spikes. Whoever put her in here, kept her waterlogged and cold on purpose. Let's hope she's stronger than she looks." Talking to the young bird, he says in a hushed soothing tone, "It's alright sweetheart. Help has come."

"My wife is asleep up in the loft but, it should not disturb 'er if you need a bit more light to work by."

"Was there any light, or exposure to light, where she was found?"

Both McGonagall and the caretaker shake their heads grimly.

"Best not then. It's alright, I can manage by firelight. I've worked in far less hospitable places, and if we can put an end to her pain, the flames will warm her and soothe her until she's strong enough to ignite. Phoenix like firelight. They think it's pretty." Newt makes soft bird-like noises to see if she will respond. When the bird makes a feeble attempt at eye contact, he asks, "Don't you sweetheart? Sorry, I can't sing as beautifully as mum or dad does, but I can help you. Want to come out of there and sit by the nice warm fire?" When the bird makes no attempt at a response, he turns his attention back to Briard momentarily. "Bring me as many clean dry towels as you can."

As Briard leaves the room at a trot, Newt lowers his case to the floor and opens it. Glancing back over his shoulder at McGonagall, he whispers, "I'll be back in a jiff, Professor."

She nods without surprise as he steps into the case and slowly drops out of sight, as if descending a flight of stairs.

A moment later when Briard returns, his arms loaded down with a hefty stack of towels, he looks around in puzzlement. "Where did 'e go?"

McGonagall points to the open case lying on the floor. "His office."

Briard raises an eyebrow and chuckles softly. "'e carries it wiz 'im?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"'e must be exceptionally gifted at undetectable extensions."

"Mr. Scamander is exceptionally gifted at a lot of things. Caring for magical creatures is the only one he loves."

When Newt steps back into sight a moment later carrying a silver tray smaller than a shoebox Briard is only mildly surprised. When Newt kneels and waves a wand, instantly disengaging the padlock on the cage, the older man asks him, "Would you like some gloves. She's going to peck you to death."

"No." Newt answers calmly. "She needs as much warmth from my skin as she can possibly get. If she pecks a little, that's alright. I've been pecked before. She's too weak to do much damage anyway. She can barely keep her eyes open."

"Can you immobilize 'er so she can't 'urt herself struggling."

Talking sweetly, as though to the bird, Newt shakes his head, whispering, "Nah. If I do, the inability to move will only frighten her more. We need to keep her heart rate steady. If she expires without being able to ignite, she won't come back. Besides, it would only work until she regains enough strength to fight the charm. Phoenix magic is very powerful. At full strength, she could render such a charm completely useless. It's best to just move slowly, speak softly, and let her know that she is among friends who want to help… not hurt. You can cover the top and sides of the cage with one of those towels though. It will limit her field of vision while I work. Just move very slowly and keep quiet."

Newt nods his approval and encouragement when Briard, who is used to the bees and other farm animals, moves at an incredibly slow pace and eases the towel down over the top of the cage without eliciting so much as a flutter or a squawk from his gravely injured patient. Talking to the bird, he says sweetly, "See, it's alright. Mr. B. won't hurt you. He looks after all the animals here."

Giving the bird a moment to adjust to all the new attention she's getting. Newt empties the pockets of his blue coat quietly, being careful not to jostle things about and frighten her with the noise. Drawing out a tiny pewter bowl that is barely bigger than a thimble, the kind of needle-less syringe used for nursing abandoned newborn animals, a packet of gauze sponges, and a thick role of gauze, tape and a phial with an eyedropper in the cap, he lays it all out on the silver tray and stands, long enough to remove his scarf and coat. Tossing them into the seat of a nearby chair, he kneels again and uses his wand to shoot a minuscule jet of water into the bowl. Glancing at the bird, just to confirm her approximate age and weight, he adds a single dark brown droplet from the phial to the water and then, he draws only a portion of the mixture up into the syringe, eyeing the measurement very carefully. Laying the syringe aside, he reaches for a second towel and spreads it across his pajama-clad thighs at the ready. "Alright sweetheart, time for you to be a brave little girl."

