He was awakened by the feeling of something cold pressed to his lips. "Drink."

Up in record time :O). Hugs and thanks to everyone who reviewed the last one and kisses to all who do the same for this. Special thanks to Rowena, who though sick with the flu is still churning out wonderful stories and managing to beta mine. The basis of the Remus/Vix conversation at the end is in China Doll for those of you who haven't read it, and Ginny doesn't refer to Ron's sister, but a nickname for Guinevere. Once again please R/R and love you all :O).

PHOENIX ASCENDING VII- JUST SOUTH OF BITTERSWEET

He whipped through the dank office building like a man aflame, and in all truth he was, the anger that fueled his flight also clouded his brow, darkening his features as his feet rushed of their own accord, beating out a pitter-patter rhythm on the government-issue linoleum. It seemed to take him no time at all to reach the heavy oaken door, and when he raised his fist to knock, it swung open of its own accord. From within, a voice slithered out, its silky tones filling his ears, cloying his senses. "Come in, Mr. Cox."

Gabriel took a step through the door, trying to ignore the horribly sinking sensation that had just hit him in-between his ribs. "What is the meaning of this?" He thrust his hand out towards the desk, its fingers red and puffy, the palm charred 'til it was almost black

The tall thin man wheeled his chair around and stared at the palm with detached interest, a cloud of cigarette smoke hovering around his head like some ghastly imitation halo. "A most unfortunate occurrence."

"You sanctioned it," Gabriel spat, his face turning red. "You approved Moody's petition to reopen the case."

"Moody is simply a pawn," Lucius Malfoy gave a simpering smile as he took a long drag on his cigarette. "Do not take his antics too seriously."

"His antics will drive me insane," Gabriel replied bitterly.

"Oh, let an old man have his fun," Malfoy gave a catlike grin. "Besides, I like to investigate all of the opportunities."

"You like to intimidate anyone that stands against you and your master," Gabriel hissed, smashing his good hand on Malfoy's mahogany desk.

Malfoy's pale fish-eyes narrowed, his voice turning to a barely audible hiss, "What are you implying?"

"I'm not stupid," Gabriel growled.

"Neither am I," Malfoy took the cigarette out of his mouth and without another word smashed it down upon Gabriel's blackened palm, causing him to cry out in shock and pain. "It's too bad, your family has done so well for us in the past."

"Leave me alone," Gabriel said harshly, gritting his teeth as he jerked his injured palm off of Malfoy's desk. "That's all I want."

"But that's just it," Malfoy hissed, his silvery-blonde hair falling across his forehead. "We can't. You're worth more than you know."

"So I'm one of your pawns too?" Gabriel spat bitterly.

"We're all pawns," Malfoy lit another cigarette, blowing a fresh cloud of smoke at Gabriel before continuing. "Some of us just know the king."

"I'm going," Gabriel said firmly, taking a step backwards towards the heavy door. "Leave me alone."

"Give me a ring, if Dumbledore doesn't come through for you," Malfoy smiled, showing all of his immaculate teeth. "We'll always have a place for our Lucifer." Gabriel backed away in horror, but even the heavy door couldn't keep out the sounds of Malfoy's laughter.

----

The man with the red hair winked before pulling on his green helmet and turning to face his opponent.

It was then that Harry realized that he was having another dream.

He was a single man in a crowd of hundreds, clustered around a meadow lying in the shadow of a huge stone castle. In the center of the ring, two knights paced: one in green, one in blue, each holding his own naked sword, ready and waiting to drive it into the flesh of his opponent. Of the two knights in the center of the ring, only one of them would ever leave the field alive. Afterwards, Harry could never say how he knew this, but he was quickly learning that there was never any certainty to his dreams. And this mysterious unwanted knowledge was telling him one more thing. He didn't want this fight to happen.

Too late. The knights lunged forward and their swords met, sending a shower of sparks off into the meadow. The green knight moved backwards a few steps as he parried a thrust made by the one in blue. "Foolish."

Harry turned at the sound of the voice, his eyes falling upon an armored man standing beside him. "How so?" he asked, hoping to find more answers than those his fickle "memory" provided. The knight's great swords met once again as the two men locked gazes. After an heart-pounding minute, the green knight threw the blue one out of the deadlock. Both staggered back a few paces before regaining their balance.

