Chapter 33
25 June, 1941 West Grounds, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dorcas lay with her arms above her, hands splayed behind her head like a pillow.
The sun warmed her skin and made her feel lazy. She wanted to nap in the grass all afternoon, but knew she could not. She had one exam left to study for.
"I thought Potions came off rather well, don't you think?" Jonas asked.
Potions was not the subject he needed to worry about especially, but Dorcas was glad that it fell before Transfiguration. He would need the confidence of a well sat exam in order to bolster him for what was to come.
"I thought it was fair, Slughorn could have given us much more difficult questions," Dorcas responded.
"T'were plenty hard, them questions," Rubeus argued from her other side as the three lounged in the cool grass.
"I remember first year exams being a bit daunting," Jonas said kindly.
Dorcas yawned and stretched. "I'm sure you will get decent marks, Rubeus. If you're worried about Charms or Transfiguration, we could study together."
As she said this, she heard a groan coming from Jonas. He didn't want to be reminded of more studying and exams to come.
"Thank ye', bu' Cal's got a schedule worked out fer me. Not tha' it'll do a ruddy bit o' good."
Dorcas approved. She was glad that Cal was helping Rubeus with his exams. He seemed to have taken her request back in the fall to help Rubeus to heart. She had no doubt that he would.
"Tha' reminds me, I think I should be meetin' 'im somewhere righ' now," Rubeus added, sitting up quickly and pushing himself to his feet. "Nice talkin' ter yeh!"
Dorcas and Jonas sat up and watched as the giant first year trundled off in search of his tutor.
"Hopeless, that one," Jonas commented to Rubeus's retreating form. "What're the chances that he'll pass any of them?"
Dorcas thought about another first year who had been fairly hopeless with school work. "About as likely as you were as a first year, I reckon," Dorcas answered with a bump of her shoulder into his.
"That bad, eh?" Jonas responded in mock astonishment.
"Meet in the library in thirty minutes?" she asked, standing and dusting the grass and dirt from her bare knees.
"Dorcas, can't we have one afternoon off?"
"Yes, I suppose you can," Dorcas answered, catching sight of Anneliese and Cherry crossing the grounds in her direction.
"Really?" Jonas perked up considerably.
"Yes, the moment all of your exams have been taken. You'll have loads of afternoons off."
Cherry threw herself into the grass dramatically. Anneliese came to stand at Dorcas's elbow.
"Wasn't that Potions exam brutal?" Cherry asked, turning her head in Jonas's direction.
He sat up straighter and his eyes became wide. Anytime Cherry acknowledged her cousin, Dorcas saw how uptight and nervous he became. Anneliese exchanged an amused look with Dorcas.
"Well, maybe a little challenging," Jonas conceded, each word he uttered sounded like it took effort.
"We thought it didn't seem very difficult at all," Dorcas negated her cousin's words.
Cherry threw a fistfull of grass in Dorcas's direction.
Anneliese delicately spread herself out on Jonas's other side.
He looked up at Dorcas, a plea in his eyes. She read his mind plainly: "You're not going to leave me here with them are you?"
Why did pretty girls unnerve him so? When would he realize that he had a lot to offer?
She turned to head up to the castle.
"Where are you going?" Jonas asked, a note of alarm in his voice.
"I have to fetch something before heading to the library," she answered cryptically.
She bent to pick up her shoes and socks and turned back to the school. "Thirty minutes!" she called over her shoulder.
It was anyone's guess whether Jonas would actually make it to the library this afternoon.
:::
She'd been putting off going to the secret room on the seventh floor for over a month.
It still hurt to think of the way that Tom had turned away from her when she needed his help keeping Cal and Oliver from rowing. And remembering the way he'd sat passively by when she said she could no longer be with him caused her to wonder if he wasn't planning on saying the very same thing to her.
There was such a regret in her heart when she thought of Tom. They'd spent so much time in each others' company that she didn't really truly know how to be on her own in this place without him. He had been her truest friend and her closest confidante. She mourned the loss of him in her life.
But there were five days left until the train would take them all back to their homes and to their lives outside of school. And she'd left her turntable and her records in the secret room. She also thought she'd like to retrieve the beautiful little violet that Tom made her for Valentine's Day and the book they stole from the house in Hogsmeade where they'd shared their first kiss.
Carefully picking her way back to the furniture cave where they shared most nights and hashed many plans, Dorcas's mind flew wistfully back to the golden wreathed times they'd shared. The time they'd danced together at her uncle's Christmas party and then again on Valentine's Day here in the secret room. The moment she'd confessed to him that she loved him, over his own dead boggart body. Alright, she conceded that was not the most romantic of moments. She remembered the absolute depths of despair, thinking she'd lost him in the basement cupboard in the Birmingham hospital. His sputtering and coughing and gasping for air that told her she was wrong had been music to her ears.
She couldn't see a way forward together after he'd abandoned her, though she wished she could.
Perhaps, when they had both matured, their paths would circle back to one another someday.
She hoped so.
Coming upon the place where the cozy little cave had been, only to find destruction and ruin told her that it was too much to hope for.
If she harbored any thought that they might one day return to one another, the collapsed den, strewn and shredded cushions, the broken bell jar with the violet that had been trodden on told her to hope not.
She stepped around the quilts and the cushion fluff scattered about. Her eyes fell on the copy of Thousand and One Nights, now only an empty cover, the pages littered the ground under her feet. She'd spent so many nights, his head resting in her lap, reading to him from its stories as she stroked his hair. She imagined the scene of rage and bitterness that must have befallen their little habitat.
The items she'd come to retrieve had not escaped Tom's fury.
Her records were smashed into black shards and the turntable eviscerated, laying in pieces.
How much did he hate her? The destruction around her answered: Resoundingly.
Wishing she'd stayed away, her despair flowed down her cheeks and dripped from her chin.
And still she loved him.
:::
22 November, 1958 Watermead, Aylesbury
Dorcas and Cal coexisted a little uneasily after the confrontation over Dorcas's self-medication.
She was willing to shoulder most of the blame for this brinkmanship. She conceded that she probably had never developed the appropriate skills to confront her partner, reliant as she was on her ability to read his thoughts and emotions so clearly in the past.
She was used to being able to get right at the heart of the problem.
In the case of her husband, Dorcas was willing only to acknowledge the reasons for his seeming avoidance of her in the privacy of her own mind. She found she lacked the ability to ask him straight out if he was sneaking away to be with someone else. She didn't think she would be able to hear the truth, whatever it was.
The only thought of Cal's that she could bring herself to circle back to was his unvoiced accusation that her practice of lifting altered memories from her patients had placed their child in harm's way. When her mind came fully back to this thought, she could understand if he had found comfort in the arms of another. On a basic level, she couldn't even expect him to love her anymore when she'd been the cause of Ben's death.
Sending Wren to live with Anneliese and Beau also fit with this narrative. If she couldn't be relied upon to protect the child she was carrying in her own body, how could she be relied upon to care for her other children?
It made perfect sense to her.
