Chapter 17

1 December, 1957 Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Standing in the massive stone entrance hall of Hogwarts, Dorcas argued with herself once more. She could destroy the memory, claim that it had been lost with the others when her office had been ransacked. Then again, Dorcas knew what the right thing to do was. She thought of her mother and pictured disappointment on her face at hearing Dorcas's justifications in her mind for not turning the memory over.

A woman with auburn hair who looked to be in her thirties or early forties came from the entrance of the Great Hall and turned to Dorcas. She supposed some teachers were new since she'd been a student here.

Merrythought had retired at the end of her sixth year from the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. And, Dorcas surmised, someone would have had to replace Dumbledore in the classroom as well since his promotion to Headmaster.

"May I help you?" the woman asked, looking over the rim of her glasses with a rather severe stare. Dorcas could not help but marvel at the intimidating effect the directness of her gaze had. She must be a rather formidable teacher.

Dorcas reminded herself to ask Ryann about this teacher when she returned home in a few weeks' time for Christmas holiday. Dorcas rather thought she would have liked this teacher a lot if she'd had her at school.

"Hello," Dorcas returned. "I have an appointment with the headmaster."

"Dr. Meadowes?" the woman inquired.

Dorcas nodded.

"I was told you'd be expected. But I thought you'd be a man." She gave Dorcas an appraising look. "How refreshing," the woman said appreciatively.

Dorcas laughed a little to herself. The expectation that Dr. Meadowes would be a man often preceded her when she came into a courtroom, or penned an essay for a professional journal. She was in a field dominated by men and therefore, was used to the assumption.

"Minerva McGonagall," the woman said by way of introduction, gesturing to the marble staircase to her left.

"Lovely to meet you, Professor," Dorcas replied. Now that she'd heard the name, she was sure Ryann had mentioned her in the letters she wrote. This was Dumbledore's replacement in the classroom. A rather impressive witch, by Ryann's account.

:::

Dorcas turned down Cal's offer to accompany her to Hogwarts. In a feint of heroism, Dorcas had said no, she needed to do this on her own. She was cursing her mock bravery now.

Cal would have been sure to ease the tensions between Dorcas and Dumbledore.

Now that Dorcas had seen just what Dumbledore had suspected to have taken place in the Smith townhouse, she was bracing herself for an inquisition about her relationship with Tom Riddle.

Of course, there was no relationship to speak of now. But what if Dumbledore wanted to dredge up the past? Dorcas wondered how much she truly knew about the man who used to be as close as a soulmate to her? How much inquiry could she tolerate from Dumbledore?

Professor McGonagall showed Dorcas through the spiral-staired passage guarded by a gargoyle and into the headmaster's office.

It looked quite different than the last time she'd been in it. But then, she supposed, every new headmaster made the office over to suit their tastes. Where Professor Dippet had once kept books and files and ledgers, Professor Dumbledore kept an assortment of curious magical machines. Shiny brass and glittering crystal gave the office a more whimsical atmosphere.

The customary portraits of deceased headmasters adorned the walls in their usual places behind the massive mahogany desk.

Professor Black was pretending to be asleep. Professor Dippet sat reading in a stiff wingback chair.

Below the portraits sat the current headmaster. He had a manner about him which always gave Dorcas the impression that his aged appearance was just a cover for a very energetic and youthful soul.

"Dr. Meadowes," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair and moving around his desk to greet her.

"Professor," Dorcas replied, taking the hand he offered apprehensively. She disliked feeling so wrong footed in her former teacher's presence. But she couldn't banish their last meeting from her mind. Dumbledore insisted she retrieve the second memory. Dorcas had capitulated. And Hokey had died.

Professor Dumbledore nodded in thanks to Professor McGonagall who left the two to their business.

Returning to his desk, Dumbledore waved a hand at a chair opposite him. "Please sit."

As she sat, Dorcas reached into her pocket and pulled out the memory that she'd been studying that morning. After her initial shock at seeing Tom seated among Ms. Smith's rare and priceless collection of artifacts, she'd watched the scene play out four more times. Each time she willed the memory to reveal a different face. Everytime it didn't, she'd had to convince herself to accept what she knew to be true: Tom Riddle murdered Hepzibah Smith.

Parting with it now, after days of carrying it around with her, was an odd sensation. It was like the final, tentative thread of Hokey's life was now severed completely.

She placed it on the desk before Dumbledore.

Her old teacher did not attempt to mask the surprise on his features. His eyebrows raised and he looked from the tiny phial and then to her.

"Thank you, Dorcas." He sounded appreciative, even grateful to her for the memory. "Have you looked at it?"

"I have," Dorcas replied evenly. It took a great deal of courage to admit this to Dumbledore. It felt like an awful betrayal of her friendship to Tom. But, Dorcas reminded herself, the friendship had been obliterated long before she'd decided to hand this memory over to the headmaster.

"Do you know what it contains, Professor?" Dorcas couldn't help but ask. Dumbledore was an insightful and brilliant wizard. Her guess was that he'd known what the memory contained long before he'd pursued Gideon's help, or Gideon hers.