He opens the door on the front of the cage and though she squawks softly, and ruffles her feathers for a second, the effort alone seems to exhaust her, and she settles quickly.

"That's it." Newt's voice is barely audible. "You're a good girl. Nice bird. Let's get rid of those nasty old spikes first, eh?" He picks up the towel spread over his lap, and moving with extreme caution, he wraps it very gently around the bird's small chest and loosely up over her injured wings. Very mindful of the placement of his hands, he draws her out very slowly, moving at a snail's pace. Finally, able to cradle the exhausted bird's back against his bare chest and being careful not to allow his arm to put pressure against the spike now pointed at the floor, he says, "Move the cage away very slowly, and let her see you doing it." He turns his body slightly so the bird can watch. "They're very smart. She will understand."

Stepping forward on silent feet, Briard and McGonagall lift the heavy cage from the floor and slowly move it across the small living space, and out the front door.

Newt waits until they return empty handed a moment later and then, he whispers, "No more manky old cages for you. You're free sweetheart." He gingerly exposes the wing that is currently most accessible to him and carefully touches the tip of his wand to the small spike. Whispering, "Evanesco." He vanishes the spike and coos softly when the bird cries. "I know. That hurt. I'm sorry. It'll be better soon." As he talks, he watches a tiny trickle of her ice blue blood ooze from the unobstructed wound. Quietly using his wand to bandage and stabilize the wing, he magically adds a few tiny droplets from the syringe to a couple of gauze pads, before the pads and gauze float gently through the air and apply themselves to the now unimpaled wing. Covering the wing with the towel again, he turns her over with exaggerated care and repeats the process. This time, when the spike is removed, she barely makes a sound. Speaking softly to the adults in the room, but still as though to a frightened child, he says, "I don't dare give her anything internally for the pain now. She's much too young … and too weak. She's not even trying to nip at me. Anything I gave her would make her sleep, and in her present condition, she likely would never wake. I can feel her heart beating, but it's very slow. If she starts improving, maybe gets a little stronger, I'll be able to give her something then."

Having done all he can for the punctures, he uses his wand to gently warm another towel and then wrap that one around the one already in place. Putting too much warmth directly against her badly decaying feathers would do more harm than good at this point. Rising slowly to his feet, he pulls the closest armchair in the room a bit nearer the fire, and McGonagall just has time to remove his coat and scarf from the seat of the chair before he sits on them. Settling in, propping his left foot on his right knee, Newt sighs deeply. "Nothing to do now but wait. She will either get stronger, or she won't. If she does, she will ignite, and come back to us whole. We'll have to change her inner wrap and bandages about once every 5 minutes until she starts to dry out. Then, we'll adjust as needed. I can do it on my own if I need to."

McGonagall whispers, "Is it safe to move her to the farmhouse?"

Newt shakes his head. "Not now. Maybe in a few hours. Maybe at daybreak. I wish I had a mature female phoenix in my case that might be trusted to lend her a hand. However, at present, the only one I have in there is a cantankerous old wench, who would just as likely finish her off as help her. She's been very badly treated herself and it's left her rather grouchy. She's going to have to be re-socialized before I can release her."

McGonagall sighs softly. "What can I do to help?"

Newt raises an eyebrow. "You're staying?"

"What? I'm going to return to the castle and retire to my nice, comfortable feather bed, leaving you here alone with a dying phoenix in your arms? I think not. Albus would take to haunting me!"

Newt chuckles soundlessly. "I don't think I would want to see that, Professor."

"Nor I." She seconds. Turning her attention to their host, she adds, I promise we will be as quiet as church mice. You've had a long day. You can go up to bed if you want. We'll leave just as soon as she's fit enough for travel."

Briard nods and rubs his tired face. "Every day is a long day 'ere. I 'ave still to see to the 'orse. Zat's what I was doing when I came across you. After zat, I'll go up. Help yourselves to zee tea kettle if you like; and anything else from zee kitchen."

