Continuity: This story takes place sometime before Alternity 1.

Alternity Interlude: Come Into My Parlor
by Slytherin Dragon

***Day 1***

As ordered, I begin my first overseas mission for the Agency, starting with a sea voyage that will likely last until at least the end of the month. It'll be the first of many such voyages, I think; it's a good thing I don't get seasick. Even when I'm tempted to. I've decided to keep this journal, partly because it's something to do and partly because once I get back home to Sydney I want to be able to write a very detailed report, and so will need the facts and observations I will write here.

I'm having second thoughts about this ship. It's a complete rust bucket; back home in Australia it'd be long overdue to be scrapped. It's a testament to the skill of this crew that this thing runs at all, I think.

We're heading, I'm told, in the direction of a small port town in Spain. Apparently it doesn't have a name, or at least I haven't heard one. It's far enough off the beaten path not to attract notice, said the captain when I asked why Spain and why not somewhere closer to what's left of the European commercial hub. Far enough away that He won't see us.

Does he think Voldemort can see everything everywhere, that he's an omniscient, omnipresent Eye, like Sauron in Tolkien's 'Lord of the Rings'? I asked the captain that, laughing.

Yes, he said solemnly. Just exactly like that.

***Day 2***

If other days are as boring as this one, I will confine myself to writing only about interesting days in order to conserve space in my journal. I'll also resolve to never, ever take another fact-finding mission as long as I live. The only interesting thing that happened today was that I go to know my shipmates a little better and came to a single, solitary conclusion.

Everyone on this ship is completely insane.

With everyone I speak to, it's magic this and wizards that and hey look there's an owl. Even where Voldemort doesn't rule, he holds people in thrall with his sleight of hand and superstition.

He looks like he knows what he's doing, I'll grant him that much. But how much stability can you expect from a man who believes in magic?

For posterity, since I may not get a chance later, and since you never know when something will kick you in the head and give you total amnesia, I suppose I ought to introduce myself. I failed to do so in my previous entry. If this were my official report, I'd have to apologize and a black mark would undoubtedly be added to my file by some pencil-pusher who's late for dinner or something. Thankfully this is just an informal journal rather than an official log.

My name is Solomon Kincaid. My friends (those lucky few) call me Sol, except for one who's an astronomer who calls me Sunny. I don't get the joke, but it amuses her no end. If someone were to pull my dossier at the Agency, they'd see that there's a photo of a bunch of Agents in a group, not a photo just of me. For security, I think, or maybe the government's just cheap. Who knows?

Wave hello! I'm the tallish one in the third row with the curly mop of black hair. Darkish skin, dark eyes. I suppose I'm just scruffy enough not to stick out like a sore thumb in that madman's Europe and just professional enough to get field assignments instead of backwater surveillance ops. I left Australia, home sweet home, on this wonderful mission, leaving instructions to my parents not to worry and to my sister-in-law not to let the cat drown itself trying to get at my goldfish. Instructions to me from the Agency were as follows:
Go to Europe. Watch, listen, analyze the threat level, and report back what you find.

Yes, I know I probably shouldn't have recorded it, but let's face facts, shall we? I have a remarkably low pain tolerance; if an interrogator so much as *showed* me a red-hot poker I'd sing like Edith Piaf.

Anyway, it's an easy op, right? Right, and therefore not one that screams promotion unless I really wow the guys back at home with some vital information. So I left Australia three weeks ago and arrived somewhere in north Africa about two weeks later. That's a week ago for people (including myself) who got lost in that last sentence. It was dry, dusty, and a week was far too long to stay there. I'm happy to be gone, even if it has to be on this derelict asylum.

I'm told that in about a fortnight we'll be putting into port in Spain, and then my real work will begin.

***Day 12***

I've not written in this journal because nothing's really happened. I've gotten a little sick of the constant harping about magic and wizards on board. I grew out of fairy tales a long time ago! I'm part Aborigine, for crying out loud, like I told the first mate this morning. They were and still are a very mystical people. If magic was real, don't you think I'd know?