"I believe I do," Dumbledore said, his expression was a pleasant mask. "But I confess," here he looked at his hands folded on the table in front of him and shook his head slightly. "I find myself curious about your opinion of what you saw."

"My opinion?" Dorcas asked.

"Yes," Dumbledore said. He had that annoying habit of speaking to her in a way that made her feel like a student again. "What do you believe happened in the days leading up to Hepzibah Smith's unfortunate end?"

"Well," Dorcas replied, adopting the tone she used when she was under a cross examination in court. Clinical, detached. "The memory that we retrieved shows Tom Riddle meeting with Ms. Smith. It seemed as if the meeting had been prearranged. He seemed to have been visiting her on behalf of his employers. This was one of a number of meetings they'd had. She showed him a couple of artifacts…" she shrugged as she came to the end of her inventory of the memory.

Dumbledore nodded as she spoke, the consummate instructor. Dorcas felt as if she'd been called on to recite the principles behind a particularly complex Transfiguration spell.

"In your opinion, did Tom Riddle murder Hebzibah Smith?"

Dorcas inhaled. The question was weighty. She felt uncomfortable answering it.

"I can't say for sure," she hedged.

Dumbledore nodded again. This time, he seemed to anticipate her response.

"The second memory would have confirmed it, I believe." He stared at her over his half-moon spectacles.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I did warn you what could happen if we tried to push Hokey." She looked down at her hands, angry with herself for apologizing for wanting to prioritize her patient over the retrieval of a memory.

"You and Tom were very close at school, were you not?" Dumbledore changed tack.

Dorcas's eyes shot from her hands to his face in an instant.

"Yes."

"Are you still close, Dorcas?"

She couldn't see where he was going with this. She'd lived out of the country for over ten years. She'd only spoken to Tom a handful of times since coming back to the UK.

"Close with Tom? No."

Dumbledore reached for the memory sitting on the desk between them and made a show of studying it.

"On the night that you retrieved this, you didn't meet Mr. Riddle afterward?"

Was he having her followed? She became aware of the optics of the chance encounter with Tom and saw it differently now.

"Who's your informant?" she asked.

"I make it a point to remain friendly with the local barmen," Dumbledore answered.

"Tom, the barman at the Leaky Cauldron?" Dorcas shook her head. She knew the professor wasn't omniscient, but his vast network made it appear so. "That wasn't a planned meeting. I just wanted to get drunk after losing my patient. Tom happened to run into me there." She knew it as she said it, that it probably wasn't as much of a coincidence as she'd thought it was.

"You were drinking at the Leaky Cauldron?" Dumbledore repeated, still smiling pleasantly. "And Tom Riddle happenedto be passing by and stopped for a chat?"

'Yes," Dorcas confirmed.

"Dorcas, during your time at Hogwarts I would have said you and Tom were extremely loyal to one another. Would you agree?"

"We were," Dorcas responded. She began to feel as if she were on trial for something.

"Loyal friends would be inclined to cover for one another, wouldn't they?"

"I suppose so."

"If Tom asked you to destroy evidence, Dorcas, would you do it?"

"Destroy evidence?" She didn't understand where he was going with this. "The evidence is there. Look at it. You'll see I haven't tampered with it."

Dumbledore held up the memory in his hand and examined it. "This is not all of the evidence, is it, Dorcas?"

It dawned on Dorcas that he was asking her, without asking her, if she'd killed Hokey to cover for Tom.

"You asked for the elixir to extract the true memory of what happened. There it is, professor. There is the memory you're after. If you'd have been patient, we could have extracted the memory of Ms. Smith's murder in a day or two. Once we knew that Hokey could tolerate the dose. You were not patient, sir."

Dorcas was furious. There was no misunderstanding him. He thought she was colluding with Tom to cover for the murder of Hepzibah Smith. She stood, collecting her handbag and her gloves.

"There's all of the evidence that I was able to uncover, Professor." She said, pointing to the glass phial in Dumbledore's hand. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to obtain the other. There's no more to say on the subject."

"Dr. Meadowes-" Dumbledore coaxed.

"Happy Christmas, Professor," Dorcas cut across his words and exited the office, retreating quickly down the stairs.

:::

18 August, 1940 Blackpool Abbey, Upper Flagley, Yorkshire

Dorcas found Jonas sitting beside a glassy millpond. He was enchanting the frogs on the banks of the water to fly a short distance before letting them drop about a meter above the surface.

The look on his face was gloomy.

She hadn't meant to overhear the conversation between her uncle and her cousin. She was on the second floor shelves of the library, reading when Gimlet brought Jonas to Lysander.

Dorcas peered over the ledge as far as she dared so that she could see the scene below. Jonas stood opposite his father, the great oak desk that Lysander sat at was a gulf between them.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Lysander asked in a steely voice. He slid a piece of parchment across the desk to his son.

