Chapter Thirty-Seven: Tears

In the end it was all sorted out rather simply. Cass listened to Narcissa's account of the contents of Lucius' memory, then left the hotel, rented a thoroughly tasteless green car, drove north to Pittsburgh and opened James Alcott's storage space.

When Cass had been a very little girl, her father had hidden all of her mother's things in his grief. The storage space was at one of the multitude such facilities, and judging by the age of the gatekeeper and amount of rust on the steel fence, it hadn't seen much business recently. Cass didn't have the key or her father's code number, but six years of girls' hockey, four of Quidditch, and almost two of exceedingly creative biological recreations the likes of which Vatsyayana never dreamed about had left the werewolf with fairly good musclature.

To put it most bluntly, she climbed the fence.

There was a tense moment involving the rusty barbed wire and her left ankle, but Cass merely vowed to get a tetanus shot and leaped. She fell and rolled in a manner that would make Madam Hooch applaud, unfortunately reacquainting herself with Pennsylvania sticker-bush in the process. Several scrapes and creative curse words later, Cass found herself in front of several numbered gates.

She had seen her father's key once and knew the number was one-one-twelve. The gates were rather like unpanted garage doors, but where others were neatly, even lovingly tended to, 1112 had a dismally rusty lock and looked as though noone had visited it in more than two decades. Cass deftly pulled a bobby pin and a compass from the pockets of her worn denim jacket. Rusty locks were g-d hard to pick, she knew, but a second's thought reminded her of something. She put her picks away and Alohomora'd it. Sometimes it was awfully nice to be a witch. The lock opened with a scraping click, red dust landing on the ground, and Cass removed it. With the padlock gone, it was just like her old garage door had been. Lift it up and it rolls away…

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Antigone, it turned out, was a name used through some twenty generations of a faintly notorious pureblooded clan called the MacLanceys. They had moved en masse to the Americas in the days of white wigs and knee-breeches 'out of sheer cussedness,' but their Scottish stubbornness had only seemed to increase with the new soil. In 1970, Antigone MacLancey the Umpteenth, a near-Squib with a strong interest in Arithmancy, had done the unthinkable. She had enrolled in a Muggle college. Her parents, who were very minor MacLanceys in the Clan Hierarchy scheme of things, had written this off as a passing phase. 'Rebellion,' they said, when the elders of the tribe inquired.

A bachelors' degree in history education later, they changed the excuse to 'An experiment.' Antigone, however, despite angering her clan and confusing her close family, was growing, after four years, to love Muggles. She had immersed herself in their culture, diligently committing names of bands and plots of films to memory, while her understanding of wizarding history gave her a shocking edge in classes. Wizards, after all, had known what was really going on. Her gifts with Arithmancy, curiously enough, had a very uncanny compatibility with several Muggle institutions and sciences, so with five hundred dollars and a pocket calculator she neatly skinned a fur coat off the stock market. She was thus wealthy enough on her own merits to live comfortably for many years, which the clan approved of, but she was also falling haplessly in love with Muggle life, which they did not.

Eventually the ultimatum came: 'shape up or be disowned.' Antigone, being quite loyal to her parents, made an effort at shaping up. Unfortunately, a potions accident in 1975 removed them from the picture. At their funeral, the poor girl was weak with grief, but a sudden firm grasp of her two hands made her look up.

She had been in almost every class with him for two of her four college years, but James Alcott had never been much more than a casual pal to her. The fact that he knew everything, from her favorite color to her favorite coat to her customary order at Primanti Brothers had seemed merely the result of a photographic memory. He had gotten the news of her parents out of her landlady and driven some ninety miles in a rented Yugo to comfort her. With her hands in his, Antigone suddenly realized he wanted to be her friend.

The MacLanceys, naturally, were not pleased by this. Jamie and Tigger, as their fellow students called them, had fallen from friendship into love at an alarming rate, and as their graduation neared, so did the possibility of an engagement. The last ultimatum came by owl the night before Antigone's graduation as a Ph.D. 'Leave him or leave the family.'