But to ever read the full accusatory tale in Cal's mind, or worse, hear him voice it, would end her.
She needed to dull the serrated edges of recrimination. She needed her doctored potions just to keep going. Why couldn't he just let her have that one thing?
When everything else seemed stripped from her: baby, daughters, husband's love and respect, husband's time and attention, even her own past memories—how could she be expected to give up this one lifeline she held?
But there was also the promise of Stephen Muybridge's death.
No, not just his death. His lingering end at her own hands.
She held onto the idea of seeing the light leave his eyes like a drowning person hangs onto a buoy. Dorcas fully expected that when she killed the miserable Muybridge, she would be carted off to Azkaban. She almost welcomed the opportunity to finally let go of the frayed strings of her life and her sanity.
Cal and the girls would be better off without her.
What would she counsel her patients to do?
The exact opposite of what her impulses told her to do.
She could see herself sitting in that doctor's chair, poised, perfectly coiffed, neatly dressed, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.
"It takes work to hang in there. To hold on. To step out in faith," she could hear herself say. "What would happen if you did ask your husband directly where he goes when he tells you he's at the hospital?"
"I might find out he's having an affair," patient Dorcas answered.
"Or you might find out he's not having an affair," Dr. Dorcas would counter.
"What could he be doing then?"
Dr. Dorcas would lean forward in her chair and challenge her patient. "There is only one way to find out. Is it fair to assume the worst of Cal? Has his behavior in the past suggested that he can't be trusted?"
Patient Dorcas might ponder this for a moment. "It's not fair. I haven't any reason not to trust him."
Dorcas stood from her patient couch in her office that had become her refuge. Her inner counseling session seemed to tap into some unknown resolve.
It was early.
She knew that Cal was still asleep. Today was his birthday.
Remembering her plans she'd made to surprise him gave her pause. It might seem disingenuous now to plan a romantic dinner and to parade some new lingerie in front of him after all that had happened between them recently.
But maybe he would be open to dinner and an honest conversation about the state of their relationship.
She wanted to make a gesture; wanted to show that she hadn't forgotten him. Despite what may be true between them now, he had been a reliable partner when she was unconscious in the hospital. He'd shouldered more than his fair share of the burden. She wanted to recognize that.
Slipping her robe over her shoulders, she headed to the kitchen.
:::
Dorcas was arranging plates on a tray, adding toast and orange juice to the array of breakfast items. She was listening intently for the sounds of the shower running, hoping that she could catch Cal still in bed and surprise him.
A tapping sound nearly caused her to knock the juice glass over.
Howdy Doody was at the window with a letter clutched in his talons.
Dorcas smiled as she let the owl inside. Ryann would have written her daddy a long birthday message.
She added it to the tray and gave the owl a bit of the toast she'd made for herself.
The bedroom was still dark when she opened the door. Balancing the tray between her left arm and her hip, she pulled her wand from her robe pocket and whispered, "Lumos Minima."
A soft yellow glow lit a small ring around Dorcas.
She quietly slid the tray onto the bedside table next to Cal's glasses and wristwatch before sitting beside him. He slept with the sort of peaceful repose that had eluded Dorcas without the aid of a Sleeping Draught. She found herself watching him with envious intensity.
Finally, she slipped her left hand over his as it rested on his chest. Her touch stirred him and a moment later he was awake and alert.
"What is it, Clerey?" he asked, sitting up and reaching for his glasses. "What's the matter? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Dorcas said, rubbing his hand comfortingly to reassure him that there was no emergency.
She leaned over and reached for the bedside lamp. Switching it on and placing her wand in her pocket once more, she took the tray and set it in his lap.
"Happy Birthday, darling!" she said. It sounded so artificial to her ears and she wondered how it was possible for so much distance to come between them in so little time.
"Birthday," Cal repeated absently. "I'd forgotten."
He picked up the letter from Ryann and opened it, adjusting his glasses as he read.
A smile brightened his face as his eyes scanned the lines of writing.
"A good letter? What did she write?" Dorcas asked expectantly.
"There was a special tryout for a Chaser position on the Quidditch team. Ryann won the spot!"
"That's great news!" Dorcas said, more enthusiastically than she felt. She wondered why a spot had opened up. What had befallen the Ravenclaw Chaser that Ryann was meant to replace?
"My girl!" Cal responded, folding the letter. "We'll have to make a special trip for her first game. It's in January."
He dug into the food, cheered by Ryann's letter.
"Will you be home tonight?" Dorcas asked after she gave herself a quick mental pep talk. She didn't know why she had such trepidation inside of her. She was just asking for one evening.
He furrowed his brow while he chewed. "Yeah, I plan on it. Why do you ask?"
Dorcas clenched her teeth at the causal response, as if it was strange for her to ask. As if he spent every evening at home playing the dutiful husband.
"I'm making you dinner. I just-"
She caught herself. She was about to say that she wondered if he would be around to eat it or if it would be another waste of an effort. He didn't deserve sarcasm.
He slipped his hand off the tray and up the sleeve of her robe, stroking the skin at her wrist. He was studying her as she inwardly chastised herself.
"Just what?" he prompted gently.
"I want to talk," Dorcas said, feeling like she'd just decided to jump off a cliff. This was the point of no return. She was going to ask him tonight where it was he went when he wasn't with her. She'd have to be prepared to hear whatever it was he had to say in his defense.
He nodded and continued eating.
"Have you found any altered memories yet?" he asked after a moment's quiet.
Dorcas ducked her head and played with the hem of her sleeve. "Yes, that's part of what I want to talk to you about."
"Ok," he replied carefully.
She could feel him studying her.
"I'm going to go take a shower. Enjoy your breakfast," Dorcas said, standing and retreating to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
She turned on the water and undressed. Why did she feel like she was at the beginning of the end?
Clamping a hand over her mouth to keep her sobs quiet, she stepped under the spray quickly letting the flood wash away the tears before they had a chance to wet her cheeks.
Could she stay with him for the sake of her girls? Would she be able to live with the searing pain of his betrayal to spare her daughters a broken home?
She washed quickly, resolving that she couldn't assume the worst until she'd heard it from his own lips. Lathering her hair furiously, the sting of her nails on her scalp pulling her out of her dark thoughts, she dipped her head under the stream.
Dorcas jumped at Cal's unexpected touch on her bare back. She inhaled sharply, taking in water and sputtering. His arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against his chest.
He kissed her neck and she felt herself relax in his arms, luxuriating in the feel of his tongue as it traced a languid arc.
Did he kiss her like this?
She couldn't banish the image of someone else in her place.
Sobered, she blinked the water out of her eyes and gently untangled herself from his arms.
"I'll stop hogging the hot water," she said, quickly stepping out of the shower. "Better hurry, or you'll be late."
She cringed, imagining how her rejection might hurt him.
Another voice in her mind countered: how many nights had she been hurt and rejected by him?
Without toweling herself dry, she threw her robe back on and shut herself inside of her office.