Maybe, she said, and smiled. I know she only said that to shut me up, but she has a very pretty smile, so I don't mind. Even white teeth that look whiter next to skin darker even than mine. Nice... her name's Naomi. Naomi Sulaweyo.

She's pretty and really quite nice, but she's as crazed as everyone else on board. Carries a stick of oak around everywhere with her. She waves it around and occasionally hits things (and crewmembers if they're not fast enough for her) with it. But I figure everyone's entitled to their quirks, especially pretty girls, so I don't ask about the stick. It's her business, not mine.

***Day14***

We had a storm today, early this morning. It blew up out of nowhere and started pounding
the ship like there was no tomorrow. I was out on deck during, helping the crew out as best I could. What the hell, I thought, this piece of junk's probably going down anyway, so I might as well die busy. There was no way it should have been able to survive that beating.
Most of the crew seemed to be in line with my thoughts, going about their assigned duties silent and blank-faced, like zombies. The captain himself took the tiller while Naomi stood in the middle of the deck, yelling at the storm in a some other language and waving her stick.
Great, I wanted to say. That'll really help; you think that maybe you're going to scare the storm away or what? I didn't say anything, though… Naomi doesn't smile much when she's angry enough to spit nails.

It blew over quickly, I guess because it's not the storm season or maybe it was just a very small system. But all the same I was surprised we were still afloat and said as much to
Naomi.

Maybe it was magic, she said lightly, twirling her stick.

Magic! I scoffed. You think everything's magic! Let me tell you, any idiot with quick hands could pull a rabbit out of a hat, and that's the extent of 'magic'. There's nothing mystical about it.

But could they pull a hat from a rabbit? she asked.

I didn't see the relevance of the question, so I turned away to face the distant shoreline of Spain. I guess we were just lucky, then, I told her.

Maybe, she said, and smiled.

***Day 15***

Into port and on with the mission! I said my goodbyes to the captain (who seemed glad to be rid of me, I can't see why), to the crew (who ignored me; how rude is that?), and to Naomi, who smiled, kissed me on the cheek, and wished me luck with my mission. I haven't decided whether or not she was making fun of me yet.

The little town was almost as dingy and run-down as the ship was, and no one wanted to talk, so I didn't linger. I bought a horse with some of the oddly shaped coins the Agency had given me and rode out, heading north towards France.

There's definitely a certain security in my somewhat jumbled appearance that one of the more clean-cut Agents simply wouldn't have. In loose, shabby gray and brown clothes and with my hair hanging in my eyes, I look like just another vagrant. Not someone anyone will pay attention to unless I go out of my way to cause a scene.

Just passing through, don't mind me, I can say, and people believe me.

***Day 20***

I think I've crossed the border into France, but honestly everything looks exactly the same. Same squalid little villages, same overfarmed fields, same blank-faced people working them, same empty stares whenever I try to conduct a conversation. I'm not really *that* socially repulsive, am I?

I have seen no evidence of "magic" beyond that which can be done with resources, ruthlessness, and a little bit of creative propaganda. Villagers all but grovel when someone with a stick walks by; I do the same so as not to be conspicuous, but it makes me want to throw up. I mean, I could carry around a stick if I wanted to; then would these silly people grovel at me?

Probably. They're well and truly broken from what I've seen. By people with sticks.
Is there really a threat here?

***Day 22***

Is this Paris?! I almost don't believe it, the City of Light destroyed. But then I saw the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower in the middle of this sorry place, standing there like a skeleton, and I knew. The city of Paris is in ruins, its history in art and monuments destroyed. People as blank-faced as the sailors on the ship from Africa or the farmers in Spain shamble around the streets like lost kittens, finding warmth and comfort (temporarily and for a price) with girls and women who huddle together on corners and whisper to each other.

I was a history and literature major before I became an Agent and went into service to my country, and I can't communicate how personally I take this and how this desolation affects me. It's like... well, maybe it's like knowing your sister was raped and seeing the bruises on her face and the broken bones. I wouldn't know about that, but what I do know is that Paris was one of the most beautiful cities on the world and now it's little more than a junkpile and heap of rocks.