They watch Briard leave the house, and McGonagall says, "So, what am I doing?"

"Move the screen back a bit from the fire and drape a few of those towels over it so the flames will warm them. They will pick up the smell from the fire and it will help to keep her calm when she is wrapped in them."

McGonagall follows his instructions and then pulls a second armchair closer to the fire until he is done with the first of the towel and bandage exchanges. Once the wet towels have been magically cleaned and dried, she folds them and returns them to the stack before whispering, "I haven't had a bite of supper. I'm going to put the kettle on and see what I can whip up before he comes back in. I don't want to be banging around in there while he's trying to sleep. Are you hungry?"

Newt whispers back, "Not particularly, but a cup of very strongly brewed tea would be most welcome."

Nearly two hours later, after a fragrant bowl of tomato bisque, a thick slice of buttered bread and two cups of tea, McGonagall sets her meal tray aside and just before Newt can begin another round of bandage changes, she reaches out and declares quietly, "My bird."

Smiling, he passes the fragile creature to her and then slips back into his coat. Purely to stretch his legs, he walks into the kitchen and takes his time poring himself another cup of tea. By the time he returns to his chair, McGonagall is done with the dressing changes and is wrapping the bird in a fresh, dry towel. When he notices that her mouth is pressed into a thin white line, he asks quietly, "Problem?"

"I suppose it's to be expected given the deplorable condition of her feathers, but no matter how gentle I am, with each new dressing, she loses more. At this rate, she's going to have absolutely no insulation against the cold in a matter of hours."

He nods. "That's what we're here for. If we can get her core temperature high enough, she will ignite and she will come back good as new. The trick is to do it slowly but steadily. Fast enough to keep her alive but not so fast is to send her into shock. Too much one way or the other is equally bad." Setting his fresh cup of tea temporarily on the mantle, he uses his wand to whisk dead feathers into the fireplace and freshen the used towels. Once things are neat and tidy again, he stands with his back to the fireplace, and glances toward the loft where Terrence Briard is snoring loudly. "We sort of crashed in on him tonight, and he was snoring less than five minutes after his head hit the pillow. I don't think I could sleep that soundly with people in my house."

McGonagall shrugs. "He works hard. He has to get his sleep when and where he can. A few years ago, his wife was diagnosed with dementia, secondary to a bad case of dragon pox when she was a girl. Aside from running this place, he is her primary caregiver."

Newt shakes his head empathetically. "Dementia is such a rare ailment for witches and wizards. I wish our healers could find the link between it, and people who have survived juvenile exposure to dragon pox. As rare as it is, nearly every witch or wizard diagnosed had the pox first. If they could only find the link, they'd be one giant step closer to curing it."

"I know. And if we can cure it for wizardkind, then maybe there'd be hope for curing it for muggles as well."

"You should put Logan on it. That girl's got more than enough brain to figure it out."

McGonagall nods appreciatively. "But, at present, she's busy trying to figure out how to save the lives of muggles who have overdosed on a wizard drug."

"How's that?"

"Somebody's been selling Stardust to muggle teenagers."

Newt's hazel eyes stretch to twice their normal size. "Merlin's pants! When they find out who is responsible, I hope they charge them with premeditated homicide, because that's essentially what it is."

"Like enough of them don't die everyday, courtesy of their own street drugs. One among us decides to make a profit off of it… It's shameful."

"Does the DML have any leads on the dealer?"

"I haven't asked."

"You still have contacts there."

"Of course. I could have several questions answered just by sending a single owl, but I don't work for the DML anymore, and I have more than enough correspondence to send, and answer, with the job I do hold."

He nods toward the bird cradled against her chest. "How did you come to find her?"

"I was looking for her… and praying I didn't find her."

"If you had reason to look for her, then I'm glad you did find her. If you hadn't, she'd already be gone."

Careful not to disturb their patient, McGonagall reaches into her robes and withdraws the small journal and the vial associated with it. Silently, she passes them to him.