Desperate to soothe her nerves and quiet her thoughts, she went straight for the cabinet where she'd stashed a new batch of her concoction, Bliss. She palmed one of the small phials. Just holding it, she felt the promise of oblivion that its beguiling bluish gray contents promised her.
Upending the entire bottle onto her tongue, the sensation of cool tranquility washed over her.
:::
28 June, 1941 Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dorcas waited impatiently for the owls to arrive in the Great Hall. She was expecting final word from her mother about where she would be staying for the summer break.
She hoped she would be allowed to return to her home in London. Jonas was silently hoping Dorcas would have to stay in Yorkshire again.
Her mouth was dry with anticipation, the toast she was nibbling did not help. She set it down and dusted the crumbs from her fingers.
A screech from the far end of the hall made her jump as dozens of letters and packages were dropped in front of the students at the four house tables.
Two letters and a newspaper were dropped at her place and the tawny owl alighted at once.
Dorcas recognized the letter she'd been expecting from her mum, and a battered envelope that looked to have made quite an arduous journey. Flipping it over, Dorcas read Hattie Finnigan's name and a postmark from Egypt.
Finnigan, the author of the Wingate book that had fascinated and haunted her in the fall, corresponded with Dorcas on rare occasions when her dangerous life as a war reporter permitted.
The final item was the latest edition of the Great Hangleton Gazette.
Dorcas set the paper and Hattie's letter aside, tearing into her mother's letter first.
Relief washed over her when the letter confirmed that she would not be required to stay with her aunt and uncle and cousins for another summer. She had been grateful for the hospitality that both Uncle Lysander and Jonas had shown her, but did not relish another summer of being regarded by her aunt as the dirtiest creature to ever wander into her presence. As for Gemma, Dorcas's rule had been to steer clear at all costs.
With high spirits, she reached for Hattie Finnigan's letter next.
But it was the headline of the Great Hangleton Gazette that caught her attention first.
AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT CLAIMS LIFE OF LITTLE HANGLETON RESIDENT
Dorcas's heartbeat raced as she pulled the paper closer and began reading, hoping the claimed life was no one she would recognize.
23 June, 1941 Little Hangleton, Lincolnshire
Late Sunday evening police were called to the scene of a tragic automobile accident involving a staff member of the Riddle household. Verity Hardin, 14, servant to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Riddle for the past five years absconded with a vehicle before crashing it into a tree near the village of Little Hangleton. She did not survive. A spokesperson for the Riddle household claims that the servant stole the vehicle, intending to sell it. Hardin was the lone occupant of the vehicle when it collided with the tree. Hardin is survived by an older brother.
There was a newsprint picture of a mangled car, but mercifully, not of Verity.
Dorcas blinked. Then she looked at the last line again. Hardin is survived by an older brother.
She recalled the conversation that she'd had with Jack on the evening before the Riddle's anniversary party in the corral behind the house's stables. He expressed some worry about Verity's penchant for following Tom, Sr. around. Dorcas remembered his words when she asked why he wouldn't leave Little Hangleton, although he was burning to do just that. He wouldn't leave as long as his sister was there. He felt he needed to protect her from their father.
Dorcas remembered Tom, Sr.'s hands around her own throat. She remembered the way he savagely threw Verity into the bricks of the fireplace when she tried to free Dorcas from his grasp.
She knew deep down that the Gazette's story was not the full story. Verity would never steal a car.
"Hardin is survived by an older brother," Dorcas read again. "And a younger half-brother," she added to herself, turning on the bench at the Ravenclaw table and looking over her shoulder.
She caught Tom's gaze as he stared at her with a faraway look. It took him a moment to realize she was returning his stare. He scowled and looked away.
How could she break the news gently to him?
He had just formed a tentative bond with his newly discovered half-sister. He'd had so little hope of family for most of his life, it seemed cruel that he should lose Verity so soon after meeting her.
Dorcas wouldn't approach the Slytherin table.
Tom sat too close to Gemma, Evlyn, Roman, and the others that loved to torment her.
She thought of places that she might be able to catch him alone. She might try the secret room or the library. They would all be boarding the Hogwarts Express bound for home in just two days.
:::
Dorcas settled for waiting in the entrance hall for Tom to leave breakfast.
He was with Roman and Evlyn.
She squared her shoulders and vowed not to pay attention to any thoughts that the two older boys directed at her.
Roman saw her first and immediately began an objectifying enumeration of her qualities in his mind.
She brushed it aside.
"Tom," she called softly. "Can we talk? Alone?"
"What did I say, Riddle?" Evlyn encouraged Tom, clapping him on the shoulder with a sly smile.
Dorcas wished that she didn't hear in his thoughts the exact nature of his encouragement to Tom. Evlyn insisted that Dorcas would come crawling back to him. But that she was used goods and that he needed to bin her and find a pureblood girl instead.
Ignore it.
"I'm busy right now," Tom responded.
Dorcas got the impression that he was only brushing her off to please his audience.
He turned away from her and followed Roman and Evlyn down to the dungeons.
Dorcas sighed and brainstormed other ways to get the news to him.
"So much for friends," she muttered to his retreating form.
She tried not to feel hurt, tried not to see Tom's association with Gemma's friends as a slap in the face. But it stung all the same.
"Dorcas! What's wrong?" Jonas asked, staring at her with concern.
She blinked and felt the wet evidence of her emotions on her cheeks. She wanted to think that it was a reaction to the sad news of Verity's death, but she barely knew her. She didn't want to acknowledge that she missed Tom. But her tears pointed the fact out for her.
Noticing that she was drawing the attention of other students in the bustling hall, she quickly dried her eyes with the back of her cardigan sleeve.
"Nothing," she replied.
Jonas did not look convinced.
Dorcas suddenly had an idea. Jonas's presence beside her sparked it.
"Jonas, will you do something for me?" she asked.
"Sure," her cousin replied eagerly. "What?"
"Will you give this to Tom?" she asked, handing him the newspaper. "It's important. I tried to, but he wouldn't talk to me."
Jonas nodded, connecting the statement to Dorcas's tears.
"Where did he go?"
"I think he was headed to the dungeons. He went that way with Roman and Evlyn," Dorcas responded, pointing to the passage beyond the staircase.
"Tossers," Jonas muttered under his breath.
She thanked him and headed up to her room. Busying herself with a bit of packing in solitude would give her the opportunity to think over what she'd read and discovered this morning.
Then, she supposed, she needed to write to Jack and express her sympathies for his loss.
:::
22 November, 1958 Watermead, Aylesbury
Dorcas spent the rest of the morning alternating between logging memories in her journal and chastising herself for how she handled things with Cal this morning in the shower.
She wanted him to be affectionate with her. Didn't that confirm that he still had some feelings for her? And she knew she still wanted him. It was apparent to her just how much she still desired her husband when she tried to complete a task, any task, and found her mind wandering back to that moment in the shower and wishing she could have done things differently.
Dorcas came to the same conclusion she had over and over again: If he couldn't find what he needed in her anymore, did she have any right to be distressed that he'd found it in someone else?
She just wished things had turned out differently.