Dorcas watched her cousin shift from one foot to the other.

"Read it," Lysander commanded.

Jonas took the paper tentatively.

"Astronomy: seventy-seven percent, Charms: fifty-seven percent, Defense Against the Dark Arts: eighty percent, Herbology: seventy-five percent, History of Magic: sixty-three percent, Potions: seventy percent, Transfiguration: fifty-one percent…"

Lysander nodded slowly as his son recited his scores on his first year exams. "You barely passed Charms and Transfiguration," Dorcas's uncle pointed out. "When I pay for your schooling, I'm making an investment in your future, in the future of this estate, Jonas."

Jonas's eyes slid to his shoes.

"Am I making a good investment at the moment?"

Jonas was almost inaudible from Dorcas's position on the upper level. "No, sir."

"Should I turn you out into the field to become a shepherd? Or are you going to start living up to the expectations of the Rackharrow name?"

Jonas didn't answer at first. The silence became tense. Lysander never took his eyes off of his son. Dorcas could see Jonas shift where he stood, like a cornered animal.

"Son, I asked you a question," Lysander prompted.

"I'm going to live up to the Rackharrow name," Jonas answered, in the same barely audible voice.

"Excellent," Lysander pronounced. "What are you going to do differently in your second year at school?"

Again, Jonas didn't answer right away.

"Son?"

"I'm going to work harder," Jonas answered vaguely.

"That's not very specific," his father said.

"I'm going to spend more time in the library at school studying," Jonas answered.

"A good plan," Lysander agreed. "Have you completed your summer work from your teachers?"

Jonas's face had brightened with the momentary praise, but fell immediately at the next question.

"No, sir," Jonas mumbled.

"I want every assignment on my desk tomorrow morning. Is that clear, son?"

Jonas's eyes flicked to his father's instantly. Dorcas thought he was about to argue. She was willing him not to. Uncle Lysander did not seem to be the type to tolerate insubordination.

He looked away from his father and Dorcas breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"Yes, sir," Jonas answered.

Dorcas had waited for her cousin and then her uncle to leave the library before she stirred from her spot.

She knew she would find Jonas out of doors, he wasn't one for books and dark corners.

"Can I sit?" Dorcas asked.

Jonas had not heard her approach and jumped slightly when she spoke. The frog he was levitating dropped into the water with a soft plop.

"Sure," he replied, a note of dejection was still present in his voice.

Dorcas didn't know what to say. She thought for a moment about the relationship she had with her only living parent. She couldn't imagine her mother speaking to her in the tone that her uncle had used on Jonas. Sure, her mother had been cross with her, she'd scolded her. But she had never received the sort of berating that she'd witnessed in the library.

Perhaps if Dorcas had known her father, she would have a better understanding of the relationship that Jonas appeared to have with his father. Dorcas often wondered what her father would be like, what kind of voice he would have, what kind of things he would say to her. She'd never imagined her father having the sharp tone and the harsh words that Lysander had with Jonas.

Dorcas settled for, "Do you want to study together before dinner?" It sounded lame.

Jonas didn't answer for a long while. He focused on the frogs that he sent zooming over the surface of the water. Dorcas wondered if he'd heard her.

"No," he said. Dorcas was about to stand and leave her cousin to sulk in peace. "But I guess I had better do it, whether I want to or not."

Dorcas nodded.

"Do you know how this estate got its name?" Jonas asked, changing the subject.

Dorcas was curious. She shook her head.

"It was an abbey, you know, a convent," Jonas began.

Dorcas had guessed as much. She knew that many such places changed hands during the religious conflicts in Europe. Great Britain had many fine houses with the name abbey for this reason.

"The Rackharrows seized the place from the nuns in the fourteenth century. The plague caused a lot of people to turn away from the Church. The Rackharrows used magic to heal the people of Upper Flagley. When the nuns renounced the witches and wizards of the family, the townspeople formed a mob."

Dorcas couldn't help but to gasp. She was shocked that a non magical community would rise in defense of a wizarding family. But she was also fearful of what would become of the nuns.

"They tied sacks of rocks to all of the sisters and threw them into this pond," Jonas indicated the water they now sat on the banks of. He sailed another frog over the surface and, plop, released it just meters from the water.

Dorcas watched as each frog swam back to the shore in front of Jonas as if waiting for another opportunity to be launched into the water.

"That's why it's known as the blackpool."

"I read about one of your ancestors. He didn't seem to be that nice," Dorcas said, trying to reconcile what she'd read about Urquhart Rackharrow and the story of the family that saved the townspeople from a horrible disease.

"None of the Rackharrows are, really. I think the ancestors who healed the townspeople knew they would turn on the nuns. The sisters were some of the largest property owners in Yorkshire at the time. The Church had a lot of wealth. The Rackharrows were free to claim it all as their own once the nuns were gone."

Dorcas looked at the smooth surface of the millpond and imagined thousands of bones lying at the bottom. Of course, any physical evidence of the sisters would be long gone centuries later.