"No woman is worth this much," the armored man replied without looking up. "To turn such friends into bitter enemies." The blue knight leapt onto the offensive, his sword moving like a lighting tongue as he closed in upon the green.

Harry said nothing in reply, his mind boiling over what little information he had gleaned. The green knight was still parrying the blue's blows but he was obviously tiring as his movements became more and more clumsy. The crowd let out a great roar as the blue finally broke through the green's guard and drew first blood, knicking his opponent on his shoulder.

"Mark one up for Lancelot," the man on his side said gruffly. "I had it on four to one odds that Gawain would draw first blood." The green knight, Gawain, seemed to be loosing ground sharply, as Lancelot, the blue, showered him with countless blows. He was unable to block them all, slipping further and further away from victory with every new nick of Lancelot's sword.

"You're betting on this fight?" Harry found it hard to hide the disgust in his voice as he saw the green knight fall backwards, sliding on a pool of his own blood.

"It's over," the stranger said apathetically. "Lancelot has won. I lost 400 denariis." Lancelot raised his sword over his head and brought it down hard into the man lying at his feet. Gawain let out a great cry as his hand rushed to his side, futility trying to staunch the tidal wave of blood. Harry though he might be sick from all the living gore, seeping onto the grass of the idyllic meadow, the green and red mixing to become an unidentifiable shade of brown. But then, Lancelot did something completely unexpected.

Collapsing onto his knees, the blue knight picked up the head of his fallen opponent and cradled it gently. Somehow, Lancelot's hands found his neck and he unfastened his helmet, sliding it away. There were tears running down his cheeks. But this was not the reason that made Harry cry out, made Harry break away from the rest of the crowd and rush to the field to kneel along with the two men who had just finished their macabre game of killing. The tears coursing down Lancelot's face were insignificant to the features themselves, features Harry knew all too well. The blue knight was Sirius. Before he knew what was happening Harry was there beside them, staring down at the man close to death, a man Sirius had rent open mere seconds earlier.

To Harry's surprise, Sirius seemed to know him, and when he spoke his tone was not one of anger, or hate, or enmity. Instead his voice spoke of nothing but pure, untapped sorrow. "I never meant for it to turn out this way," he said quietly, speaking with a slight accent. "I never wanted this. I never wanted to kill him. I don't want to kill you."

"I know, Lance. I know." Harry said, and try as he might he could find no anger within himself towards this man: Lancelot, a Sirius who was-not-quite.

Harry bent down to face the dying knight, a man who had been called Gawain. He knew, without knowing quite how, what would await him there as he pulled of the helmet, but it didn't make the shock any less.

Ron smiled up at him, his eyes already far away. "It's been a while, eh?" he managed to grin as his body was racked with a spasm of pain.

"Don't go," Harry was instantly unaware of everything but the body before him, his best friend about to die. "Don't go, please..."

"I sometimes wonder," Ron remarked, his voice a forced calm. "What would have happened if we hadn't tried to burn Ginny at the stake. Would I be here now, leaking my guts all over this meadow?"

Harry tried to laugh, but it wouldn't come. There was a lump in his throat that wouldn't dislodge, a hole in heart that made it impossible to even try and smile.

"I should say.... something inspirational... since I'm dying?" Ron paused with obvious effort, trying to get his words. But with every fleeting second his face grew more waxen. "There, don't cry," Ron said, as Harry noticed for the first time, the salt tears weaving their ways down his cheek. "What kind of a king... will people think... you are?"

And then he was gone.

As Harry looked up, his vision clouded by tears, a terrible hole in his breast he knew would never quite mend, he realized that Lancelot, the crowd, the castle were all gone. He was alone in the pastoral meadow, with only Ron's body for company. But when he bent down to take one last look at his friend, he screamed out loud. Cradled in his arms was the corpse of Cedric Diggory.