A gentle rap on the front door pulled her from her self-flagellation. She took her reading glasses off and set them beside her journal.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
Smoothing down her jumper and checking her hair in the mirror, she opened the door.
"Professor," she chimed, pinning a smile to her face.
He seemed to be turning up unannounced on her doorstep more frequently these days.
"I apologize, I did not have time to send round an owl before dropping by. Is now a convenient time to speak?"
Dorcas stood aside and ushered Professor Dumbledore into her home once again.
"Is something wrong, Professor?" Dorcas asked.
"Yes, I rather think something is quite wrong," Dumbledore responded, stepping over the threshold and into her home with a swish of silky robes.
"Would you like some tea?"
Dumbledore turned to her. "Thank you. No. I assume you have a Pensieve?"
Dorcas was starting to worry. It was unlike Dumbledore to dispense with the pleasantries, or to show anything less than stoic composure.
"Yes, right this way," Dorcas replied, opening the door to her office that she'd just closed.
She led him into the sparse space. Everything had been stripped from the walls and the cabinets save for her own growing collection of bottled memories and the journal, which lay open on her desk.
"You've redecorated since last I was here," Dumbledore commented, looking around him slowly as he entered.
Dorcas hung her head and blushed a little.
"I've closed my practice," Dorcas responded.
Dumbledore looked at her and blinked in surprise. "Surely not. You helped so many."
Dorcas could only shrug at his dismay.
"What is it that you wanted to show me in the Pensieve?" Dorcas asked, changing the subject.
She busied herself setting the Pensieve out on the table in the corner of the room so that she did not have to see the disappointment in his eyes. He would think of her as a quitter.
"First, I would like to ask you something," Dumbledore said, sitting on her patient couch.
She took her seat across from him as if she were here to analyze him. She was fully aware that it would be the reverse in this instance. He peered over his half-moon spectacles at her.
Why did she feel like a student again, caught in the act of passing a note in his class?
"Ask away," she said, crossing her legs and settling into the chair.
"Have you been to the home of Marvolo, Morfin, and Merope Gaunt before, Dorcas?"
She remembered describing the scenery of Little Hangleton in detail for Bob Ogden, in order to trigger the memories that Dumbledore sought to extract and analyze when they visited him two weeks ago.
"Yes, twice," Dorcas admitted.
It was not a state secret.
"Good," Dumbledore responded, confusing Dorcas.
She was bracing herself for a lecture from her old teacher about withholding information and dual loyalties.
She was not expecting "Good".
"I beg your pardon," Dorcas replied, blinking. "What exactly is good?"
"It's good that you will have some familiarity with the place. It will be useful," Professor Dumbledore clarified.
"I see," Dorcas said, though she did not see at all.
"I have been combing through Bob Ogden's memories that we extracted two weeks ago."
Dorcas nodded. "Do you suspect any of being tampered with?"
She couldn't come to any other conclusion, except that he needed her services in lifting the altered memory in order to retrieve the truth.
"No, I do not," Dumbledore replied simply.
Dorcas waited a beat. When he didn't elaborate, she prompted.
"I'm confused. If the memories are not altered, how do I come into it?"
"By your association with Mr. Riddle, of course."
Dumbledore watched her carefully as he spoke the name of her once-closest companion.
She did not respond in any visible way.
"I'll be of assistance in any way that I can be," she stated.
If this surprised Dumbledore, he didn't let on.
Dorcas may have backed away from aiding Dumbledore in his investigation concerning Tom Riddle in the past. But that was before she'd uncovered some memories of her own. A boy who derived pleasure from breaking her bones deserved no loyalty.
"I believe you can be of tremendous assistance, my dear," Dumbledore said, taking a phial of silvery liquid out of his pocket.
:::
Dorcas and Dumbledore found their footing on a road that was little more than a dirt path. It connected the town of Great Hangleton to the village of Little Hangleton. To her left, Dorcas saw a meadow, wildflowers dotting the grass here and there. The tall hedges to her right concealed the Gaunt shack, shadowed by a grouping of old and overgrown trees.
Ahead of them was Bob Ogden, not exactly young, but younger than the man Dorcas had met in his home in Exeter two weeks ago.
Dorcas smiled as she took in his odd assortment of Muggle clothing. From his spats to his frock coat over a one-piece striped bathing costume, he looked like he'd escaped from an asylum. She wondered if it was this eccentricity that had won him the affections of his sweet Muggle wife, Mildred.
She was suddenly struck by a recollection of her own when she witnessed Magical Law Enforcement come to take Morfin Gaunt away, assuming he'd stunned the Muggle Tom Riddle. It had really been the Junior Tom Riddle who'd performed the spell on his father. He'd done it to save Dorcas from being throttled by the Senior.
She shuddered, remembering how out of his mind Tom Riddle, Sr. had been. His delusions that she was Tom's mother had been brought on by heavy drinking. He wanted to kill her; would have killed her if Tom and Jack Hardin hadn't shown up.
"Professor," Dorcas whispered. She knew that the memory version of Bob Ogden couldn't hear her, but her throat was so constricted that her voice could not project further. "I recognize him from a memory of mine." She pointed to Ogden as he disappeared into the opening in the hedges.
"You do?" Dumbledore asked, a little surprised.
"Yes, although my memory comes from a bit later. When I was maybe thirteen or fourteen."
"Would you mind showing me that memory, Dorcas?"
She nodded and they picked up their pace in order to stay with the action of Ogden's memory.
Dorcas took an involuntary step back when her eyes caught a gruesome sight on the front door of the house: a snake had been nailed to the wood there; a pathetic, limp, oversized door knocker.
The next moment, she screamed and reached for Dumbledore's arm when Morfin Gaunt dropped from a tree in front of Bob. He was hissing in the very same manner that she'd heard him hiss when she saw him conversing with a green garden snake upon her first visit to Great Hangleton. He brandished the same rusty knife in one hand and wand in the other, the very same way he'd threatened Dorcas when he found her following him all those years ago.
Dumbledore chuckled and patted her arm reassuringly.
She remembered all too well just how menacing it was to be face to face with this madman. The snarling mouth with missing teeth, the eyes that looked in two different directions, the way he invaded Bob's personal space, spitting in his face; Dorcas recalled a similar experience and wished never to repeat it.
Ogden straightened his frock coat and persisted. "Er—good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic—"
Morfin hissed a response that was not English.
"Do you know the language that Mr. Gaunt is speaking, Dorcas?" Dumbledore asked, as if he called on her to answer questions pertaining to an educational demonstration.
She nodded. "Parseltongue."
"Now, look—" Ogden began, backing away as Morfin advanced. Dorcas and Dumbledore carefully stepped to the periphery of the scene.
Dorcas screamed again when a loud bang brought Ogden to the ground, hands on his nose. Some sort of yellowish puss began to issue from the spaces between his fingers, possibly stemming from his nose.
Morfin had cursed Ogden.
"Morfin?" came a stern voice from the cottage.
An old man clamored out of the door, slamming it behind him. The dead snake jolted, swinging from the nail that held it in place. He was stooped, but quite as alarming in appearance as his taller son.