:::

1 December, 1957 Borgin and Burkes, 13B Knockturn Alley, London

Dorcas returned home from her meeting with Dumbledore seething. She'd expected him to be suspicious of her. After all, she was probably the closest friend Tom had at school. Dumbledore knew this. She'd always sensed his disapproval. She also supposed it was very incriminating that she went straight from the Smith's townhome to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink with Tom. Dumbledore guessed that the meeting was clandestine. He only knew what the barman reported to him. Dorcas would never convince her former teacher that she was there to drink alone and that Tom had met her there by chance.

But she would never have suspected that Dumbledore would accuse her of murdering Hokey to cover for Tom's murder of Ms. Smith. It was unthinkable.

But maybe, it made a sort of logical sense.

There were many times that she'd stuck by Tom and defended him. There were times that he'd covered for her. He hid a body for her once.

On some level, Tom was a better friend to her than she'd been to him. When it came to covering a murder for her, he'd acted unquestioningly to keep the blame from settling on her.

Now, when it came time to return the favor, she'd handed the evidence of Tom's transgression to the man who had the power to send him to prison forever.

Dorcas reminded herself that the evidence was circumstantial. The only thing it proved was that Tom was at the scene two days before the murder. And though she and Gideon had heard Hokey say the man had often brought her mistress flowers, she couldn't remember his name nor what he looked like. It was clear he'd altered her memory to forget him. But it did not offer conclusive proof of his connection to the actual homicide.

Tom could be cleared by any competent solicitor if it came down to it. The memory that she'd uncovered didn't entirely incriminate him.

She had been pacing her office when her eyes alighted on the overcoat hanging from the rack next to the door. She was going to get to the bottom of the mystery. She was going to confront Tom. She was going to level with him. If he was carrying out some dark plan as Dumbledore suggested he was, she would dissuade him from it. She would make him see how close he'd come to being found out. She would make him see that he must abandon the foolish path he'd taken.

Grabbing the coat, she left her house determined to seek out her former friend. She was not willing to be his pawn or Dumbledore's. Dorcas would explain to Tom that she no longer wished to see him. He'd said the same thing to her, more or less, twelve years ago. She saw now that their paths had to diverge from one another's once and for all. She would leave nothing about her feelings ambiguous.

She Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron and crossed to the alley behind the pub. She tapped the bricks and tapped her foot at the tedious speed of the wall as it revealed Diagon Alley beyond.

Turning right, she crossed into a darker side street and into the dusty shop with the black door. The sign swinging over it named the place: Borgin and Burkes.

Entering the dimly lit shop, Dorcas felt many eyes on her from the leering masks hanging on the walls all around the shop. Implements of torture, bones (both human and non human) littered the shelves and countertops.

The Tom she'd known in her youth had once described this place as macabre and theatrical. Dark and sinister, but in a false and preening way. She remembered this place as the entrance to some of their more daring escapades from school and into other parts of Wizarding and Muggle Great Britain.

A sallow man with sunken cheeks and eyes under a heavy brow was behind the counter at the center of the deserted shop.

He looked to Dorcas, dressed as she was like a Muggle, with a noticeable glare of disdain.

"May I be of assistance, Miss?" he asked in a testy tone.

Dorcas felt prompted to ask if her presence was keeping him from the rest of the customers clambering to purchase cursed playing cards or an enchanted fingerbone. She swallowed her irritation at the man who was clearly prejudiced against those who did not strictly keep to Wizarding kind.

"I'm looking for a man who works for you. Mr. Riddle?" Dorcas asked instead.

The man was surprised at her request and studied her from head to toe more carefully before responding.

"He hasn't reported in for days," the man finally answered. "But that's not unusual. May I inquire as to the nature of your association with my assistant?"

Dorcas shifted Tom's coat to her left hand and extended her right hand to the shopkeeper. "I'm Dorcas Meadowes. I knew Mr. Riddle at school."

The man nodded and took her hand. "Caractacus Burke," he replied. "Would you like to leave a message for your...friend?" He drew out the last word, making clear to Dorcas that he didn't believe her connection to Tom was benign.

Dorcas smiled. "No, thank you. Maybe I'll catch him at home."

"As you wish," Burke said, turning from her disinterestedly once more, busying himself with arranging a tray of signet rings behind a glass.

:::

Dorcas knocked on the door of the flat she'd once Apparated to with Tom. She only remembered its location on Galbraith Street because she had once been a frequent visitor of the record store that used to be down the street. Her own childhood home was about two blocks from here.

When there was no response, Dorcas tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked and she let herself inside.

She knew that Tom lived minimally. Her last visit to this flat yielded very little personal information on the adult life her one-time-friend had been living. To say the flat was sparse was an understatement.

Now, as Dorcas surveyed the sitting room with the chair and table by the fire, even the few books that had once sat on the table were gone. She crossed to the kitchen and opened the cupboards to find them empty.

Dorcas opened the door to the bedroom off of the kitchen. The bed was neatly made. The closet was vacant.

