Saturday, August 31st

It was about a quarter to nine in the morning when the plane landed. They had taken the red eye from Baltimore-Washington International non stop to Heathrow, which was a very long flight, even if one was asleep most of the way. It was a bumpy landing, too. It left the passengers somewhat rattled, but otherwise unharmed. The family of three, seated towards the rear of the aircraft, waited patiently for nearly all of the other passengers to disembark before the stewardess could come down the aisle with the wheelchair.

"Did you have a good flight?" she asked politely. She set up the wheelchair and set it next to the aisle seat. She held out her arm as the boy pushed himself out of the airplane seat, and climbed over to the wheelchair, panting slightly from the mild exertion.

Tony Macintosh looked up to her, grateful for the assistance, hating that he needed it, but he had to resign himself to needing it months ago. "I did, thank you," he said quietly.

"Here, you dropped your cap," his mother said, placing the Washington Nationals cap on his bald head. She looked up at the stewardess, "Thank you for your help." Mrs. Macintosh stood, carefully walked to the aisle and, followed by her husband, pushed the wheelchair down the aisle and out onto the jetway. It wasn't long before they exited into the airport proper.

Heathrow was a big place. A really big place. The Macintosh's had gone about ten minutes down this or that hallway before they even reached the line for customs. Tony and his mother waited for his father to explain the purpose of their visit. He could tell when his father told the customs agent about his illness, he was used to seeing the sympathetic looks. Shortly after that, they got the okay to head out through the next long hallway, down a ramp, and towards baggage claim.

Their luggage had beaten them to the carousels. Dad was on the phone as Mom worked to get all three large suitcases off the belts. Satisfied, he went to help Mom. "Captain Meade is almost here, he's on the passage from parking, let's just find a spot to sit, until he gets here." Parking Tony's wheelchair to one side, Tom's Parents sat on a bench.

"Mary! Robert!" came the shout a short time later. "It's good to see you, Colonel… or I hear it's General now, congratulations!" Tony looked up. Captain Meade of the Royal Air Force was a tall, lanky man, his straight cut brown hair was giving hints of going grey. He wore a button down blue striped shirt over khakis. His cheerful face lost his smile when he saw Tony.

Tony averted his eyes, looking back at the terminal wall. It was that look that he'd become so used to seeing, and it made him feel terrible. When he'd last lived in the UK, about five or six years ago, Captain Meade had been one of his father's best friends, they'd flown combat missions together in the first Iraq war. He had been over frequently. Now… now he was just another reminder how short Tony's life was destined to be.

"Here, let me get your luggage," the Captain said, forcing himself to smile, "and I'll show you to the car." Tony's mother took control of the wheelchair, navigating an elevator, a walkway, out into the Heathrow parking garage. Tony managed to climb into the back of the sedan, while everyone was putting things in the trunk.

"Do you plan on renting a car?" Captain Meade asked as they headed out of the parking garage, towards the British Motorway system.

"If I have to. But it's nice of you to have us over. This has the possibility of being a long stay, depending on the court proceedings. A hotel would have gotten real expensive real quickly."

"I can imagine. When is your hearing? Where is it, for that matter?"

"Tuesday," Dad replied. "In Watford."

"That's not so bad," the Captain said, accelerating to highway speeds. They reached their destination, in West Ruislip, after a decent length car ride. They parked on the street. "Here we are," the Captain said, pointing out the window. His house was smaller than their home back in Maryland, but bigger than their own home had been when they'd lived in the UK. "I'll get the wheelchair out of the boot."

They were met on the walk by his wife, who Tony hadn't known before. She was slightly shorter than her husband, with muddy brown hair that looked at Tony with sympathy. "So these are the Macintoshes," she said, averting her eyes to focus on his parents. "Pleasure to meet you at last. Frank's said so much about you."

"Only good things, I hope," Dad said, grinning at her.

They wheeled Tony into the foyer, "I was thinking we could give your son the guest room," she said. "One of you to the couch, and the other can use an air mat..."

"I can take the couch," Tony said. "I'm okay with that." He could see the concern in everyone's face, and it frustrated him. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"Well," Ms. Meade said, "If you're sure, that would make things easier." The rest of the evening went pretty quietly. They had dinner together, and Tony mostly stayed quiet. There was only so much one could get involved in a couple of old military buddies getting back together. There were a few stories of old times. He really only got interested when his former foster-sister came up. "What was her name again?" Ms. Meade asked.

"Frisk," Tony said, looking up. "Her name is Frisk."

"How did Frisk end up with you?" Ms. Meade asked. "I mean, a British orphan with an American family?"

"Do you remember the troubles about ten-fifteen years ago?" Mom began. "I mean, not those troubles, but the problems Centrica had with explosive gas leaks?"