----

As Anan turned away from the teenager with the black hair and the lightening scar, he had no idea what dark dreams were presently coursing through the boy's head. He only saw a sleeping youth, his eyes closed and his slumber supposedly free of any trouble. Anan didn't quite know what had possessed him to take the boy; he wouldn't fetch much a slave, being too slim and lanky to last long in the mines or gladiator ring. But at the same time, the youth didn't have the drop-dead good looks that could land him a place in a patrician household. There was just something about the boy, something Anan couldn't quite place his finger on. Perhaps it was the brilliant green eyes, or the fierce set of his chin, or maybe, just maybe that lightening scar that laced down his forehead like a bolt from heaven.

There was also the matter of the boy's origins. The boy spoke Latin with an accent unlike which any Anan had ever heard, and he was known among his wandering people as a man who had seen many lands. The youth's garb was strange, certainly not of the desert, but also unlike that of the Numidians to the south and the Romans in the north. On his person, the boy had carried a slender stick of wood that made odd sparks and noises when his men had handled it, but when they thrust it into the fire, wouldn't burn.

Yes, this boy was defiantly an enigma, Anan couldn't help but wonder if he had made the right choice in picking him up.

"Anan?"

The horseman turned away from the sleeping boy towards the new voice, his hand instinctively on the pommel of his sword. But when he recognized the speaker, his face relaxed and he even let loose a rare smile. "Innoch."

Innoch was the youngest of Anan's six horsemen, but not young enough to be without a family. It had been two years since Innoch had married Anan's eldest daughter, and the bond between the two men had done nothing but grow over that time. "Bad news," Innoch slid in beside Anan, glancing disinterestedly at the sleeping boy.

"What is it now?" Anan asked, his weather-beaten face lining with worry.

"Some of our outlying settlements were attacked again. None of the livestock were touched, but the bandits made off with five children." Innoch paused before continuing. "A man from the villages rode two days to find us."

"That's twenty children the bandits have taken in the last month," Anan said quietly. "What do they want with them?"

"No one knows," Innoch's tone was equally hopeless, though each of them knew the other was suspecting the worse. The young man paused a moment before continuing. "I have heard evil rumors, tales that these bandits are child-killers. They say that that these men are constructing a fortress built on the bones of our infants, a place of dark magic where only evil can enter."

"You've heard rumors, Innoch," Anan said forcefully, unsuccessfully trying to keep the frustration at such nonsense out of his tone. "Did the man from the villages see the bandits? Are they the same?"

"Exactly as before," Innoch replied, "Their faces were covered in black, and none of the villagers cold tell any of the bandits from each of his companions except for their leader, who has a silver hand."

---

"Lucius Malfoy has a warrant for your arrest," Minerva's voice was trembling as she clutched the raven's letter in her hand. "He sent the letter himself, demanding that you stay on school grounds."

"And what may I ask," Dumbledore said quietly, "am I arrested for?"

"High treason." Minerva held up the letter, its ink run with her sweat. "Malfoy claims you're the leader of a coup to take over the Ministry."

Dumbledore said nothing, his aged face locked in a pensive mask of concentration.

"You can't stay here, Albus," her voice was cracking with absolute terror. Everything they had worked for was gone in the mere blink of an instant. Dumbledore, her bulwark against the incoming flood of dark magic had finally been breached. Every word pained her, for she wanted nothing more than to have him stay. "You can't let them take you."

"I'll go where they need me most," he said cryptically, the light gone from his blue eyes. "Never far from this school, Minerva."

"Albus..." she couldn't stop the single tear creeping down her cheek, betraying the fear and doubt she was feeling inside.

"Shhh," he reached out a single hand. "I'm entrusting Hogwarts to you, Minerva, because, above all, you are who I most trust, and this school must never fall. This school is our children. Our future."

"I won't let you down," she said, wiping at her eyes, trying to regain some semblance of self control.

"I know." Dumbledore heaved a great sigh as he pushed himself away from the harpsichord, his eyes straying upon it longingly one last time. "It has begun."

Minerva wasn't sure that she wanted to know the answer, but the question came from her lips never-the-less. "What has begun?"

"The war," Dumbledore's smile was a touch south of bittersweet. "The war."

----

Ron's feet seemed to move of their own accord as he stumbled across the desert. Even after Hermione had transfigured her hat into a canteen, he had never felt so hot, so parched, and so utterly hopeless in his entire life.