Tom hadn't been seen by his employer in days. His cupboards and closets were bare. Tom had disappeared.

She couldn't decide how she felt about this realization. She was pleased that he'd had the foresight to flee. Especially if he suspected that Dorcas had managed to extract the true memories of Hepzibah Smith's death from Hokey. She was regretful about the part she'd played, unwitting as it was, in his discovery. But, on the other hand, she did not approve of his means of evasion. Tricking Hokey into taking the blame for her mistress's death was underhanded.

Dorcas folded the coat that Tom had lent her and placed it on the bed.

She closed the door to the small room, at the same time closing a chapter where there existed a possibility of having Tom in her life once more.

:::

18 August, 1940 Blackpool Abbey, Upper Flagley, Yorkshire

Dorcas worked with Jonas for three hours before she heard the dressing gong sound in warning for Blackpool's residents to ready themselves for dinner.

Jonas heaved a sigh of relief as the gong announced a reprieve from work. He stretched his aching hand, a little dramatically in Dorcas's estimation.

"Any chance your father will allow us to work through dinner?" Dorcas asked hopefully.

"Nope," Jonas responded, jumping up from his chair and retreating from the library.

Dorcas followed him out a little regretfully. She'd much prefer working in the library to a stuffy dinner. At the first landing, Jonas veered off down a corridor that held the private family quarters. Dorcas began to climb to the second floor where visitors' rooms were located, but a noise stopped her.

She retreated back to the first floor landing and stopped just shy of the second door on the right.

The sound was a tiny little squeak and a crashing noise.

"That's far less than you deserve, Tooey," she heard the snobbish voice of Gemma coming from the lighted doorway. "That was an expensive perfume you knocked over. It's shattered."

"Tooey is sorry," the elf squeaked again.

Dorcas peered into the room, only gaining a partial vision of her cousin's bedchamber. Gemma was seated at a vanity, Tooey had clearly been interrupted from arranging her hair. Gemma wore an emerald green satin evening gown. Dorcas knew it would set her green eyes and dark hair off dramatically. For a moment, she was jealous of her cousin's stunning good looks.

Tooey was kneeling on a rug, picking up pieces of broken glass and apologizing. From a distance, Dorcas could just make out a trickle of blood at the corner of the elf's mouth. She gasped, but threw a hand up to her mouth to stifle it at the last second.

The elf stood as she finished clearing away the shattered remains of a perfume bottle, vanishing it in midair.

"Penance for the broken perfume, Tooey. But what should you do?" Gemma cast about the room and thought.

"I know," she said, snapping her fingers. "You should bang your head on the wall five times." She smiled to her own reflection in the mirror, looking proud of devising a punishment for the elf.

Tooey nodded obediently. "As my mistress wishes."

The house-elf took a running start at the wall and hit her forehead against it. Hard.

Dorcas could not stifle her gasp this time. Gemma looked at the doorway.

"Why are you lurking there, filthy nuisance?" Gemma spat at Dorcas.

Dorcas pretended not to hear the insult. She wanted to invent a tale that would get Tooey out of the room before she brained herself once again.

"I need Tooey to help me with my dress and hair," Dorcas said, putting on the same voice as Gemma's.

"She'll see to you when she's finished here," Gemma responded dismissively, attempting to finish pinning up her own hair.

Dorcas smiled pleasantly at her cousin. "Very well, please make my excuses to my aunt and uncle when I'm not at dinner on time." She turned to walk away.

She heard Gemma huff and speak to the elf. "You may go, Tooey."

When they were on the landing again, Dorcas finally spoke to Tooey. "Why was she making you do that?"

Tooey looked questioningly at Dorcas. "Tooey always does the young mistress's hair. Just as she does your hair, Miss Dorcas."

"No," Dorcas clarified. "Why did she order you to hit the wall? And why would you do it?"

They reached Dorcas's room. A deep purple dress in a drapey and luxurious silk was laid out for her. Dorcas had not wanted to get used to all of the frippery and excess of life at Blackpool Abbey, but a fondness for the spectacular, if hand-me-down, fashions she got to wear for an hour began to creep into her heart. She got to pretend to be part of society for a moment each day. She could imagine herself cast in any number of elegant roles in a Hollywood film when she looked at her costume and hair in the mirror.

"Tooey has to do as the young mistress commands. Tooey broke the mistress's bottle and had to be punished."

"Why did you break the bottle? Surely, if it was an accident, then there's no need for punishment," Dorcas pointed out, wanting to make sense of what she'd seen downstairs.

Bing lounged on the bed, licking his paw. Dorcas gave him a scratch behind the ears before srtripping off her plain blue cotton dress, donning the beautiful purple one instead. She sat at the vanity in her own bedroom and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Tooey was barely visible behind her. Dorcas could only see swift hands pulling her plaits apart and arranging her hair, curling and pinning into a fashionable knot behind her left ear.

"Tooey didn't mean to break the bottle. She fell into Miss Gemma's vanity and it hit the floor and smashed," Tooey explained while she worked.