"Ministry, is it?" the old man said.
As he spoke, Dorcas studied him. She had the same impression when looking into this man's eyes that she'd had the first time she'd beheld Morfin's. There was something of Tom in them. Something she recognized in a flash of anger or a blaze of triumph, something dark.
This was Morfin's father, Tom's grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt.
"Dorcas," the professor touched her elbow to draw her gently out of her own musings. "Do you notice his ring? Is it familiar to you?"
"Yes," Dorcas said, studying the black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger.
Dumbledore nodded once, apparently pleased with the response, but probed no further for the moment.
They followed Bob Ogden as he was led into the cramped cottage. Dorcas had never ventured inside before. She only made the mistake of instigating conversation with Morfin the once.
The cottage had three tiny rooms by her estimation. There was the main living and kitchen area. It reminded her of a dreary and dirtier version of her own cramped flat in Poplar when she was a child. Two doors led off the main room. Bedrooms, Dorcas supposed.
Belatedly, Dorcas noticed a girl standing in the corner of the main room beside a steaming pot on the stove. Dorcas recognized her from memories she'd seen. Once in Morfin's deranged mind and once in Tom, Sr.'s equally troubled thoughts.
This was Tom's mother, Merope.
"The necklace around the young woman's neck, Dorcas. Do you recognize it?" Dumbledore asked in a whisper.
Dorcas hadn't noticed any jewelry on the pathetic girl at all. She only saw a drab gray dress that was grimy and threadbare and the signs of abuse and neglect on the poor girl's face.
But, as Dumbledore had pointed out, she was wearing a pendant or locket of sorts around her neck. It was a heavy gold piece on a thick chain, it appeared to be old. An heirloom maybe.
Dorcas studied it. She even took a tentative step forward to get a closer look.
Though it looked familiar to her, she couldn't recall a specific instance when she'd seen it with her own eyes, like the ring.
She shook her head.
Dumbledore shrugged, concealing his disappointment.
"Pity," he said, taking Dorcas's elbow again and leading them out of Bob Ogden's memory.
:::
"Professor?" Dorcas ventured tentatively, once they returned to Dorcas's office
Dumbledore siphoned the mercurial memory from the surface of the Pensieve with his wand and replaced it in its glass phial.
"Yes, Dorcas?"
"Mr. Ogden was there to arrest Mr. Gaunt," she summarized.
"Indeed."
"Because he attacked a Muggle?"
"Yes, a Mr. Tom Riddle of Little Hangleton."
"I believe I once saw the instance that Mr. Ogden made this visit for." Dorcas was recalling Morfin's thoughts, muddled and enraged as they were.
"He cursed Mr. Riddle with some horrible hex that made him break out in angry hives. I saw him writhing on the ground. The girl, Merope, Tom's mum tried to stop her brother."
"I believe you are right."
"But sir, why do you need to know about Tom's parents?" Dorcas pressed. "How will this help you solve the murder you suspect him of? The murder of Ms. Smith?"
"I am, as yet, unclear on the connections myself. I am merely trying to gather as many pieces to the puzzle as possible. And Ms. Smith may not be Tom's only victim."
Dumbledore stared at Dorcas for a moment as this latest revelation sunk in.
Dorcas didn't ask for clarification. She'd be lying to herself and to Dumbledore if she said she did not suspect Tom of the very same crime: that of his father's murder. Unlike Dumbledore, though, she had more context for understanding Tom's motives than her old Transfiguration professor.
"Would you mind showing me the memory that you have of the ring, Dorcas?" Dumbledore asked solemnly.
"Oh," Dorcas faltered.
"Is there a problem?"
"I'll show you the memory you asked to see. And the memory of when I saw Bob Ogden. But I can't be sure that they will be reliable, sir."
His brow furrowed. "Reliable?"
"Yes, sir," Dorcas stood and moved to her desk where she drew a piece of dark film that resembled an X-ray from among the piles of notes and memory phials strewn there.
Dumbledore stood and took the brain scan that she handed him.
As he studied it, his face became grave.
"How did this happen, Dorcas?" the professor asked gently.
She shrugged. "I am just starting to find the answer to that question out for myself," she admitted.
"Memory Charms?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes never leaving the dire picture that showed Dorcas's brain scored repeatedly by spell damage.
"Yes, very old Memory Charms," Dorcas agreed.
"My dear, I am speechless," Dumbledore responded.
Dorcas moved to the cabinet that she'd cleared of all patient memories and slowly began to replenish with her own. She selected two memories that she'd already drawn but had yet to study. She wasn't very confident that they were the true article and not tampered recollections. She was beginning to doubt any memory with a connection to Tom's past had escaped alteration.
"You may have these to study at your leisure, sir. This one," Dorcas said, pointing to the label as she reached for her discarded reading glasses on her desk. "Is from February of 1941. It is the only time that I met Mr. Gaunt." And this one, she said, scanning the second phial, "Is from about a week later when I saw Bob Ogden."
"Thank you, Dr. Meadowes."
Dumbledore laid the brain scan upon the desk and pocketed the memories. With a swish of his robes, he left the office.
"I'll see myself out," he added, stepping into the entrance hall. "Do take care of yourself, Dorcas."
"Thank you, professor. I will try," she offered, with a weak smile. At the moment, it seemed like a bit too much to promise.
:::
30 June, 1941 The Hogwarts Express
Cherry was shoving first years aside, weilding a hat box like a deadly weapon. Dorcas, Anneliese, and Jonas shifted their belongings and tried to follow in the crimson wake of their intrepid friend.
Bing was nervous around so much commotion and wriggled in Dorcas's arms.
"Scram!" Cherry growled at some students who'd thought to claim the compartment that she'd set her sights on.
Ahead of them, Dorcas saw Tom duck into another compartment.
"Jonas, will you take Bing?" Dorcas asked impulsively, dumping her cat into her cousin's arms.
He took the cat dutifully. "Come here, Ratter. And don't you scratch me!"
"I'll be right back," Dorcas said to Cherry and Anneliese after dumping her bag into the compartment that Cherry secured through intimidation.
Jonas's thoughts were loud. He was alarmed that Dorcas was leaving him alone with her beautiful friends. He covered his nervousness by giving his attention to Bing instead.
Anneliese's thoughts were loud too. She surmised that Dorcas was going to seek out Tom. She hoped that Tom and Dorcas could be friends and put disappointment and hurt behind them.
"You don't know Tom very well," Dorcas wanted to say to her friend. But none of them were aware of her ability to probe thoughts. She desperately wanted to keep it that way. She couldn't imagine any of them knowing what she was capable of and still wanting to be her friend.
Tom had, she argued with herself. He not only wanted her friendship when he found out about her ability, he'd hounded her until she taught it to him.
All that proved was that it wasn't her he was interested in, it was her ability he wanted.
Still, she couldn't change what he felt for her. Anger, indifference, it didn't matter. She could only control her thoughts and feelings. And she still cared about him. And he'd just lost the only family he'd known–and only a few months after finding out any family remained to him at all.