There's a tribe of feral cats living among the shards of the Arc de Triomphe, and l'Opéra is home to two or three street gangs known for their glass knives and crystal arrowheads. Notre Dame, the great cathedral, is now a shelter and makeshift morgue; people go there when they have nowhere else to go or when they're bleeding to death,

There's nothing to see here and no threat I can find. These people have no hope and no spirit. Like Spain....

***Day 23***

I've still seen no "magic", but of this Voldemort's power there is no denial. He holds Europe and most of Africa, and as far as I can tell, he has only ever launched one attack when he decides to conquer something. One attack for England, one for France, one for Spain, and so on, and their defenses just crumble to nothing in front of him.

What sort of weapons does he have, I wonder, that can destroy cities and break people's spirits so thoroughly and leave nothing behind but the destruction. No marks, no charring, no cinders… just ruins that are almost picturesque in how perfectly they've been broken.
There's still farmland and I've seen no signs of radiation poisoning, so I don't think he's using nuclear weapons, thank God. All conventional weapons I know of would leave marks, as mentioned previously. I've found none of the signs here and believe me I am looking.
Whatever weapons Europe's Dark Lord has, they're not like any weapons we've ever seen before.

***Day 25***

I left Paris today, heading north and west towards the English Channel. I still haven't found any physical evidence of any weapons capable of destroying cities, but I've decided to go to London. Right into the lion's mouth, as it were; I think I'll find my answers there.

I am accompanied by the horse I bought in Spain and by one of the Arc de Triomphe's feral tomcats who decided he liked me. He's a scarred, muscley sort of animal, and I've taken to calling him Bonaparte, in remembrance of the man who ordered the construction of the memorial where this cat made its home.

I pushed the horse and Bonaparte's patience and managed to cover about half the distance to the nearest port on the Bretagne peninsula today. In two days... that is, day after tomorrow, I should be crossing the Channel.

Hopefully by then the scratches will have started to heal.

***Day 27***

I feel like I've stepped into someone else's world. The ship I'm on now is in even worse condition than the ship from Africa, and it's not even mechanical… at least, not anymore. There's a makeshift mast with a patched sail in the middle of it, but the real moving power comes from rowers kept belowdecks. Everyone on this ship, except the captain and the few other travelers I have fallen in with, are the blank-faced zombies I am rapidly becoming accustomed to seeing everywhere. Numb, uncaring… they just work, eat, and sleep in a kind of tired, eerie silence.

I joined the group of travelers just before we left port. I decided that one of a group was less conspicuous than one alone, and they were going to London anyway. It's a mixed group: men, women, and children going to work in London. Well, that's fine. So am I, after a fashion.

Everything about this Voldemort character confuses me; he's like a living contradiction. On the one hand, he obviously possesses weapons and technology on an entirely different level than ours back home in Australia. On the other, his administration seems almost pathologically anti-technology and anti-science. Sails and oars over motors, horses instead of cars, trained birds instead of a postal service.

None of my traveling companions seem to read or write; I tried to strike up a conversation about books and received only blank stares. Accordingly, I've fashioned a small pocket in the interior lining of my coat to hide this journal in. If my 'peers' don't read, I can't be seen to either or risk attracting attention to myself.

***Day 28***

London is like Paris in most places, crumbling and ruined. A few neighborhoods are still scrupulously well-kept and neat, which only makes the rest of the rest of the city look worse. I assume that these neighborhoods are where the government officials live, mostly because it's the stuff horror movies are made of to have zombies shambling around in someone's flowerbeds, you know?

I am now alone again as far as animal companionship; I had to sell the horse to pay passage across the Channel (and I think I got taken, what's more), and Bonaparte took off the second we put into port. Maybe he had family here or something; I don't know.