The owl returned with an envelope containing two pieces of a wand and a wedding invitation. It should be remarked that a few younger MacLancey cousins actually did attend, but their fate was likely stern chastisement from the clan. It didn't matter. Antigone and James were deliriously happy and began traveling the world.

It seemed for a while that Antigone didn't miss magic. She had never been really much good at it, so it was no greater loss than perhaps that of algebra. In London, however, she noticed a display of baby clothes and an idea occurred to her. Any progeny of hers might be, conceivably, magical. She had never bothered to explain her family's heritage to James –'old and pompous' was really enough to cover it in his eyes. Still, there was a possibility, and they both wanted a child. While James visited a London chiropractor about a sore shoulder, Antigone made her way to Diagon Alley. Ollivander himself sold her a second wand, far better than the one she had broken upon leaving the MacLanceys.

James found his beloved in hospital, with policemen speaking to the doctors as she trembled, unconscious.

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And her mother had kept a diary of the whole story.

It was a habit of Cass's that had always made her father slightly uneasy. Now she knew why. Rain had begun to fall, so she had simply pulled the door of the storage space shut and muttered a Lumos charm. It was cold and likely home to several large spiders, but Cass hadn't noticed as she read the history of the mother she'd never known.

'The nurse with the dark hair won the bet today. James and I have a little girl. The emphasis should be placed on little, as she seemed to barely fill the crook of her daddy's arm. Two weeks late and still so tiny. Six pounds, five ounces and eighteen inches long. Aren't those wonderful statistics? I swear I've had bigger sandwiches, but Cassie's so darling I definitely prefer- I forgot to mention it. Her name is Cassandra, after James' grandmother, that dear old lady who was so kind to me when we were first friends. James had one of his moments and added my first name as her middle one, which I don't mind at all, come to think of it. I never liked my name, but it's nice to know someone else can wear it also, like a pair of socks. Cassandra Antigone Alcott…sounds like an artist or great author. Her names are very classical, come to think of it. Cassandra foretold the doom of Troy, Antigone was a chick with bad luck and worse genes in Sophocles, and Alcott is literary enough to make anyone who's read up on the Great Awakening double-take. Very classical names. Professor Gordon was by just an hour ago and he seemed very pleased. The fact that James let him hold Cassie was likely part of it. She just looked around, didn't cry or fuss but had a sort of 'What the sod?' kind of expression. 'I was very comfy earlier, may I have my placenta back?' She has blue-gray eyes, as do all babies, apparently, but James swears they look like mine. He thinks everything good of hers is mine, but the hands I do agree with. A newborn whose fingers fan like that could only be my baby. Know what? That seems to be enough for James. The doubt is only mine now. He's fallen in love with little Cassie as hard and fast as I did with him and he with me. She's mine, that's all he gives a damn about. I love him so.'

A tear slid down little Cassie's face and she closed the book. It was almost the last entry in that volume, but she couldn't handle any more. She collapsed into sobs.

John Tyler knew his wife's scent better than he knew his own. He could also tell when she was distraught or tense, and sobbing behind a corrugated-metal door in a storage space could only be for one reason. He had a gentle touch, to which the door yielded almost silently, and within moments John had Cassie in his arms.

"You're mine, eh?" he asked her in Wolfish. "Mine, your mother's…not much else matters?" A hopeful, querying sound accompanied the question.

"Mattered to me." Wolfish did not follow the patterns of English, or indeed, any human language, but it was far more communicative than words at times like these.

"Then to me as well it matters. Sad?"

"Worn-out, sad."

"Worn-out much. Cold." John took off the trenchcoat he had worn in the rain and pulled it around his mate. Cass slumped against him with a look that communicated futility and hopeless loss. John responded with an aura of abject love. He honestly didn't give a damn, either.

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"Term starts tomorrow, love."

"Back to grading miserable attempts at proving they weren't asleep in class for me, and back to making sure Potter and Weasley learn something for you."

"Yes, though it isn't as if I do their work for them."

"You merely hold the whip to their backs to make sure they do it right."

"Hey!" Hermione sounded slightly miffed.

"Well, you must admit, love, you are a bit…" Severus chose a word he liked, "…domineering with those two."