They had long since lost the rider's trail, the track left by their steeds seemed to have been swallowed up whole by the desert that lay before them, ever menacing and never ending. The dunes seemed to stretch forever and ever, until they met the sky millions of miles away at the end of the earth. Ron sank to his knees. "What are you doing?" It was Hermione, her curly hair windswept and sandy. It had been so long since a word had passed between them that Ron had simply forgotten she had existed.

"What are we doing?" he replied, feeling the sunburn on face crack as he moved his lips. "We could just wander around until we die."

"Harry's out there," she replied, her face growing tight. "Come on, Ron," she extended a hand. "We'll find him and then go home."

"Find him where?" Go home how?" Ron muttered bitterly, his red hair falling into his eyes.

Hermione looked down, "I'm sure Dumbledore has noticed we're not at school, and he has to have sent help, right? I mean, you don't just let Harry Potter disappear."

"We've done a pretty good job at it," Ron sneered, kicking at the sand as he rose to his feet.

Hermione smiled at him, and despite his aching head, his sunburned body, and the hole that seemed to have permanently fitted itself across his heart, Ron couldn't help but smile back. "Then we have to find him." She reached out her hand, sandy and blistered, "He'd do the same for us, right?"

Ron's smile widened at the irony. "Where have I heard that before?"

"A friend of mine told me that," she said, grinning broadly. "My best friend told me that."

Ron felt himself go red under his sunburn, "Shut up, Hermione."

"Ron! Hermione!"

They turned as one towards the new voice, both jaws dropping simultaneously in shock as they called out, "Professor Lupin!"

----

Sirius was a man possessed. Harry's penknife in hand he had struck out blindly across the desert with nothing more than a feeble Locatés charm for guide, wavering in and out of sight as it lit the path towards his godson. As for Remus and Vix, they could do nothing but blindly follow, the heat, hunger, and hopelessness grinding them double as saw Sirius untouched, his jaw set, his resolution tempered to one goal alone.

It had been five hours of such mindless trekking across the never-changing dune-scape. Five hours of nothing but sand and starvation and silence. Remus was about to suggest that they stop when he noticed two tiny points of color over the next hillock of sand. Breaking away from Sirius and Vix, he speeded into a run until he reached the crest of the dune and peered over...

"Ron! Hermione!"

They turned as one, calling out "Professor Lupin!" as Vix and Sirius jogged up beside him.

"Who are they?" Vix stared in bewilderment at the pair of teenagers racing up the slope of the dune like they had hell's hounds on their heels.

"Friends of Harry," Remus managed to reply before they were upon him and Hermione enveloped in a huge bear hug. Ron stood a few paces away, cooling his heels in obvious embarrassment at his friend's affection.

"We knew Dumbledore would send someone!" she grinned as she broke away.

Remus exchanged a furtive glance with Sirius, who answered Moony's unspoken question with a nod. "Dumbledore wouldn't leave you out here all alone." The lie was sour to his taste, but he didn't have the heart to let the girl down. "Hermione, Ron, this is Vix Su, a friend. Vix, these and Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley."

"Nice to meet you," Vix extended a hand and a smile which Hermione took gratefully.

Sirius, blunt as always, asked the question on every mind. "Where's Harry?"

Ron looked at Hermione, who bit her lip. "There was nothing we could do, it was awful--"

Ron cut her blather off, his eyes forcibly fixed upon the ground. "We found this tube in Hagrid's cabin--"

"The Greyvillian Responder," Remus interjected, his Professor side getting the better of him.

"Right," Ron looked more than slightly confused, but he continued none the less. "What he said. And it took us here. We were sitting on the sand, wondering what to do when we saw this caravan."

"It had a banner," Hermione took up the tale, pushing a flyaway curl out of her face. "Saying S.P.Q.R., which stands for the motto of Ancient Rome and hasn't been used for over 1600 years, ever since the empire collapsed. So naturally I assumed, as any reasonable person would, that we were in Ancient Rome."

"And Harry and I thought she was off her rocker," Ron added.