She was brought up short when she noticed that the compartment ahead of hers that she'd just seen him enter wasn't there. She stood facing a polished wooden wall where a compartment entrance should be.
Students jostled past her and muttered comments about holding up traffic.
It was a Disillusionment Charm, she supposed.
She ran her hand along the lacquered mahogany of the wall's panel until she felt the latch under her fingertips. She pulled, but the door resisted.
Taking out her wand, she muttered, "Alohomora!" under her breath.
The latch clicked and the door slid open, allowing enough space for her to slip in.
"Were the enchantments too subtle for you?" Tom asked sharply. "I would like to be alone."
He didn't look up from the Great Hangleton Gazette he was studying.
"Jonas gave you the paper, then?" she asked. She approached a step or two and then stopped when he fixed flinty eyes on her.
"As you see," he said coldly, brandishing the paper at her.
Behind the cold expression he bore, Dorcas could read his anguished thoughts. He was not angry at her. He was reeling at the news of the sudden loss of his half-sister, whom he was just beginning to know.
"I told her to stay away from him. I warned her that he was dangerous. Why didn't she listen?" he asked, almost to himself.
He was sitting in the corner seat of the compartment, looking rather small in the empty space by himself.
Her impulse was to comfort him. Before she knew what she was doing, her feet carried her to him and she knelt on the ground before him. She placed her palms on each of his knees.
"It wasn't your fault, Tom," Dorcas urged.
His eyes flashed at her. She pulled back, removing her hands as if scalded by him.
"I know it wasn't my fault. It was his fault. He killed her. Our dear father."
"You think Tom, Sr. killed her?"
"Yes. I'm certain of it. She wouldn't steal a car. She wouldn't run away. Not without Jack."
Dorcas nodded. She didn't know Verity well, but she was getting to know Jack with every letter they exchanged. Tom's characterization of Verity matched Jack's. She remembered Jack once telling her that Verity would never abandon their father. And Jack wouldn't leave without Verity.
"I'm sure you're right," Dorcas conceded. She'd wondered to herself when she read the article on Verity's death if the details hadn't been manufactured. The Riddles were a powerful family in the region, after all.
"What has Jack said about it?" Tom asked, laying the paper aside. His gaze rested on her intently, but the hostility was gone.
"I haven't heard from him yet. I wrote to him when I saw that," she explained, pointing to the paper and the horrible newsprint photograph of the mangled car wrapped around a tree. "But he hasn't responded."
"It was Tom Riddle. I know it was," Tom said vacantly in response, but as if to himself.
"Tom, I'm so sorry," Dorcas offered, returning her hand tentatively to his knee. She had no idea how to comfort him.
He seemed not to have any notion of how to receive her comfort in any case. He raked a hand through his hair and his expression became tortured.
"I'm alone again, Birdie," he said finally. When his eyes ceased their darting around the room and fixed on her, they were glassy and gleaming with unshed tears. "I'm always going to be alone. Those I love leave me."
She squeezed his knee gently. "I love you and I haven't left you."
"You have!" he argued. His eyes became flinty again and one tear escaped the dam, tumbling down his cheek.
Dorcas was so moved by Tom's pain. She rarely experienced such a raw emotion from the incredibly controlled boy. It reminded her of the moment during the air raid in Birmingham when he thought she would abandon him, leave him to drown. His plea was so plaintive and real. It lodged itself in her heart and tethered her to him. The one tear that rolled down his cheek inspired that tender emotion in her once again.
"What can I do?" she whispered.
His movements were quick and Dorcas had no time to react.
Tom stood, grasping her upper arms tightly in his hands and pulling her up to stand with him.
She gasped when he pressed his lips to hers, parting them with his tongue.
"You can make me forget. You can make me feel better, Birdie," Tom's voice answered her in her mind.
She made no move to stop him or to push him away. Instead, she warred in her own mind over what to do. She could give Tom the comfort he desired, show him that he was loved and not abandoned, or she could leave and prove to him that he was right, that everyone left him.
Dorcas reasoned that one kiss wouldn't do any harm. If it was what Tom needed at this moment, she could willingly give it.
He still held her arms in a vice grip.
She slid her hands gently to his waist and then around to his back. She could feel every muscle in his body relax at her touch. Slowly, his fingers loosened their grip and her arms throbbed where their pressure had been.
One of his hands slipped around the back of her neck, pressing her lips to his.
A moan escaped him, or perhaps a sob. Dorcas couldn't be sure.
His other hand tugged the hem of her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt. His fingers met the silk of her camisole, the sensation of the supple fabric eliciting another moan from him, a hungry sound.
She felt the muscles in her stomach clench and spasm at his touch; his fingers finding their way to parts of her body that he hadn't dared to venture before. Then his palm found her left breast and squeezed.
"Oh, Birdie," he sighed on another kiss. "I love you. Please don't leave me."
Dorcas recalled the memory of when he almost drowned for the second time today. He'd plead with her not to leave him then. She didn't feel like fighting him. She couldn't make her arms push him away.
His left hand unwound itself from her hair and clumsily began to unbutton her blouse.
She'd kept her hands on his back while his hands explored her, but she couldn't remain still and allow him to be carried away. She put her hand over his, gently stopping him from releasing the fourth button from its catch.
Pulling her lips away from his, she gasped for breath.
"No, Tom," she whispered. "I won't leave you. But we can't do this."
He shifted her so that her back was to the window, pressed into the glass. Its cold began to creep into her shoulder blades through her blouse and cardigan.
"Yes, we can," Tom argued, his eyes answering her with a challenge.
Dorcas began to feel alarm at his simple refusal to hear her. But his hand ceased to pull at her buttons and dropped to his side. She relaxed a little in relief.
But when he pulled her hips closer, pressing the length of his body against hers, his intention became plain to her.
As if to dispel any doubt, the innocuous hand at his side, slipped beneath her skirt. His other hand continued to explore beneath her blouse.
She pulled his hand from her backside, as he pinned her firmly against the window.
He laughed.
"Tom, I said no. It's not funny."
His only response was to kiss her lips again, to stop her from talking.
"Tom," she called again. He didn't acknowledge her, didn't seem to hear her words. "Stop!" she shouted.
Mustering all of her strength, she pushed him away with her left hand and reached for her wand with her right.
There was a knock at the compartment door.
"Hello?"
Dorcas recognized Cal's voice.
"Is everyone okay in there?"
Tom's eyes on Dorcas were predatory.
She held her wand between them while she straightened her cardigan and buttoned her blouse inexpertly with her left hand.
Tom raised an eyebrow at her, daring her to make a move. His right hand hovered over the pocket that she knew contained his wand.
She took a tentative step toward him. He watched her.
In three more steps, she was at the compartment door.
Pulling it open, she saw Cal standing on the other side, his eyes wide with alarm.
"Dorcas. Are you alright?"
He looked past her and into the compartment, fixing Tom with a furious glare.
"Fine," Dorcas said, choking on the lie.
Cal looked as if he wanted to say more. He took in her disheveled appearance, lingering on her wrinkled and untucked blouse.