"I do," the Captain said. "There were so many deaths that there were twin investigations about them, both terrorism and gross negligence. But neither of them went anywhere, it was a minor scandal."

"Even six or seven years after that, there were dozens of children left without a family. Enough that the BBC did a report on it," Dad continued.

"And I saw it," Tony said. He remembered it vividly, and managed a smile. "I told my parents that I was willing to give up my bed. Because they all needed one. They needed a family."

"We went down to the center that Saturday. I'm pretty sure we weren't supposed to be able to foster, as like you said, we're not British citizens. But considering all the publicity, and just how many kids there were, they allowed it anyway. Especially since all we were asking was for someone who was Tony's age," Mom explained.

"She was so quiet when she came home with us. She shrank back whenever someone tried to talk to her," Tony said. He could picture her in the car, not saying anything, just staring out the window.

"Wait! Was she abused?" Ms. Meade asked.

"That is a very good question," Dad said. "We didn't see any physical evidence of it. We didn't want to pry, either, and open any old memories. So... I don't think so, but I can't be certain."

"Frisk never said anything to me, either," Tony confirmed. "She started coming out of her shell after a few weeks of living with us. She was..." and Tony felt his voice break, and tears trickle from his eyes. "She was my friend, my best friend," he smiled through the tears.

Silence hung in the air for a few minutes. Mom finally broke it. "We all would like to see Frisk again. But we knew what we were getting into. If Frisk was ever actually adopted, we wouldn't be able to have contact with her until she came of age, and only if she came looking for us. We just never dreamed..."

"I understand," Ms. Meade said. Everyone was looking at Tony, and he closed his eyes, frustrated, in response. "Who would like some desert? I made crumb cake!"

When the dessert arrived, Tony just picked at it. It wasn't that the cake didn't taste good, it did. But, his mind had wandered to Frisk again. Where was she now? Did she remember him? Tony hoped so, where ever she was.

The courthouse was an impressive, imposing structure. Dad wheeled Tony in the door, and towards the waiting area. Captain Meade walked beside them, standing next to where they parked the wheelchair. Then it was waiting, a lot of it, until the bailiff called them in.

The judge was an older gentleman with black robs, and he looked down on them from a raised bench. "General Macintosh?" he asked.

"Mister Macintosh here is fine, Dad said. "That's my wife, and that's my son."

"And why are you here today?" The judge asked, consulting a piece of paper. "Break an adoption seal?" He looked down at Dad. "The only person who can do that is the adoptee when he or she comes of age."

"I understand that is the rule," Dad said. "I'm asking for an exception because of my son,"

"Wait," Tony said, and he struggled to stand out of the wheelchair. He grabbed one arm of it, swaying slightly.

"Tony, you should stay seated," Mom told him, but he ignored her.

His legs were shaking, "Your honor..." he began, then felt his voice leave him. Was that right?

"Your honor is fine, go ahead."

"My name is Tony Macintosh. For two and a half years, Frisk was my sister. Then we left the UK, and had to leave her behind." The judge frowned, for a second, perhaps thinking he was witnessing a performance. He looked down at his desk, consulting a paper. "But... six months ago, I was diagnosed with Leukemia. I will be dead," he continued, shutting his eyes. "Before Frisk is allowed to know. I want to see her before I die. Please sir... I want to see my sister."

There was quiet as he finished, and collapsed back in the chair. Dad held out a piece of paper, then walked to the Judge's desk to hand it to him. The judge scanned it. "The prognosis from the Navy hospital in Bethesda and from civilian US doctors," Dad said.

"I see that. Advocate?" the judge said, holding the papers out again. A smartly dressed man strode up to the bar and took them, looking them over. "I'm inclined to grant the request. They're not doing it to pressure the adopted families, and it's true that it can't wait. What do you think?"

"You said you flew with the Royal Air Force in the first Iraq war?" the advocate asked.

"More or less, I flew with Captain Meade in joint missions," Dad said. "The judge has my service record." The Judge nodded in agreement. "An exemplary record, sir. Thank you for your service."

"Would Frisk want to see you?" the advocate asked.

"Yes," Tony replied. "We were friends while we were living together. I don't think she'd forgive me if I left without telling her goodbye."

The judge and the advocate looked at each other. "What's the phrase?" the judge asked, "That escalated quickly?"

"It certainly did," the advocate agreed. "I don't think I have an objection. It's an extenuating circumstance."

"Very well," the judge said. "I'll have the order written up and signed."

With only a break for lunch, they were on the way to the orphanage, signed order in hand. Tony only got a brief look the drab outside before they wheeled in him inside, and even a briefer look of the grey foyer before they were escorted into the office of the matron.