"We waited for the caravan, because there wasn't really anything else to do," Hermione said a little too quickly, her face going slightly pink from Ron's comment. "And it turned out to be these awful horsemen with great big swords and their leader asked to buy Harry and we said no and--" her voice shook and she looked a little too close to tears to continue on.

"They took Harry," Ron continued, shooting Hermione a sympathetic look. "Knocked him out, and just rode away. We've been following them ever since. We were going to rescue him somehow."

"Now you all are all here," Hermione said, a wan smile lighting her strained face. "We'll get him back... right?"

"Shit," Sirius took a wild step away from the teenagers, his face contorted in worried anger as her obsessively fingered Harry's penknife. "Shit!" And then he proceeded to let loose a string of obscenities so effective that Hermione drew her breath and Ron paled somewhat.

"Sirius!" Vix took a step forward and slapped him hard across the face. "What the good can you possibly think that will do?"

Sirius stopped almost immediately, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face her. "I say we stop here for the night," she said to him, her tone daring him to disagree. "Everyone's too tired and worked-up to be any good. We'll look for Harry in the morning, you can cast some kind of spell to find him." Her stone was heavy with sarcasm as she kicked a stone towards Sirius. "Here. Turn the rock into bread, I'm hungry."

Sirius said nothing as he bent down to pick up the rock, the anger radiating from his every inch visible only to Remus. Eye to eye with Vix he tossed the stone over his shoulder, back to where it landed, a sand dune away. "Don't mess with me," he said quietly, the hint of challenge in his tone. "You'll loose."

----

So, you want to see where Lupin goes every month, eh?

Severus crept up against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest as his eyes focused upon the dark black walls of his prison.

What's it to you, Black?

Seven by five paces. Nine-hundred and forty-three stones made up its walls. Nine-hundred and forty four if you counted one that was cracked straight down the middle.

I've taken a liking to you, young fellow.

Severus wondered if Black had ever counted the number of stones in his cell. Their cell.

Kiss my ass, Black.

For the first time in weeks he felt almost calm, helpless as he watched the memory play it self out across his psyche. A memory he would give anything to escape.

Be at the Whomping Willow at sunset. Press the knot on the trunk.

Turning to his side, Severus noticed, not for the first time, a tiny inscription in the stone just by his ear. S.O.B. Sirius Orion Black. Son Of a Bitch.

That's out of bounds.

He wondered how long it had taken Sirius Orion Black to scratch his initials into the inanimate rock of his prison. But then again, time didn't matter in Azkaban. None of them were leaving anytime soon.

Kiss my ass, Snape.

Severus lifted his finger to the wall, and despite its trembling traced a letter onto the thick granite wall. S. A long snaky S. Could stand for Slytherin, Sonnavabitch, Soup, Snake, Severus.

The full moon made it easy to see as he picked his way across Hogwarts's darkened grounds. It wasn't hard to find the willow. It stuck out of the middle of the school's immaculately groomed lawn like an overlarge tumor. An incredibly silent growth. Severus drew his cloak closer to him as he arrived in the willow's shadow, trying to suppress a shiver. For the first time that night, his mind was telling him he'd rather not know where Lupin went every month.

Severus's finger was now tracing an O. O for Octopus or Oatbran or Odin, his middle name.

Severus took a tentative step down into the tunnel, his nose instantly filled with the combined odor of wet dog and dry blood. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, instead a huge, slavering beast. A werewolf. Lupin was a werewolf.

And he was going to die.

Severus remained frozen in shocked realization as the dog rushed towards him, its lips drawn back in blood-curling madness. He would have remained stationary as it tore him to shreds, if it wasn't for the strong pair of hands that pulled him up, out of the tunnel, out of the hellhole, into the night.

A final S for Snape. He stared at the three letters inscribed under Black's initials. S.O.S. Severus Odin Snape. S.O.S. A cry for help.

It was James Potter.

"Thank you," Severus has managed to gasp.

Potter's reply would echo in his ears for the rest of his life, "Bastard."

His resolution cracked, his shoulders falling as his head fell against his chest, racked with sobs. "God help me," he choked out before the words were swallowed by Azkaban's silence.

So, you want to see where Lupin goes every month, eh?

What's it to you, Black?