"Why did you fall?" Dorcas could see that her inquisition was troubling Tooey. She stopped and apologized. "I'm sorry, Tooey. I don't mean to be pushing in where I'm not wanted. But I didn't like seeing Gemma treat you that way."

"Tooey is fine. Miss Dorcas is kind to be concerned."

Dorcas could see that Tooey was not fine. There was a large bump visible on her forehead. Dorcas refused to imagine what the elf would have looked like had she not stopped the abuse after just one run at the wall.

"Does Tooey have to punish herself a lot?" Dorcas asked finally.

Tooey took a similar perfume bottle from Dorcas's vanity and sprayed a delicate mist in Dorcas's direction.

"No," Tooey answered, surveying Dorcas as she stood. "Tooey is usually more careful. She only fell because she was too rough with Miss Gemma's hair. Tooey got a smack as a reminder to be gentle. But Tooey is usually more careful."

:::

Dorcas sat in the library after dinner, flipping through page after page of the most comprehensive spellbooks she could find.

She wished now that she'd gone up to change out of the silly evening gown before agreeing to meet Jonas in the library to help him finish up the last of his summer essay assignments. She was distinctly uncomfortable now. She wanted to kick off her heels and sit cross legged. Only the yards of silk she wore prevented her from doing so.

Jonas sat next to her completing a History of Magic essay on the Gargoyle Strike of 1911. He had cast off his dinner jacket (now around Dorcas's shoulders) and his bow tie, which lay on the table beside him.

He was writing furiously. Dorcas remembered the severe deadline his father had set for him. The work needed to be complete and on his desk by morning. They were in the final leg of the marathon work session. This was the very last assignment.

Dorcas had set herself an assignment to accomplish as well.

"Dorcas," Jonas said, nudging her.

Dorcas roused herself from her search of the spellbook in front of her.

"What?" she asked tiredly, pulling herself out of her own thoughts.

"I asked if you would read this paragraph," he said again, more gently.

"Yeah," she said, taking the parchment and laying it over the page she had been scanning.

"What are you looking for in that book?" Jonas asked. He looked at the large book in front of Dorcas like a particularly disgusting insect.

"I'm looking for a curse to use on your sister," Dorcas said, offhandedly, reading over Jonas's essay. "This is good. Just add one more paragraph about the Newcastle Resolution of 1912 and you'll be done."

"Why do you want to curse Gemma?-Not that I object," he added hastily, taking back his work.

"She was being really wicked to Tooey this evening before dinner. I want to pay her back," Dorcas explained.

"It's no use," Jonas said darkly. "She'll just pin it on one of the house-elves and they'll get into trouble for it. Best not to do anything to Gemma."

Dorcas dismissed Jonas's advice and continued her search, refining the criteria. Now she was looking for something nasty and untraceable. She flipped to the next page and found just the thing.

Arania Devoco.

She read about the basic principles of the spell, the wandwork, and the proper pronunciation of the incantation. She closed the book with a triumphant smack.

Jonas finished his essay with a sigh of relief and smiled at Dorcas in thanks. She returned his smile, feeling lighter than she had since she came to Blackpool Abbey. They left the library in exhausted silence. Dorcas practically floated up the stairs dreaming about the look on Gemma's face when every spider in the house was summoned to her room in the night.

:::

1 December, 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

When Dorcas was unsettled, she would seek out solace in the basement lab. She busied herself with mindless activities like restocking ingredients.

After putting Wren to sleep, she came downstairs to pickle some flame vine for the Blood Replenishing Potion.

She wished Cal was home. She really wanted to talk to him about the events of the day. She looked at the clock on the wall above the shelf of freshly washed beakers and jars. He wasn't due home for another half an hour.

The rhythmic chopping, measuring, filling, and labeling helped her to process all that she'd experienced.

What really ate at Dorcas was not the harsh accusations that Dumbledore had leveled at her. It wasn't even the realization that when she'd learned of Tom's crime against Hepzibah Smith, her first instinct had been to turn the evidence of it over to Dumbledore.

No. What Dorcas had been fighting for fifteen years to keep buried in the back of her mind had been resurfacing lately.

She was a hypocrite. She'd looked on in shock the first time she saw Tom's face in Hokey's memory. She had been self-righteous in her decision to turn the memory over.

All the while, she kept her own transgressions secret. What was more condemning than that? The fact that Tom had never told her secrets to anyone. Even now, he'd fled his home at Dorcas's betrayal. But he'd never breathed a word to anyone about what she'd done on the last night of 1942.

Her hands trembled and became numb at the fingertips. She lost control of the knife that she was using to dice flame vine and sliced the palm of her hand. Cursing, Dorcas threw the knife down and squeezed her palm shut. The flame vine was contaminated with blood. It was unusable.

Unable to concentrate on the task of cleaning her mess, unable to focus through the tears in her eyes, she became lightheaded and sank to the floor beside the worktable she'd been chopping at.