I stayed with the group, since there didn't seem to be a convenient time to leave them, and we're currently in some kind of communal housing, waiting to be given jobs or whatever happens now. I'm not worried about any sort of danger, everyone else seems perfectly calm.
London doesn't have quite the feel of despair or hopelessness Paris did, but it's... I don't know... bleaker, somehow. Darker. Even a brightly lit room seems shadowed. I am not generally a believer in the atmosphere of a place, but London is rapidly changing that.
One interesting thing was the construct in the sky I saw just before nightfall, after we were all herded inside, making a lazy circle around the city. What's that, I asked one of my companions, a tired and old-looking mother of two little girls.

Heaven, she answered, and told me to go to sleep.

Heaven? It just goes to show how far these people have regressed, to assign religious significance to that thing. I think it's probably a surveillance drone of some kind, judging from how it circles around the city without stopping. Big Brother is watching, in a big way.

It's comforting to finally see some evidence of the technology I knew was around here somewhere, you know? The absence of any kind of advanced machinery from daily life had me remembering Naomi and her stick, and everyone's childish insistences about magic. Even though it means I'll have to be doubly cautious about not causing disturbances, at least I'm not losing my mind.

***Day 30***

Short. Can I keep this short? They could come and see me, or they could hear. They can do anything, I know it. I know it. It's dark where I am now, I've been locked away.
No, can't keep it short. I have to do something even if it's useless busywork. I can't see my handwriting and that's probably a good thing; my hands are shaking so badly I could be rented to mix paint. I can't keep this short. I need to get this out. I need to, because later I could be dead.

I didn't do anything, I swear I didn't do anything. I can't have! I don't believe in... don't believe...

Deep breaths. Calm. Remember, this is for the promotion. The promotion. Home. Mom, Dad, sister, goldfish, drowned cat. For them too. I'd even be happy with that sorry Spanish nag or scarred Bonaparte.

Sticks and robes and zombies in the streets, why didn't I see it before? No technology, no nothing. No, I had to close my ears and eyes and believe in some sort of weapon like the ones I've always known.

It's all real. God help me, it's all real. Magic and messenger owls and wizards, every last word I've been hearing since Africa. I could have turned around then. I could have gone home and been a laughingstock. Solomon Kincaid believes in magic! No, couldn't be, not good old solid Sol!

It is. I do. I have to, now. There's no going back, now or ever. I killed someone. I killed one of Them. Me, the literature student. Me, the history buff. Me, the one who picked spiders up and put them outside instead of squashing them. I killed someone.

I didn't mean to... God knows I didn't mean to. I don't even know how I did it. We (my group and I) were all lined up, and two guys in robes with st... two wizards were going slowly down the line, waving their st... wands at us. Everyone else was calm, everyone else was collected. One of the little kids was told to go sit by the door.

I was angry and confused. I didn't know what was going on, didn't know if my cover'd be blown. I wanted to demand why I hadn't been told that two men with sticks were going to take a poke at me. Some shred of common sense stopped me from doing that, but it didn't save me from what happened next.

When they got to me, everything went wrong. The one waving his wand at me just slammed backwards into a wall, and his wand flew straight up and lodged in the ceiling. He sort of slid down the wall, and the first thing I wondered was why he was holding his head like that. It couldn't possibly have been comfortable.

His neck was snapped. Instant death, but thankfully no blood. I can't take blood. At first I didn't know what happened, but suddenly I couldn't move, not an inch to save my life. The second wizard seemed to tower over me, and my anger completely left me. Christ, I thought, he thinks I killed that man!

What did you do, Wizard Number Two asked me.

I didn't do anything, I answered. I didn't. You have to believe me. I didn't.

Abruptly I was on fire, or at least it felt that way. I see, said the other, so he just decided to break his own neck, did he? I wanted to shake my head, wanted to scream, wanted to say something, but I still couldn't. The wizard shook his head as though he were sorry. I don't know where you escaped from, he told me, but you're going to the nearest zone until we decide what to do with you.

So here I am, sitting in the dark, wondering what'll happen to me next and when the rats will come for my toes.

***Some day***

I've lost track of time. There's no window here, and the hole is completely dark. Once in a while I get 'fed', and a couple times people came in to look at me and whisper amongst themselves. Never alone, though.

I think they're afraid of me. I really do.

Will wonders never cease?