"Domineering?"

"'Bossy' can be so inadequate."

"And where'd you get that idea?"

"Potter and I had a civil conversation or two today. It is possible, you know."

"And what did you have to slip him?" Hermione asked.

"I violated the rules on giving alcohol to minors, but only by a little glass. He was curious."

"And the question of why?"

"I do have to teach the boy more Occlumency start of term."  Severus saw the look his lover was giving him and caved. "I also wanted a clue on what sort of things you like."

"Gods, first Cass, then Ginny, Draco and now Harry? Why don't you just ask me what I like?"

"Because one, you might not realize what you like, two, you might be too shy to tell me, three, it's a challenge, four, I have to get used to your friends somehow, and five, asking you would be too easy."

It was, Hermione knew, a very Slytherin point of view, but sound. She thought for a moment and finally frowned at him.

"So I'm domineering?" Severus swallowed lightly.

"A bit. Only according to…well, you are."

"When have I ever been domineering to you?"

"You haven't, very much…yet?" Severus brightened and looked hopeful. After a moment of raised-eyebrow disbelief, Hermuione laughed.

"I don't have to ask your friends what you like."

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To noone's surprise when term started, the first years were terrified. They nearly always were, but this year quite a few of them had been getting more and more scary werewolf stories at home in preparation for their entry into an 'infested' school. Professor McGonagall waited for them at the top of the stairs, as always, except this year she was dressed…somewhat oddly.

"Good morrow, anklebiters," she greeted affably. "Welcome to Hogwarts. No spitting on the floor inside." A pudgy little boy glanced at the professor's green t-shirt and exceedingly tight jeans. "Spit it out, scruffy, why the stare?" McGonagall inquired.

"I…I thought professors wore robes."

"We do," a fairly testy voice observed. Professor McGonagall herself had appeared in full tartan regalia to arch an eyebrow at the imposter. "Must you really, Nymphadora?"

"Who, me?" The McGonagall in the t-shirt blurred and faded into the familiarly rakish form of Cass Tyler, a mischievous grin on her face. "Tonks is sitting in the Great Hall hitting on Severus."

"No, you aren't," McGonagall replied coolly. "For starters, dear, Cassandra is incapable of pronouncing two of the words you used. You are not sittin' anywhere. And secondly, she hasn't used his given name since she arrived. He's called 'Sevvy' now."

"Yeah!"

A pink-haired female with an 'Anarchy in the UK' t-shirt had appeared. "She's a Yank, na' a Londoner."

Professor McGonagall began to look mildly peeved.

"Exactly which one of the Weasley brothers talked you into this?"

Tonks and Cass turned back into Fred and George. Professor McGonagall jumped slightly, having expected that last of all.

"Sorry," the two young entrepreneurs remarked, identically grinning.

"Took me a week to teach Gred the accent!" Cass cried from the hall.

"And Forge forgot to wear a bra!" Tonks added.

"Spare me," Minerva groused weakly.

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Bill Weasley returned to Egypt and Gringotts, disconsolate. He had loved and lost, and maxim or none, it hurt like bloody hell. He tried to forget it by immersing himself in his work, but even the goblins could sense a broken heart. Clipring, a young female in his department, pretty by goblin standards, came up to him one day.

"Snap the fuck out of it," she commanded.

"Pardon me?"

"Whoever she –or he was, they're not worth this miserable attitude. Shape up." Clipring made to go and Bill exploded.

"How the hell do you know whether she was worth it or not? I loved her more than life and she's- you miserable little clot, how dare you…"

Obscenities rained down on the young goblin for quite a few moments while she listened patiently, but finally Bill's voice broke and the sobs started. Clipring reached up and put a hand on his shoulder as he knelt.

"Good. Now you can grieve."

"I don't want to get over it."

"You don't have to. But you need to grieve for your loss or you're going to die."

"How do you-?"

"Just trust me, human. I know your kind."

Within the month, Bill was less fanatical about work. He was still sad, lonely, and generally mournful at times, but he was on the road to recovery. Goblins could really be great friends at times.

Maria's ordeal, however, had just begun.

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