One glance at the chilled vial with its icy blue liquid, and his normally kind face is distorted by an angry scowl. "Just having the blood of a phoenix in your possession is illegal, never mind drawing it!" Knowing, without asking, that she is not responsible for such a travesty, he queries, "How exactly did you come to be in possession of this?"

"It came to my attention this afternoon that Severus Snape was apparently living out here… In the farmhouse."

Newt's posture stiffens. "That's rather…"

"Inappropriate? He's lucky Tom Riddle got to him first! I removed all of his filth from the house. I took anything salvageable back to the castle. Just out of curiosity, I opened the journal and when I realized the text was concealed, I started worrying about why that might be." She waits for Newt to lower himself to the hearth and open the journal, intent on reading by firelight until he realizes that the notes held within are not in English.

"This is Egyptian."

McGonagall nods. "Can you read it?"

"I can, but truth be told I'd have to walk it through a couple of different languages first. It would take me several hours."

"Your old house ghost translated just enough for me to go in search of that vial, among the many that I found. There is quite a collection."

"Of phoenix blood?" Newt frowns.

"Of vials in general. That was the only vial of phoenix blood I found, but once I found it, I stopped looking. One vial was more than enough to set my warning bells off. The phoenix and Dumbledore were synonymous to say the least. I really didn't want to find her. I didn't want to be right, but I pricked my finger just a test the contents of that vial. Once the wound closed…"

"You knew."

She nods. "I came back here as fast as I could."

"It doesn't make sense. Professor Snape was a lot of things. Stupid wasn't one of them. Drawing the blood of the phoenix carries a mandatory prison sentence."

McGonagall nods again. "I can't account for it. Except…" She shrugs. "Either there was something he wanted more than he feared Azkaban, or 16 years as Dumbledore's spy made him reckless. When you live your life in constant fear of discovery, maybe a mandatory prison sentence becomes a minor thing to risk."

Scamander squints. "Would it be minor for you? The thought of living out the rest of your days in the company of dementors."

"Not minor, no, but isn't that what all the members of the Order have been risking for the last three years. Ever since Riddle's return."

"There's something to be said for being over 100 years old. Member or not, once you pass the century mark, nobody really expects you to take up an active role. At least not without some rather hardcore training. Spend your life looking after fuzzy, or feathery critters, people pretty much consider you a lightweight in the warrior department."

McGonagall chuckles without mirth. "Who decided I wasn't a lightweight? I spend my life looking after short people."

"Well, that's an oversimplification, if ever I heard one."

"It doesn't change the fact that…" She pauses resolutely before admitting, "It took all I had to survive the first wizard war. When I saw the second one approaching, I figured my race was all but run. I had no expectation of survival this time around, Newt."

"That's quite a declaration. Though it's not really a surprise. I have never known you to be anything less than sensible, Professor. I think you'd have to be a madwoman to expect to survive a confrontation with Voldemort," He self-corrects. "or are we back to calling him by his given name now?"

"Mr. Potter's idea, and a rather good one, I think. Harry said to me recently, 'He chose the name Voldemort because he wanted to instill fear. He's not fearsome anymore. He's dead, and we shouldn't allow him to keep frightening people.' or words to that effect."

"He sounds like a very smart young man."

"Smarter than he knows."

Newt thumps Snape's diary against the palm of his hand. "Are you going to turn this over to the ministry?"

McGonagall shrugs. "Were he alive, I'd be duty-bound to report him. As he's not…" She hesitates briefly. "I don't see the need to blacken his name any further than it already has been. Furthermore, the ministry has enough on their plate at the moment. In the current climate, I doubt anyone within the ministry will care very much about a vial filled with phoenix blood, especially not when the person responsible is deceased. It's not as if his research is ongoing, and they are up to their ears in death eaters."

Newt riffles the pages of the journal. "What do you suppose he was trying to accomplish?"

"I shudder to think. Judging from what little bit the friar translated, he was interested in the bird's ability to resurrect itself. If he was trying to somehow incorporate that into a potion… Well, the possibilities regarding the identity of his intended target, are grim to say the least."