She wasn't sure just how much time had passed. The lab door opened and Cal descended into the silent space. He removed his coat and hung it up by the door.

"Clerey?" He asked. "Are you down here?"

Dorcas blinked. She felt a brief but sharp pain behind her eyes. Her vision blurred for a moment and then cleared.

"I'm here," she answered, struggling to stand.

Cal crossed the room with a questioning look at her as she rose. His look turned to concern when he saw her hand and the blood down the front of her blouse where she'd cradled it against her chest.

"What happened?" He took her hand and looked at the cut.

"An accident with the knife," Dorcas said, endeavoring to sound as casual as possible. "It's not deep," she added as Cal rushed to the cupboard for Essence of Murtlap and a clean towel.

He returned, in full healer mode. "Let me clean it," he said, taking her hand. "Why were you on the floor? Did you feel faint?"

"A little," Dorcas said, remembering the lightheadedness and the quick, sharp pain in her head.

"You don't usually react that way to seeing blood," Cal commented as he administered the Essence of Murtlap and dabbed at her sliced palm with the towel. Taking out his wand, Cal bound up the cut with a simple incantation. All that remained was a raised and shiny mark across her hand.

"I know," Dorcas answered, unable to account for the feeling she'd had. It wasn't a woozy feeling, like she was about to pass out. It was more like losing cognitive function for an instant. It was hard to explain and over so quickly that Dorcas wondered if she'd even remembered it correctly.

"I'm glad you're home," she said, changing the subject.

He leaned against the work surface and looked at her carefully. He was silent. He knew that she had something on her mind and knew to give her the space to come out with it in her own time and in her own way.

"I went to see Dumbledore today, as you know," she began.

Cal nodded, listening patiently.

"It didn't go well. He accused me of killing Hokey to cover for Tom. He knew that Tom ran into me at the Leaky Cauldron and assumed I'd gone there to meet him in order to pass off the memory we retrieved."

Cal's brow furrowed. "How could he think that?"

"You know how close Tom and I were at school," Dorcas shrugged. She found it a little odd that she was defending Dumbledore's supposition to Cal. "Well, he doesn't know about the way we parted, does he?"

Cal nodded, conceding the point, but didn't answer.

"Anyway, this whole business of Hokey's memory and how it implicates Tom. It's dredged up some memories from my past," Dorcas tried to continue. Her voice began to shake as she came to the part of her confession that she swore she would never make.

"What kind of memories?" Cal asked, placing a hand on her back, rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades.

Cal never asked about anything from Dorcas's past that she did not offer up voluntarily. He knew, from an outsider's point of view, most of the dynamic of her relationship with Tom. She'd told him only a surface amount of detail about how she became pregnant with Ryann. He knew about the painful break up only a short time later.

But she strictly avoided anything she knew that would incriminate herself, or more especially anything that would incriminate Tom.

"One memory in particular," Dorcas said, inhaling in an effort to steady her voice. "Tom helped me to-" she couldn't force herself to say the words. They were stuck. She had a sensation of choking on them. She cleared her throat, but couldn't get them out.

"You could show me," Cal said, understanding her struggle to voice what she wanted to tell him. "In the Pensieve. You could show me what happened. Dorcas, whatever it is, I want to understand. I want to help you. You can trust me with anything."

Dorcas nodded and allowed him to lead her up the stairs and from the lab.

:::

31 December, 1942 The Black Dahlia, Upton Circle, London

Dorcas was happy to play the piano most nights at the club where her neighbor Betty Balfour sang. When she was home from school these opportunities allowed her to do what she loved, as well as earn a little pocket money. And it was far more glamorous than working at a shop somewhere in Poplar.

Tonight, Betty was with her beau celebrating New Years' Eve. Dorcas was able to step out from the bandstand and sing.

In one of her cousin Gemma's hand-me-down, but still elegant evening gowns Dorcas felt like a starlet under the spotlight. The first time she'd been forced to the microphone as a sub-in for Betty, she'd protested until Marvin the owner begged and doubled her pay for the evening.

Dorcas found, to her surprise, she reveled in the sensation of becoming someone else. She thought of her stage persona as an alter ego. Barely anyone of her friends at school knew of the moonlighting Dorcas did when she was on holiday breaks.

Cal had found out. And not too long after that, Cherry and Anneliese knew of her secret life too.

Tonight, there was a larger crowd than usual owing to the holiday. More than half the room were men in uniform; a little rowdy, but good natured.

Dorcas began her set with a few numbers for the boys. 'Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree', 'We'll Meet Again', and 'Uncle Sam Gets Around'. The audience's energy was up and so was hers.

The band usually began to slow the tempo about halfway through a set. One of her favorites to perform was up next.

Tonight, Dorcas was in a Christmassy red satin dress with matching gloves that came to her elbows. The neckline plunged a little lower than she'd have preferred. She wished Tooey were here to make some slight alterations. Gemma's dresses were often a little snug in the bust. She'd arranged her hair and pinned it like Peggy Lee's.