Dorcas knew what it looked like. Her unkempt clothing, Tom's tousled hair, the Disillusionment Charm on the door. Her cheeks blazed with shame.
She pushed past Cal and back to the compartment where her friends were gathered.
:::
22 November, 1958 Watermead, Aylesbury
Dorcas spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen.
She was thinking a lot about Dumbledore's visit and why he was collecting puzzle pieces related to Tom, his parents, his uncle, a client he'd most definitely murdered. To what end?
Some of the dire warnings he'd given her about a "danger to the Wizarding world" and all that came back to her. She thought it was all mere hyperbole. Dumbledore's way of playing on her sense of right and of duty.
But since reviewing her own memories painstakingly, she was beginning to suspect that Dumbledore was not employing hyperbole in Tom's case at all.
What was he up to?
Her mind rested, as it had for most of the afternoon–and now into the evening–on the two items of jewelry that Dumbledore was eager for her to recognize.
She'd seen the ring on Morfin Gaunt's finger. She remembered the way he turned the stone around and around on his finger as she'd made inquiries about his father.
Was there something in Dumbledore's expression when she'd admitted to seeing it that indicated he was expecting this? Was there a reason she was supposed to have recognized it? And the necklace. The heavy gold chain and locket. She knew she'd never seen it before. But it was so familiar to her.
If it was a Gaunt heirloom, perhaps she'd seen it on some painting or other around the corridors of Hogwarts.
Dumbledore seemed surprised at her not recognizing it.
The oven's timer buzzed, causing her to jump. She'd been hovering over the beef wellington, not wanting the pastry to become too dark.
With a pleased smile, she pulled it out of the oven. A nice golden brown proclaimed it to be baked to perfection.
It was Cal's favorite.
She was pulling out all of the stops for his birthday.
Even though they had a tough conversation ahead of them, including Dorcas's recent revelations from her memory investigations, her self-medication (or what Cal might categorize as drug use), and her suspicions about where he had been going most nights, she wanted to make a bit of a fuss for him. It had been a hard year.
Dorcas wondered as she set the table what she wanted to gain from the conversation. What if Cal admitted to seeing someone? What if it wasn't just a fling? What if it was love? What if he looked relieved when she brought up the subject finally and then confessed that he didn't know how to tell her that he was leaving her?
The plate slipped from her hand as her fingers went numb.
It crashed to the tiled floor, shattering into a million pieces.
Dorcas stared at the shards littering the ground for a long time. She didn't really see them, she was looking at the space just in front of them, watching the scene play out in her mind.
When she thought of how that conversation might go, she always pictured Cal contrite, begging for her forgiveness, reassuring her that it meant nothing. Never had she imagined him packing a bag and leaving her.
Feeling as if something inside of her had also shattered into a million pieces, she snapped back to the here and now.
Removing her wand from the pocket of her apron, she flicked it at the mess on the floor and said, "Reparo!" The plate knit itself back together, not a chip in sight.
She knew that her life would never go back to the way it was in such a tidy fashion.
But she had come to a decision about how she would handle Cal's confession.
She would beg.
Dorcas knew she would be prepared to swear off any and all potions, she would promise to devote herself solely to him and her children. She would never see another client, heal another patient. She wouldn't evade his embrace. She was willing to make any bargain she had to make if he would just stay.
It was not lost on her that the table was dressed much like it had been weeks ago when Cal had made his request to have her for pudding in just her robe and nothing else.
It had been humiliating to wait around, anticipating his reaction, getting drunker as the clock's hands made a recriminating circle around the clock face.
She looked down at the trousers and jumper that she wore under her apron.
Her mind flitted to the lingerie she'd bought back in July. She'd been very pregnant then, but hopeful that she would be able to pull it off by Cal's birthday after losing the baby weight.
She choked, remembering how life was at that moment. The Dorcas that picked out the sheer, silky confection wouldn't believe what her life would be like in just four miserable months.
Changing into the nightgown seemed like tempting fate.
"He will come home tonight."
She gave herself a short pep talk and reasoned that there wasn't anything she wouldn't try to keep him from leaving her.
Throwing the apron on her bed and kicking her shoes off, she rushed to take the nightgown out of the drawer before she lost her nerve.
It was a blush pink with a matching robe, dramatic and floor length with a neckline that was scandalous.
A voice in her head told her that she was a fool if she thought she could seduce her husband into staying in a marriage that he didn't want anymore.
Looking at herself defiantly in the mirror she yanked the jumper over her head.
She would do anything. There was no depth she wouldn't lower herself to in order to keep him. And if she ever learned of the other woman's identity, she would have to rely on her Poplar upbringing to beat the bitch bloody.
Her reflection in the mirror shocked her.
The nightgown fit in all the right places, accentuating her best assets.
"Damn, Dorcas," she said to herself. "You've still got it!"
She made some alterations to her hair and then hurried back to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine. Her stomach was feeling a little jittery at her daring and she wanted to drown that little voice that was casting doubt over her plans.
As she uncorked the bottle and poured herself a generous amount, she was interrupted by a curious sound, like a dog's claws as it padded across the tile of the kitchen. She turned to see a massive, silvery Saint Bernard standing behind her.
Her husband's Patronus.
When she turned to acknowledge it, the dog settled back on his hind legs, sitting at attention, his front paws perfectly placed before him.
"What?" Dorcas asked harshly, taking a large gulp from her wine glass.
Cal's voice was emitted from the furry, ephemeral creature, but its mouth did not move to speak. It just stared at her with droopy eyes as the message it carried was played out.
"My darling, I know that you had something special planned for my birthday, and I am so sorry that I have to alter that plan. Something came up here and I'm afraid I'll be working late tonight. Don't wait up for me. But I'll take the whole day off tomorrow and we can talk then. I love you."
The dog stood and cantered away, disappearing as he went.
Dorcas downed the rest of the glass and took the bottle with her to sit at the table, the way she had, waiting for him like a fool in nothing but her robe and a pair of heels weeks ago.
Why had she believed this time would be different? Because it was his birthday? That obviously did not obligate him to be home to spend time with her.
She was tempted to go down to the hospital to confirm what she already knew to be true: he was not working late.
But she didn't need to confirm that fact. She knew he would not be there.
She drank half the bottle trying not to picture where he was right now, or who he was with.
The wine turned sour in her belly when she imagined that he was spending his birthday in different company, younger company, prettier company.
What if he was planning to leave her tonight?
She felt bile suddenly rising in her throat. She knew she was going to be sick from the wine. She hadn't eaten anything at all today besides the slice of toast she'd shared with Ryann's owl this morning.
Her mother's voice admonished her as she raced to the bathroom. "You are far too thin. You need to take better care of yourself."
After she brought up the wine she felt a small measure of relief.
Dorcas pushed herself up off the floor and brushed the acrid taste from her teeth and tongue, rinsing the horrible taste away.
Though getting blind drunk and passing out was tempting, she decided she needed to take some action instead of being the passive housewife, waiting for her husband to show her some attention.