***Entry***

I have more or less given up on time as such. If I'm not dead, I'm not interested. Does this happen to everyone who gets stuffed in a dark hole? I don't even want to see what I look like after all this time. Stick me in a Rasta hat and I bet I could pass for a reggae singer.

Anyway, I had visitors today. Not too uncommon, of course, but these ones talked to me, not over me and to each other. Wanted to know whether I was sorry for what I'd done. Whether I'd behave properly and keep my place. I answered that I didn't know what they were talking about, as of course I don't. My *place*? I'm a person, not some pet or whatever.

Four people; I'm so used to the dark that I couldn't see what they looked like, but I'd be willing to bet that at least two of the voices belong to kids... teenagers, most likely.

Psychotic country, using kids as jailers. I want to go home.

***Entry***

They came back, those two kids. What am I, a zoo exhibit?

One of them wasn't too happy to be there, although I can't tell whether it was because he was angry or scared. He sounded both. The other, the taller one, sounded as though he were enjoying himself. I got a look at them, though, just a quick glance. One had dark hair almost as messy as mine on a good day, and the other seemed nearly white.

They didn't talk to me, just to each other in very quiet voices. For some reason, I don't think that whatever they were talking about will be at all good for me.

***Entry***

Been a while since my last entry. Too much has been happening, and I haven't gotten a chance to record.

Can you believe it? Those kids... those two kids I talked about before... they let me out. Just came one... I think it was night... and let me out. One of them (the taller one, the relaxed one) opened the door and out of nowhere announced that I was free to go.

Psychotic country. Kids as jailers letting prisoners and murderers go. Not that I'm not grateful or anything, mind.

I left, of course... I hadn't had free movement in days, if not weeks, and I figured that even if they hunted me down again, I desperately needed the exercise. I wasn't sure where to go, but cities always have places to hide in. Especially ruined cities; fallen buildings make for great cover, I've found.

I got a look at myself just this morning. I found a broken mirror in the place I was staying, and succumbed to the masochistic urge to take a look at myself. I've never been exactly neat-looking. In fact, my appearance is usually best decribed as "scruffy", but now I'm probably well into the realm of "disgustingly unhygienic-looking". I'd grown a beard which possibly would be flattering if it wasn't tangled and matted, and if I were absolutely sure there weren't things living in it. I shaved it off with a shard of mirror, and now the lower half of my face is a mass of cuts.

Note to self: mirrors do not make good razors.

As I suspected earlier, my hair has grown out, so that instead of a short, moplike mass of curls, I have a long, moplike mass of curls that I constantly have to shove out of my face. I suppose I'm lucky that I've escaped dreadlocks, but as things stand right now, I either find some way to tie my hair back or some kind of headband, or I go around looking like Cousin It after a perm.

I'm thinner, of course, but that's to be expected. All in all, I wasn't nearly as badly off as I'd thought, appearance-wise.

I like this place. It's mostly got a roof, I've got my broken mirror, and thanks to strategic positioning of rubble (there is a God) I will see anyone on the street long before they see me. I think I'll stay here for a while.

***Entry***

Ah, monotony. When it had to grace my life, did I really have to be a bum in London in dire need of a haircut? Why couldn't monotony hit me when I'm 65, retired, and fabulously wealthy from my previous position as head of the Agency? Life isn't fair.

I get up in the morning and shave using my handy broken mirror. I've been cutting myself
less and less, but thanks to a memorable incident two days ago, I have a fairly large slash on the left side of my face. Lucky I had my eyes closed, or I'd have one less working eye. My mirror tells me that when this is healed it'll be either a dashing scar or I'll just look like some jerk who accidently sliced open his face while shaving. I then go scrounge for food, which takes pretty much the day, then I go back to my little hidey-hole and sleep. All my days are the same. Monotony.

I've tried a couple times since my escape to do little magics, since I found out quite violently that I can, but it never works. I'm beginning to think that that was either a one-time deal, or it only works when it chooses to.

I'm hoping that doesn't mean I'll be throwing people into walls every time my little talent kicks in. That would get me in a lot of trouble really quickly. And I've been in enough trouble, thank you.