"Potion making was definitely his forte, but there's still one major problem there."

"Other than the fact that he may have been searching for a way to bring someone back from the dead?"

"Yes. Other than that. There's a reason no one has been able to accomplish it before now. Certainly, there have been those foolhardy enough to try, but the fact remains, a dead body is not capable of swallowing any potion, no matter its intent. Phoenix or able to regenerate because of their magic, but in all my years, I've seen nothing to indicate that wizards and witches are able to retain, much less manipulate magic postmortem. The phoenix body was designed to resurrect itself. The human body was not. I mean, yes, we have the ability to heal ourselves under the right conditions, but not to reclaim life once it has passed. Even the phoenix has limitations – necessary conditions for its continued survival. That's why they are an endangered species. That's why there are so few of them. They don't come ten to a knut. Perhaps this was something he undertook to help maintain his cover with Riddle. He came closer to resurrection than anyone else I've ever heard of."

"I don't know. And I'm not sure that we ever will know, even if we could translate Snape's journals perfectly, it's not as if we can ask him what he intended. It's too late for that now, and truthfully, I'm not certain I want an answer to that particular question. The possibilities alone are horrifying."

Chasing the truth, Newt presses on. "Dumbledore?"

A short bark of cold laughter escapes McGonagall. "No. Snape may have crossed over to our side, but he felt no great affection for Dumbledore. He felt no great affection for any of us. I think, he needed us… and he hated us for it. Blamed us for his own inadequacies."

"Was he really on our side, or was he playing us?"

"Albus believed he was on our side."

"I'm asking you ma'am, not Albus."

"Personally, I think it's highly likely he was playing all of us, Tom Riddle included."

"If he was only looking out for himself, who did he care enough about to want to resurrect?"

McGonagall shakes her head. "I'm not even going to give voice to that. It's just too horrible to fathom."

He senses her reticence. "But you have someone in mind, yes?"

She chirps, "Sadly, yes I do."

Newt holds up the journal, drawing her eyes back to it. "If you're not going to turn it in, can I keep it?"

"I understand your curiosity… the desire to study it, but I'm not letting that book out of my sight. If you want to go to the trouble of translating it, you'll have to come spend some time at the castle to do it. Personally, I think we'd all be better off to chuck it, and any other volumes, in the fire and be done with it."

Knowing it's best to change the subject, Newt smiles and tries to shake off the shadowy mood that has enveloped them. "So, what's next?"

"Pardon?"

"You didn't expect to survive. Yet, here you are."

"I think I'll stick with teaching. It has served me well."

"Most people did quite a bit of celebrating when Riddle disappeared 16 years ago.

She answers with flat disapproval. "Yes, I remember."

"Now that we're certain he won't be returning, I imagine the wizarding world will make the roaring 20's look as exciting as oatmeal. Tina and I have already had several invites to parties. We haven't attended any yet, but I've heard tell a few of them were barn burners."

"Parties don't really interest me, Mr. Scamander."

"Come now Professor? You haven't done anything to celebrate."

"I don't have time to celebrate. I'm too busy cleaning up the mess left behind. There are too many losses to be coped with."

Newt grins, still nudging her. "What about last time? Sixteen years ago?

She turns her dark eyes his way, and for a long moment she says nothing at all. Then, after a heavy sigh, she whispers, "During the first wizard war, I lost my youngest brother, someone else I cared very deeply for, and parts of myself that I still haven't managed to reclaim. The fact that Tom Riddle disappeared and left us in relative peace for 13 years did nothing to alleviate the pain of those losses. I did not feel like celebrating then. I do not feel like celebrating now. I felt then, as I do now, thankful to be alive. Perhaps, even more so now. I didn't do it out of any desire to celebrate, but I suppose I did do something a bit out of character back then."

"Oh?

"Riddle attacked the Potters and subsequently went into hiding the evening of October 31 that year, and despite the fact that I had been steadfastly refusing to do it for more than 20 years, the following March, I got married."

Newt blinks twice in obvious surprise. "I didn't know you were married."