There was a young American standing off to the right of the stage, resplendent in his uniform. He'd come in with some friends, all of whom had partnered up and spent their time on the dancefloor. Dorcas caught his eye a few times earlier in the set. He'd even winked at her as she sang.

A familiar intro, Dorcas knew this number by heart. It was always a crowd pleaser and fit her voice just right.

You had plenty money, 1922

You let other women make a fool of you

Why don't you do right, like some other men do?

Dorcas surveyed the crowd of faceless clubgoers, dancing, drinking, laughing. She didn't anticipate seeing a familiar face staring back at her.

Tom wasn't expected. He usually didn't spend his Christmas holiday in London, preferring instead a solitary two weeks at Hogwarts. He looked at home in the crowd, blending in was a natural skill of his. He also looked out of place at the same time, somehow above the company.

He made no attempt to mask his admiration of Dorcas under the spotlight, smiling up at her as she performed. Her alternate personality slipped under his gaze. She stumbled a bit on the lyrics.

The American whistled encouragingly, inciting Dorcas to blush.

Get out of here and get me some money too.

Dorcas finished the song, but turned to the trumpeter, Donald, and asked him to play on without her. Exiting the stage to 'Chattanooga Choo Choo', Dorcas retreated to the alley behind the club for some fresh air.

She was confused as to why Tom's presence at the Black Dahlia had disconcerted her so much. Was it really that bad that he knew about her secret performances? She'd been embarrassed when Cal had seen her perform at the club, but it was nothing to the panic she felt now. She thought somehow that Tom would judge her stage performance as base and beneath her.

Out in the cold night air, away from the band and the noise and the smoke, Dorcas felt she could think more clearly.

"That was some performance," a voice close behind her chimed. There was applause.

The American that hadn't moved from his spot by the stage was now standing close to her in the alley. He took a final drag from his cigarette and flicked it to his right where it fell next to a stack of crates. He slowly advanced on Dorcas.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asked.

Dorcas took a step backward and then another. She'd had men compliment her singing, her looks. Walter, the barkeeper, was usually the one to tell the lovestruck fools that she was underage. Her bandmates also kept a fairly sharp eye out for trouble if it came her way.

She regretted coming out into the alley where she was alone with the young soldier.

"It's Dorcas," she said, quickly adding, "I've got to finish my set."

He stretched his left arm out, hand resting on the wall. Blocking her path. He stepped closer still.

Dorcas felt the cool brick against her shoulder blades. Her wand was in her right glove. She'd learned to always keep it at hand, no matter where she was or what she was doing.

His right hand moved to her left shoulder, tracing the neckline of her dress with his finger.

"Dorcas," he said, his breath mingled with hers in the frigid air. "You're beautiful."

Dorcas made a motion like she was pulling up her glove and reached for her wand. She held it threateningly between them.

"I said, I have to finish my set," Dorcas repeated.

The soldier's eyebrows creased in confusion. "What is that?"

He didn't wait for an answer, he batted her wandhand aside and pressed his lips roughly to hers, causing her to bang her head against the bricks.

Dorcas shoved as hard as she could with her left hand and waved her wand hand at him, yelling "Stupefy!"

The man crumpled helplessly to the ground. Dorcas looked around the alley to make sure that no one had seen her perform magic. The alley was deserted apart from her and her would be attacker.

She crouched beside the man to make sure he was breathing. A Stunning Spell should only knock him out for about thirty seconds. When Dorcas neared the man's motionless form, however, she saw blood pooling under his neck.

"Birdie?"

Tom had stepped into the alley. His eyes went wide when he saw her crouched next to the soldier.

Frantically, Dorcas stood and tried to explain. She knew she was in trouble. She knew the soldier was dead. He'd hit his head on the stack of crates as he fell. She didn't know what to do. She only knew that Tom couldn't be here too. She could not involve him in her mistake.

Tom crossed the alley and grabbed her by the arms. "Did he hurt you?"

Dorcas shook her head numbly. "Tom, he's dead."

He looked her up and down. Satisfied that she was not injured, he instructed her firmly but quietly, "You need to go back inside. You'll be missed soon."

"Tom," she said, blinking stupidly. "I can't leave him here. We've got to get someone. He's dead."

"No," Tom said. He took her face in his hands and forced her to look at him instead of the dead man at her feet. "You're not going to tell anyone. You're going to go back inside and finish the set."

Dorcas tried to pull his hands away and argue his plan down. She knew they needed to call the police.

"Birdie," Tom said, forcefully, "Go back inside. Now."

Without willing them to do so, Dorcas's feet carried her back inside the Black Dahlia.

Taking the stage once again to cheers and whistles, Dorcas sang 'I'm Nobody's Baby'. Her voice became steadier and more confident with each verse. She surprised herself. She'd never have believed she could kill someone and then climb onto the stage and sing a Judy Garland song without the suspicion showing up on her face. She was awed and disgusted at the same time with how naturally she wore the deception.

A/N: Reviews are welcome and appreciated.