It still feels odd, thinking this way about things. I think about magic and wizards and what will happen to me if they find me again. Then this little voice in my head calls me an idiot and says that magic doesn't exist. It does. I've seen it. I've even done it. But that still doesn't stop the little voice, which sounds suspiciously like my sister-in-law.

I still want to go home... at least I think I do. Part of what I wonder is whether I'd even be allowed to come back. The other part is whether I want to go home because I miss it or because I'm beginning to forget it.

It's sort of like a dream, you know? I remember my family, my fish, my job, but it's like all that happened to someone else. I've been in prison, I've killed someone, I look like Cousin It during his rebellious teenage years when he discovered the wonders of the curling iron. Or maybe it's Cousin It while he was hero-worshipping Shirley Temple, I don't know. I can't really make that parallel with the well-trained, professional Agent that I like to think I was.

Well... I was well-trained anyway.

***Entry***

Ha! My friends do not desert me, I command loyalty! Well... sort of.

Bonaparte the cat made his return appearance today, and wherever he was, he picked up the rather interesting ability to jump on my shoulder, sit there, and stay there no matter what I do. And he's a *big* cat, so he looks more than a little out of place up there.

I don't mind. He brought me a dead rat (which I promptly buried, I'm not so starved as all that) when he arrived, and promptly curled up in the pile of cloth scraps I've been using as a bed and took a nap. It's nice to have company, I suppose, but I do have to wonder how the beast found me. It's not like I left a forwarding address with the post office or anything.

It's kind of nice to have company. I showed Bonaparte the slash on my face, and he seemed marginally impressed. At least, he felt the need to "clean" it, which was painful enough to make me give him a hard shove away. I apologized immediately and scratched him behind the ears, but I'm not sure he forgave me. I can almost hear him protesting that he was only trying to help....

***Entry***

I don't feel so good... my face feels like I stuck it in a barbecue grill. I couldn't get out of my little rag pile to go scrounging, since the minute I sat up the world took it into its head to spin around and around. I'm not really hungry anyway.

I'm fine as long as I don't get up, I think... spoke too soon. There it goes again with the spinning.

Bonaparte has taken to licking at my face again, but this time I didn't really feel it. I mean, what's a cat's tongue compared to a flaming hot grill?

Speaking of flame, I didn't remember it being so warm

***Entry***

I'm better now. It's been, I'm told, about a week since I took my little fever-nap. Bonaparte is quite the intelligent feline... I'm lucky he eventually forgave me for shoving him that one time. Apparently, when he couldn't get me to do something after I... left, he went out looking for help. Or something.

And he found help, in the form of someone who is, quite possibly, even odder than me. He's not much of a healer, so I will indeed have a very prominent scar down the left side of my face, but hey, I'm not dead.

The person Bonaparte found calls himself Raguel... I'm almost certain that isn't really his name. Aside from the dubious distinction that if he unbraided his hair he might look even more like Cousin It than I do, he has a habit of talking to the vicinity of one or the other of my shoulders. I hope it's because he's blind and not because he thinks my shoulders do my talking for me.

I don't mind his company, really; it's the first fully-present conversation I've had since Naomi. But I wish he weren't such a gossip. He chatters on and on interminably about everything he hears when he's wandering around. Some of it's interesting, some of it's not. Rumors of resistance groups, which gangs have changed territory, even who's currently allied with whom in Voldemort's political circle.

I know I should be listening and noting down what he says, but I think Raguel's a crackpot. No one can know that much and have it all be true except possibly God, not on these streets. Most especially not blind teenagers who follow cats around. All the same, I gossip back, let him know what little I pick up while I scrounge.

I mean, *some* of what he says is useful. Easy pickings for scrounging, or, if one has enough energy, a housebreak target or two. And knowing which parts of the city to avoid is certainly helpful. So I'm willing to listen to the rest of his chatter, since it helps me out.
Most of the time I think he's talking to himself. It's like he hears something on the streets and then has to repeat it a certain number of times before it's stuck in his mind. He can't exactly write it down, one of the many and myriad disadvantages of not being able to see, and even if he could, he couldn't read it later. So he uses me to help him memorize.