McGonagall offers him the slightest of nods. "Briefly."

Misunderstanding the comment, he says sincerely, "I'm sorry it didn't work out."

The right corner of her mouth twitches involuntarily as she restrains laughter. "It worked out beautifully. Better than I had any right to expect. Just because our time together as husband and wife was short, doesn't mean it wasn't wonderfully sweet. My only regret is that I made him wait so long."

"So, no desire to celebrate, but maybe the realization that the sands of time are slipping through the hourglass faster than we know?"

This time she does laugh. "Possibly, and that was a very kind way to phrase it. My father thought I was suffering some sort of midlife crisis at the time, and he was much more plainspoken about it."

He joins in the laughter. "In my case, Tina couldn't call it a midlife crisis. Not at the age of 85, but when I went out and bought a motorcycle, she thought I had completely lost my marbles. And she told me so, every chance she got."

"I'm sure she did. Do you still have the motorcycle?"

"I do. I'm waiting for Rolf to do a bit of growing up before I give it to him. If I gave it to him now, he'd go out, crash it, wind up in Mungo's, and then his grandmother would divorce me."

"You might need to wait another ten years or so. He's a good lad, but he's a bit of a daredevil."

"This I know. I was hoping I'd be able to give it to him in a few years after he graduates Hogwarts, but he's not ready yet… And neither is the rest of the family."

"You'll have to wait and see. It's been my observation that boys usually tend to do a lot of growing up between 14 and 17. He might surprise you… Then again, by the time he is 17 you may be even more determined not to give him the motorcycle if he doesn't take the edges off of that natural bravado that most males his age seem to have."

"So, what will it be this time? Given the life expectancy of wizards and witches, it's not too late. You can still go out and grab that midlife crisis with both hands."

McGonagall clamps down hard on her lower lip to keep herself from disturbing the sleeping couple upstairs as her body shakes with silent laughter. She laughs until the frail bird in her arms offers up a soft but musical note of pleasure.

Hearing this, Newt rises and moves to her left side. Peering down at the small, bedraggled phoenix, he checks her pulse as he whispers kindly, "Well, hello beautiful. It's about time you joined in on the conversation."

The bird's answering trill seems to sap most of her energy, and she tries to tuck her head beneath her wing to sleep. Noticing that she can't quite manage it because of her bandages McGonagall gently drapes one corner of the towel she is swaddled in over her head to shield her tiny eyes from the warm glow of the firelight.

Nodding his approval, Newt smiles. "She's nearly dried out now and her pulse is close to normal. She's got a little way to go yet, but its strong and steady. It's okay for her to sleep now. I'm relatively confident she won't slip away without igniting, but you might wrap her in an extra towel. If she sleeps, her body temperature will drop a few degrees.

Instead of taking a towel from the top of the nearby stack, McGonagall uses her wand to call for the quilt draped over the back of the sofa. She leans forward in her chair slightly as the quilt wraps itself around both she, and the small bird. Settling in once again and resting her head against the back of her chair, she removes her glasses, closes her eyes, and is finally able to answer Newt with, "Forget the midlife crisis. I don't have the energy for one. What I'd really like to do is go to bed and sleep for at least a month." She yawns discreetly behind her free hand, lending weight to her statement. "Seeing as I'm having trouble doing that in the aftermath of battle, I've decided to take up sailing instead."

"Sailing? Is that particularly soothing?"

McGonagall mumbles quietly. "I haven't been out in open water for a number of years, but I suppose that all depends on the tide. Something tells me it won't be soothing in rough weather."

Newt thinks it over for a moment before replying, "Based on what little I know about the ocean tides, there may not be that many degrees of separation between soothing, exhilarating, and terrifying."

When he receives no reply to his quiet statement, he lifts his eyes from the tiny bit of bird visible beneath the folds of the quilt, and moving very slowly, he gently extracts the dangling reading glasses from the sleeping professor's right hand. Placing them carefully on a nearby table, he whispers to the bird before reclaiming his own seat in front of the fireplace, "So much for her not sleeping."