"How can I help you?" she asked in a decidedly uninterested voice.

Dad put the judge's paper on the table. "We've a court order here, we're here to learn who adopted Frisk."

"Last name?" she asked.

"Didn't have one. She was a found child. So while she was with us, she went by our last name, Macintosh."

"Eh, can't be that many Frisk's in here," she said, still sounding bored. Tony felt his temper rise. How could she not know Frisk's name? She'd lived here, right?

"Okay. So it's in the cabinet. 'D'. For Dreemurr, apparently." She frowned. "That's one heck of a typo, isn't it? Anyway." She stood up, made her way to the file cabinet, unlocked it, and pulled it open. She ruffled a few folders, and pulled out a sealed large envelope. But as she held it in her hand, she actually started to put it back. "No. We're not supposed to give it out. It's sealed for a reason."

"Wait, what?" Dad said, a frown forming on his face as his voice rose. "We have a court order, you have to give to us."

The matron looked conflicted. She put the envelope on the table. "I mean, I get that, but it's not right. Frisk was promised privacy. I'm supposed to ensure that, even if the Judge didn't."

Dad looked upset, began to reach down to pick up the envelope and then he stopped. "Look, maybe she's right."

Tony just couldn't believe what he was hearing. He forced himself up off the wheelchair, gripping the edge of the table, grabbing the envelope, even as a voice in his head started to shout that this would get him in trouble.

"I don't care!" he shouted as loudly as he could, which wasn't actually that loud. He felt something welling up in his chest, a feeling that fought that voice in his head. He wasn't going to be kept from seeing his sister.

"Tony, what are you doing?" Mom asked, alarmed.

He ignored her and ripped the seal. The voice in his head got louder, shouting at him he was breaking the law, that he was going to go to jail.

With a cry of "I'm dying!" he yanked out the papers that were in the envelope. When his eyes rested on the front page, all of a sudden the voice in his head silenced again. He scanned the page, and his eyes grew wide.

"No," he said, and sank back into his chair again. "No, that can't be right. Look at this."

"Oh, dear, you know we're not supposed to..." Mom said.

He reached up, taking her arm, gripping it tightly until she was forced to look at it, and he shoved the papers under face. The moment he did so, she ceased struggling. "How is that possible?" She took the group of papers. "You need to see this, both of you. What is your problem?" She demanded, forcing first Dad, and then with their combined effort, the matron, to look at the papers.

"They're blank!" she exclaimed.

Dad rounded at the woman, who had a terrified look in her face. "I... I don't know!"

They looked over the papers, and anything that was supposed to be filled out wasn't. The only thing they could find with any ink on it at all was a paper promising to care for Frisk as long as they would live, and it was signed "Asgore Dreemurr" and "Toriel Dreemurr".

"Now what do we do?" Tony asked. "Now what do we do? Frisk's been kidnapped." The anger had faded away, and had begun to be replaced with hopelessness. Dad put a hand on his shoulder, but he could see the worry there, too.

"Something strange is certainly going on…" Dad said, sharing a look between Mom and the matron. Though that second look might have been more of a glare.

"I got the number of the family advocate," Mom said. "The one from court this morning. Let's give him a call and see if he has any suggestions for us."

About three weeks later, in a country house not far from Plymouth, Wales

Ms. Roberts was sitting with her afternoon tea, reading the paper, while her husband worked on balancing the books on the campsite. When her eye glanced over a small notice in one corner of page three, she very nearly choked on her tea. "David! David! Get in here! Right now!"

There was a clatter as Mr. Roberts bolted out of his chair, nearly crashing over it, to see what was so urgent. "The paper, dear? What's so urgent about..." he looked over the notice. "Missing. Thirteen year old girl, goes by the given name Frisk. Brown straight hair, probably cut short. Slightly tanned skin, slightly on the short side, quiet. Last known to be at..." Mr. Roberts stopped reading, and together, they turned to stare at the picture that Anne had drawn multiple times. One of them was hanging on the refrigerator.

The female humanoid goat they had no answer for. Anne had always called her an angel. But there were two humans in that picture too. And one of them was a dead ringer for this missing Frisk. How had their daughter drawn such an exact picture?

Mr. Roberts picked up a cordless house phone and handed it to his wife. "Call them."

His wife silently took the phone and dialed. "Yes. Hello. My name is Penelope Roberts. Is this Mr. Macintosh? I've got something I think you should see."

In Hogwarts, Headmaster Dumbledore read the same missing person's report. He took a deep breath, moved to his desk, and began to compose a letter that would have to go out on an owl that morning. This was a complication he hadn't been expecting, and he wondered if the ministry was prepared to handle it.