----

He looked down upon the earth, marveling at the world he inhabited, a world of freedom, without cares, worries, a world truly his own. Winging high above the clouds, he felt power flow with every ounce of blood rushing through veins, his heart beating in an unchained melody of fierce feral triumph. He lived at incapable speeds. Riding an upcurrent of air, he gave his powerful wings another flap, the tiny movement sending him spiraling up and up through the sugar spun clouds and above and then through again, cutting the wisps of condensed moisture like cheesecloth. He was not bound, like a earth crawler men beneath him, by a weak pitiful frame. His existence was far superior, haphazard and carefree, a limbo of air and clouds, where the only regulation was the velocity of joy. Looking down at the weak toothpick figures on the earth below him, a sudden thought struck him, a whim that if he had lips, would have caused him to smile.

Like a shot, he began to speed towards the earth, the air whooshing past him like temporary substance, unimportant and insignificant. The wind blew this way and that, but his power was to great to be swayed by the fickle will of nature. Inside of him, the real miracle was happening. It was a rush of incredible adrenaline unlike anything he had ever experienced. His massive heart pounded a mambo of exhilaration, his scaly wings flush and tight against his sides. Any residual human fear was illuminated, as faster and faster, the earth rolled up before him. He watched the toothpick figures turn into twigs, and then panicked men, running this way and that, the cry of "Dragon! Dragon!" on every lip.

They should know better. They should know that they are simply insects to him. Little ants he could squish between his toes without a second thought. Men were garbage. Trash. It was his job to clean the earth. Every so gently, the dragon bent his head down to the ground, until his scaly chin scraped the dirt, then without warning he let out a tiny puff...

A hot tongue of flame rushed across the surface of the earth catching several of the screaming men in its path. Their cries only increased as they fell to the ground, blackened and burning as the fire ate away at their living bodies. Once again, the dragon would have smiled. He let loose one last good-bye-kiss of flame before taking wing, spiraling up to the clouds and beyond, into infinity.

Romulus awoke with a start, the embers of Posthumous's campfire casting his world into sharp relief. Looking away into the dark night, he pressed his hands against his head, trying futilly to stop out the relentless pounding within. But unlike the dragon, Romulus was a man, a weak ant, and would not heal himself by will alone. So instead he stared up into the night sky, mesmerized by the promise of the dreams that haunted him every night: dreams that carried within them the memories of his only angel, dragon's blood.

----

Gabriel ran along on the hard pavement, his anger flooding through him like a tidal wave. Anger at Moody, at the Minister, but mainly at himself. He had been simply naive to expect anything but antagonization from Lucius Malfoy. He was naive to look for help anywhere. He should have realized it before: he was utterly and completely alone. To the Aurors he was the serial killer's son, and to Malfoy he was Dumbledore's pawn. Polarized by both camps he found himself somewhere in limbo, somewhere in the middle, where there was nowhere to turn, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Gabriel was that so-famed Third Camp, somewhere inside the shades of gray between the Death Eaters and Aurors. He laughed at the irony, but it wasn't a laugh with any humor. It was bitter. Tired. Alone.

He turned the corner to walk to his flat and stopped dead in his tracks. There was no apartment building left to walk into. What had once been his home was reduced to a wasteland of smoking debris. Muggle emergency vehicles flocked to the scene like flies, their engines buzzing nosily as faceless men in white uniforms picked up the dead, wounded and everyone in-between, some still smoldering as the smoke rose from the lifeless rubble. Running forward, he found himself sinking to his knees into what had once been the lobby. Nobody cared, nobody tried to stop him, they were to busy coping and healing and dying to even notice his presence. Slowly, hardly daring to believe, Gabriel extended his burnt hand and ran his fingers through the black ash which had once been walls, furniture, people. Lifting his fingers, he saw that his hand was completely black with ash and burn, though trying to wipe it off onto his other hand only caused the blackness to spread further so he gave up and staggered to his feet, the smoke cloying at his sense while the screams of the dying rent his heart.

Then he saw it. No more than two feet away, untouched by the blaze, was a walking stick, as gnarled and twisted as the auror who had once owned it. The wizard who had set this fire. Gabriel bent down and picked up the cane, unable to stop the bitter smile rising to his features. Moody.