She wasn't going to let him be the one who left.
Opening her closet, she took her leather weekend bag from the shelf and began stuffing it with clothes. She added a pair of canvas lace up shoes and grabbed some toiletries from the bathroom.
She had no clue where she would go. Perhaps to a hotel in the city?
A hotel in the city reminded Dorcas of the way she and Cal spent his birthday last year. Dorcas couldn't go to a hotel.
She would go to Blackpool.
Jonas wouldn't be there. He was somewhere in the Baltic at this moment flying missions for NATO.
But Cherry would be there.
Suddenly, commiserating over her misery with a girlfriend seemed especially appealing. Cherry was always ready to take her part and lend her sympathy.
She needed to grab her reading glasses and her memory journal from her office and then she would leave. There was a sense of satisfaction in picturing Cal coming home to an empty house for once, instead of her always being the lonely ghost haunting this place.
His panicked voice and frantic search he made for her the one time he came home late and couldn't find her came to mind. She was stopped in the middle of the hallway when she wondered if she could really do that to him.
She pictured him searching every room for her. Would he assume that something terrible had happened to her? A wave of sympathy for her husband stopped her and she was frozen, wondering if she could really put him through all of that anguish.
And then she was back to Plan A: waiting for him to come home so that she could beg and bargain for him to stay with her.
She walked back into the dining room in a trance, unsure of what action to take, or what action not to take.
"This is good, Birdie. But a little cold," Tom said, from his place in Cal's seat at the head of the table.
Dorcas gasped as her heart jumped into her throat. "Fuck!" she shouted in a decidedly unladylike reaction to being startled by the intruder. She realized that her wand was still in her apron pocket, laying uselessly on her bed.
Tom laughed and poured himself some of Dorcas's wine.
"How did you get in here?" Dorcas asked, taking a steadying breath. She should have eaten something before drinking that wine.
Tom helped himself to more beef wellington, clearly enjoying her cooking.
Someone should, Dorcas thought wryly.
"I'm a wizard, Birdie. I can get into a house if I want to," he answered around a mouthful of food.
"Let me rephrase, why are you here?"
"Thought I'd stop by and see my best girl," Tom responded, winking at her as he sipped his wine.
"Your best girl doesn't live here," Dorcas said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Tom laughed again. He was in a good mood.
Dorcas wondered why but didn't ask.
"So the Boy Scout stood you up, did he? And after you went to all of this trouble for his birthday."
Dorcas shifted her weight.
"How did you know that?"
"What? That it's his birthday? Or that he stood you up?"
"Yes," Dorcas answered unhelpfully.
Tom pointed to the cake she'd made that afternoon for Cal. "It's after eight and this food is cold."
He wiped his mouth on a linen tea towel and pushed back from the table. Standing, he moved around the table toward her, all coiled and controlled anticipation like a large cat.
Dorcas tensed when he moved. Flashes of the violent boy on the Astronomy Tower came to mind. She took a steadying breath, unsure of what he would do if he caught on that she was remembering...things from their past.
"If the Birthday Boy doesn't want to unwrap his present, may I?"
His eyes raked over her as he neared.
Dorcas suddenly remembered the nightgown she was wearing and felt her cheeks redden.
She resisted the urge to step back or to recoil in any way. Tom couldn't read her thoughts, and she was grateful for that. But she knew he could still read her movements and expressions.
Even as she remembered how he'd dashed her head against the stones of the tower, how he'd snapped her wrist like kindling, he still drew her in.
She knew how easy it would be to let Tom past her defenses. How simple it would be to slip into his familiar arms and allow him to comfort her now.
He took another step toward her, encouraged by the fact that she didn't protest or move away.
His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were dealing with an easily spooked animal.
She wondered what he would do. Would he try to kiss her? Pull her tight against him? Rip the thin material from her body and take her right there on the table?
The last thought made her think of the last time she and Cal made love. It was right there on the table. How could she entertain the idea of giving herself Tom?
She felt a tear slip down her cheek.
"Oh, Birdie," Tom murmured. "Come here."
He wrapped his arms around her. His embrace was comforting and familiar. He was the way she remembered him, before she'd lifted the veil.
"He still loves you," Tom said as he stroked her hair.
"Does he?" Dorcas sobbed into his chest.
"Yes, he does. I should know. My feelings for you haven't diminished. Neither will his."
Dorcas didn't know how it began, but her lips found his and she kissed him deeply, pulling the lapels of his coat to press him closer to her.
His hands, once in a platonic position high on her shoulder blades shifted lower, drifting toward her backside.
There was a little jolt in her at the sensation of his teeth grazing her lower lip.
She surprised herself when her hands pushed his coat off of his shoulders. He ceased his caresses long enough to untangle his arms from the garment and let it fall to the floor. Then his hands found her again, pulling at the straps of her nightgown. His fingers slipped beneath the low neckline and traced the curve of her breast, pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
He bent his head and ran his tongue along the valley between her breasts, eliciting a sigh from Dorcas as she wound her fingers through his hair.
And then he stopped.
"Damn it!" he whispered.
Dorcas opened her eyes and felt a sudden wave of shame wash over her. Why had she let this carry on? She should have asked him to leave.
"This is not why I came. I'm sorry, Birdie," Tom said, stepping out of her embrace and stooping to retrieve his coat from the floor. He searched the pockets until he found a piece of paper.
Dorcas took the opportunity of his distraction to pull the top of her nightgown back into place and smooth her hair. She could do nothing about the fiery blush in her cheeks, however.
She cleared her throat. "Why did you come?"
"To give you this," Tom answered.
Dorcas took the paper. In his neat hand was a Hendon address.
"I promised I'd find him for you, Birdie."
She looked up into his sabel eyes with surprise. "Muybridge?"
He was still breathing heavily from snogging her. In truth, her heart was still racing with the anticipation of him as well.
He nodded.
"I'm going now!" Dorcas said, turning determinedly in the direction of her front door. "Where's my wand?"
Tom cleared his throat. "Ah Birdie?"
"What, Tom?" she said, rounding on him with an exasperated look.
"You might want to put on something a little more...well, more?" he advised, pointedly staring at her chest.
"Oh, right!" she exclaimed, hurrying past him to her bedroom.
He caught her arm as she tried to rush past.
"What, Tom?" she asked again, her impatience was simmering at the surface.
"Do you want me to come with you? He is a dangerous criminal."
"I'M DANGEROUS!" Dorcas roared.
Tom removed his hand. "Sod off. Got it."
He slipped his coat on and left through the glass sliding door to her veranda.
She didn't watch him go, she was too busy concocting her plan. She didn't know this address so she had no idea what she was walking into. Was Muybridge alone? Would he have wardings in place to detect her arrival?
She threw off the gauzy robe and jerked the nightgown over her head, not caring one jot when she heard a seam give way. Racing to the closet, she found the trousers and the jumper she'd been wearing earlier and threw them on.
Shoes and wand.
And out the door.
She Apparated to Hendon, eager to kill the son of a bitch Stephen Muybridge.
Amen.