I wonder if he tells the next person he talks to the things I tell him?

***Entry***

Raguel came by again today; it's getting to be a habit. This time, though, he was less talky and more serious. They're looking for you, he told me, thay say you killed someone.

I did, I answered, but it wasn't my fault.

You think they care, he asked. Look, I know some people, you can stay with them until this blows over.

I guess he takes perceived responsibilities seriously. He kept me from dying when my face got infected, so he wasn't about to let me die because I get caught by Voldemort's goons. I appreciate that, I told him in reponse to his offer. Part of me was wondering what his angle was; nice chatty blind guy didn't quite cover it for me. The other part was remembering that pit of a cell I'd been in and swearing never to go back.

He nodded and turned to leave, beckoning over his shoulder with one hand. Follow me.

I did, Bonaparte riding on my shoulder. We wandered aimlessly through the streets (well, aimlessly to me, anyway) until we came to a completely destroyed building. Raguel picked through the debris, carefully and exaggeratedly weaving a path into a darkened overhang. I followed, wondering how "friends" could fit into such a small space.

It turned out there was a staircase going down. It wasn't lit, so I nearly fell down the stairs before realizing they were there. The building had apparently had a basement that didn't get destroyed when the rest of it did.

We'd descended maybe ten steps when I saw a light ahead. A light and a doorway. I forced myself not to hurry towards the light; my experience in days or weeks of total darkness has left me... not exactly afraid of the dark, but I don't really like it.

You know someone down here, I think, Raguel said in a conversational tone. At least she says she knows you.

I didn't get a chance to respond, since we'd arrived at the doorway. On the other side of that door was a dream come true.

It was almost like home. It was a library... an honest-to-God library. Okay, most of the books were ripped or singed, but they were on the shelves and looked well cared-for. A few tables and lopsided chairs completed the look. Welcome to the Invisible College, Raguel proclaimed. Just a little piece of the past underneath hell, so to speak. He laughed.

Just like you to drag in strays everywhere you go, Raguel, a female voice said from the staircase behind us. Has Lockhart stopped accepting yours?

You wound me! Raguel laughed. I just thought you'd like this one better than the boss man would.

I recognized the woman's voice. First Bonaparte, then.... I'm dreaming, I said. Naomi?

She walked around in front of me and it really was her, dark skin and beautiful white smile. Well, if it isn't the secret agent man, she said, laughing. So do you believe in magic now, Mr. Kincaid?

It's Sol, I told her, grinning. And maybe I do.

***Final Entry***

I've settled into life at the Invisible College, which basically consists of that smallish library belowstairs and a few other people who spend their time either digging through ashes looking for more books or raiding buildings for the same reason.

Naomi and I have settled into a partnership of sorts, along with Bonaparte the cat, who has decided Naomi's shoulder is as good as mine. We hit the streets together, usually in the Diagon Alley area. She talks to people and I snoop around. Generally speaking I can nab something while Naomi's providing a distraction. Raguel hangs out in Diagon Alley a lot, too, so even if I can't grab something, I can trade gossip.

That, I've found, is our sole purpose. We collect books and gossip. I don't know why. And I don't know where we'll put them when we run out of space or what the point is of knowing who just got executed and for what.

Raguel drops by the library itself once in a while, mostly picking up a book or two and returning others. What use they are to a blind guy is something I've yet to determine.
Life isn't monotonous anymore. I'm still working on getting a few tricks to work. I don't have a wand, so it's difficult in the extreme, but I keep trying. I have work to do, maybe not important work, but there's Naomi too, so I'm happy enough.

I'll be putting away this journal after I've finished this section. I'll file it on a shelf with the other books, and maybe someone will read it someday. Or maybe someday a ship will come into port from Spain or Africa carrying another starry-eyed Agent, and I'll be able to meet them at port with this book.

Maybe they'll flip to nearly the end of it and scoff at me. You don't *really* believe in this magic thing, do you?

Maybe, I'll say, and smile.

~Finis~