Chapter 8: Ginevra

But Mallory Blanc had underestimated his cagey friend. Though time and time again, he would try to enquire about his past, Blake persistently managed to divert and end any conversation that begun to delve too deep. It was as if he was ashamed of his past, afraid of it, and Mallory found himself imagining sometimes what exactly the other man was hiding. Was Blake a mobster? Was that the source of his limp, and those strange scars he once caught sight of, which immediately showed Mallory why Blake never seemed to go shirtless, even in the worst of the summer heat.

Maybe he'd been a drug addict, or a thief, or a murderer... but no, Mallory shook his head in amusement, that was something Mr Wesley could never be. He was always so calm, so self-assured and controlled, not even the strangest of events and actions seemed to phase him. But then again, mallory considered, the other man had been living in this village for almost ten years now, and that sort of thing was bound to rub off.

What if Blake was part of a circus? Mallory laughed in the privacy of his own home, or rather his own room, as he mentally imagined Mr Wesley, who seemed so prematurely aged, in soul more than body, as a clown or a tightrope walker. No, it was impossible, though the thought brought hours of amusement to the young man. But there was definitely something in Mr Wesley's past, or he would never have tried so hard to hide it.

Occasionally, as Blake worked in his kitchen, Mallory found himself comparing notes with some of the younger villagers, who shared his curiosity about the familiar man who remained a stranger to all. But for all the ten years he had spent in the same time, no one knew much more than what Mallory had gathered, and most knew much less. And as the weeks went by, with Blake remaining studiously aloof, it began to appear to Mallory as if this were a mystery never to be solved.

Of course, Blake did not avoid or ignore Mallory, but far from it. They spent many hours walking together around the surrounding areas, or having dinner together with Mallory's cousin, or gazing at the sky, which had more stars than Mallory had ever seen, for all that his own home was electricity free. Their conversations were many and deep, as the two men discussed everything from science to religion, though Mr Wesley often gave mallory strange looks at the former, as if Mallory didn't quite know what he was saying. Which was, he reflected, probably true.

No, it was just the deep topics on which Blake would go silent. And none of Mallory's pestering could get the other man to open up.

Mr Wesley, for his part, found the other man's interest somewhat flattering, and the enthusiasm with which he pursued their walks and conversations filled Mr Wesley with a similar excitement, one he had not felt for over a decade. But eventually, the pestering began to grow annoying, though Blake was too polite to say anything so cold aloud. He was fond of Mallory, though, and despite the irritation and the lack of privacy, he was glad for the company.

He did, however, find it interesting how despite all that Mallory claimed to want to know his past, it was rare for the blond to share any of his own. Blake knew the basics, of course, that the other man had a estranged and now deceased father, that he worked as a teacher, that he enjoyed science fiction, to the shock of many of his friends. But all the details that Mallory wanted from him, were lacking from his own stories, making them seem flat. 2D. That, too, Mr Wesley chose not to mention, in preference for keeping the peace.

But on the topic of his past, Mr Wesley would not budge. Even without the statute of secrecy that prevented him ever airing the truth to a muggle, however insightful and pagan, there was simply too much pain. Too much loss. There was nothing to be gained in bringing it back, and Blake refused to do so. This was his life, now.

And so the weeks passed, with Mallory ever more persistently fishing for information, and Blake ever more stubbornly avoiding answering, even to the point of using the kitchen as an excuse, something he had sworn never to do. And as their friendship strengthened, the two becoming almost inseparable, so too did the tensions caused by this crucial disagreement. Both began to realise that, eventually, someone would have to give. And each was determined to stay their course.

It was the 17th of july that it happened. That day had never been kind to Mallory, so he was almost unsurprised when he came to Blake's place and found it closed. "Predictable," he snorted, for all that he had only seen it closed once before, and walked back towards the village. If he had to wait an hour, he would be doing it from the comfort of his own lounge.

On his way through the village, he ran into a young lady, who seemed to be carrying a basket of bread and cakes. As he lifted her to her feet, he curiously asked, "I don't think I've ever seen nayone else baking in this village, in all my month or so here. What's that for?"

The girl giggled, looking up into his eyes with unfeigned admiration. "Oh... these are just for the folks at the BnB... the Bed & Breakfast, see?"

"No, I don't see," Mallory frowned. "Isn't that Mr Wesley's job?"

"Yes, well," the girl giggled again, and mallory found his foot tapping impatiently as he waited for her to continue. He couldn't abide simpering females. "It's just that Mr Wesley always takes today off, see? He works on easter, an' he works on christmas, but he never works today." Her voice lowered into a whisper, she added, "Folks around here think it's his wedding anniversary," and giggled again, as if it were some terribly romantic secret.

Rolling his eyes, Mallory turned and walked away from the girl, unwilling to be subjected to any more of that behaviour. He never could abide females, though that was probably due to the lack of decent female influences as much as anything, he silently acknowledged. But over the last few days, Mallory had watched Blake become more and more withdrawn, even for him, and he doubted somewhat that today was something so pleasant as an anniversary.