----

Midnight dawned heavy upon a tiny campsite in the eastern Sahara. Hermione and Ron lay close together by the fire, their sleep troubled and shallow in an unfamiliar land. Stress had only served as a sedative to Sirius, who slept with his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a penknife. As for Remus, sleep seemed only a far-away memory as he lay on his back, eyes to the stars, his thoughts lost in the belly of the night.

"Can't sleep?" Remus glanced away from the deep beauty of the stars to give Vix a slight smile.

"No," he said quietly, as not to wake the others. "I'm stargazing."

She laughed slightly at the announcement before pointing up to a star on her own. "There's Sirius."

"Ours is over there," Remus glanced across the flames to where Padfoot slept. "Fast asleep."

"What?" Vix smiled again. "Are you jealous?"

"Somewhat," Remus acknowledged with a tiny shrug. "The moon is bright tonight," he said quietly after a slight pause.

"My mother used to tell me a story about the moon," Vix began, her long hair flowing behind her like liquid onyx. "I think its some kind of Chinese folktale, but..." She broke off, taking Remus's silence for a go-ahead. "In the beginning of the world there were four beings: the Earth, his daughter the Moon, the Sun and his brother the Night. Sun and Moon fell in love, but her father, Earth, had already promised Night her hand in marriage. Sun raged and Moon wept, but there was nothing they could do against the Earth. So Moon was sent to Night's palace, never to see Sun until the day of judgment. The stars are the tears she weeps for her lost love."

"That's Orien's jacket, isn't it?" Remus said quietly, nodding towards the leather coat she wore like a second skin.

Vix shrugged noncommittally, her face instantly growing dark. "He didn't need it anymore."

Remus knew instantly that he was treading on thin ice, so he decided to try and change the subject. "What's Murderer's Way?'

Vix glanced down at her T-shirt, a faint smile spreading across her porcelain features. "My restaurant. I was arrested for Seiji's murder in the airport after you left. But the prosecution's star witness, Whimsy, was unavailable for comment so the police had to let me go. Seiji left his ten billion to me, god knows why, and I rebuilt the diner and named it Murderer's Way." She gave a conspiratorial grin. "We serve nothing but steaks, it's right up your alley." But Vix saw the look on his face and in an instant she knew she had gone to far.

"Do you think it would have been better if I had never come to Hong Kong?" he said quietly. "So many people would still be alive: Orien, Seiji--"

"Remus," she began. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Nsia," he continued. "Whimsy."

"I don't think like that, Remus," she said quickly. "Maybe it would be better, maybe it wouldn't, but there's nothing we can do about it. Besides," Vix gave him a wan smile. "If you never came to Hong Kong, I wouldn't have known you."

"Is that worth too much?" he asked bitterly.

"It's worth more than you think," she replied, meeting his downcast gaze.

"Vix, about the cage..." he began hesitantly.

Almost instantly her head snapped up. "Don't go there, Remus, please..."

"I would have killed you," he said, trying to ignore the look of pain on her face, the tell-tale trace of silver around her neck...

Vix didn't say anything, instead she reached up her fingers slowly traveling down the curve of his throat. "You have a scar."

"I have about twenty scars," he replied quietly.

"All from the necklace?"

"Yes."

Vix opened her mouth as if to say something, closed it and then looked downwards. "I should be the one apologizing. You saved my life, in your own little roundabout way. If it wasn't for the necklace..." she trailed off, instead gripping his hand with her own, their fingers intertwining, the action saying what words couldn't begin to express.

They sat like that for a while, hand in hand, each head resting against the other. Vix didn't say anything as his fingers began to move, tracing a nonsense pattern across her own palm, flitting up her arm like butterfly kisses, finding her shoulder, the curve of her neck, resting the in hollow of her throat, tracing the line of her chin. "Vix..." he began, his voice unsure.

"Shhh," she raised her finger to his mouth. "I should go to sleep."

But she didn't, moving her hand to the nape of his neck, curling her fingers in his tresses. They were so close she could hear his heart within his breast, beating a double-time as she silently met his gaze. Neither of them said a word as he bore down upon her and she melted into him.