Before he knew it, Mallory found his feet on the path to the rock where Blake had taken him that first day, and though he had not returned there since, he seemed to know the way. As he took the first steps, part of his mind was screaming at him to leave the other man his privacy, but he obstinately ignored it. If he wanted to learn more about his friend, now was his chance. And besides, maybe Blake would like some comfort, if today was as sad as it seemed to be. No one needed to be alone when sad.

It wasn't long before he caught sight of the rock, and indeed, he could see Blake's distinctive profile, staring directly out to see. He was holding something in his hands, like a wreath or a headdress, and he seemed to be speaking to himself, though Mallory could not make out the words over the squalling winds.

As he approached hearing distance, he awkwardly called out a greeting. For all that he wanted to see his friend, he knew better than to try and eavesdrop.

"Hello, yourself," returned Mr Wesley's words over the wind, voice sounding slightly croaky.

"Mind if I come up?" Mallory asked, tentatively. For all that he wanted to know, he wasn't quite so ruthless as to interfere with his friend's mourning. Not anymore, anyway.

"Sure," Mr Wesley replied tiredly, and Mallory quickly climbed to a seat not far from the other man, where he could more comfortably hear his voice. "I suppose you've come to pester me some more, then?" he continued lethargically, sounding every one of the forty years he pretended to be, and Mallory suddenly felt guilty.

"I'm sorry, Blake, I-"

"No, it's alright, Mallory," Blake interrupted. "I know that you're only trying to be a friend, I just... it's easier not to remember." Staring at the wreath, he added something so quiet Mallory couldn't quite discern it, but this time he refrained from asking.

The two sat in silence for several minutes, before Blake closed his eyes in seeming preparation. He knew that Mallory deserved to know, but he also knew that airing the words made them that much more real. But how much longer would Mallory remain his friend, when he realised that Blake was never going to let him in? And despite having thought himself happy alone, he now knew that he couldn't bare to be alone again.

Taking a deep breath, though the words still caught on his throat, he quietly said, "She was my fiance."

Eyes wide, Mallory stared at the other man, shocked at the announcement. After all these weeks... to his relief, Mr Wesley continued before he was obligated to say something, because he didn't have any words.

"We hadn't told her parents, we were going to make it official that night. She was only eighteen, most people would have said we were too young to be considering such a drastic step... but we weren't going to get married until after the w... the world settled down, it was just a way for us to show how much we loved each other. And we weren't very young, either - life had seen to that.

By that time... well, I was in a pretty dark place. I was constantly exhausted, barely sleeping, there always seemed to be so much more work to do, I couldn't bare to fall behind. I wasn't spending as much time on my friendships as i should have, either... she was the only person who made me feel alive. She was so beautiful, with her deep brown eyes, and that glorious red hair... the way she used to play q... cricket with her brothers, the way she would dance when she was excited... the way she would sit in my lap, wiith her hed titled slightly, staring at me as if I was something important..."

Mr Wesley trailed off into silence, and Mallory would have sworn he saw him shaking, were he not so enthralled in the other man's story. Biting back his questions, he waiting patiently for his friend to go on.

"She... god," Mr Wesley swore, to Mallory's slight surprise, "I've never really talked about this before... it was all too close, and then it just became so much easier to bottle it down, to ignore it, like if I pretended she never existed, then it wouldn't hurt so much... but that wasn't fair. She deserves more than that. But... " He sighed, taking a deep, half-choked breath, before shakily continuing, "I was the one who found her, you know. It was dinnertime, and I was waiting to tell everyone the good news, but she never came. We searched the house, and the backyard, and the gully, and the forest... it was midnight when I found her. She was in a little boat in the river, her glorious hair spilling into the water, and I thought she was Guinivere or Sorcha, some beautiful celtic princess out of an ancient tale... she looked so peaceful..."

Mallory winced in anticipation of pain, and he was not disappointed, if disappointed was the word. "When I reached the boat... it was a massacre, Mallory! Her limbs had been torn apart like by some vicious creature, and the boat was stained the rich red of her blood, which slowly began to seep into the water. I took some comfort in the sight that she was cleanly beheaded... at least it was a quick death... but I will never forget that sight. And I know who did it, and why. They did it to get to me, Mallory. They took away the one beautiful thing in my life..."

Mallory frowned slightly, beginning to get a sense of deja vu. It almost sounded like... no, that was impossible. Then Blake continued. "I can't remember the rest of the evening. But I do remember, the next day I began to track down her killers... I made them scream before they died... made them feel the pain they had caused me... all I focused on was revenge, and I think that I began to scare everyone around me. I know that I scared myself. I still do. That's why I try so hard to forget it... I can't be that sort of monster again. I just can't."

Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place - the reticence, the unexpected pagan traditions, the strange feeling of security around Mr Wesley's house... a slightly familiar spark in those almost-green eyes...

As Blake softly whispered, "Oh, Ginny... Ginevra... my love...", a dark fire lit in Mallory's eyes and, turning to face Mr Wesley, who was slowly withdrawing from his painful memories, he angrily spat a single word, rife with meaning.

"Potter."