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— Chapter 2 —
Choosing Fire

THE AUCTIONEER WAS A PUDDLE OF SWEAT. He ran back and forth across the stage, trying to reestablish order. "Ladies and... ladies and... ladies and gentlemen, please contain yourselves!"

It was chaos. Every wizard was arguing with their neighbors, with people across the aisle, with anyone who'd listen.

Unbidden, Severus's words on the roof of St. Brutus's chapel came floating back to me. Even among our kind, you're... something of an abnormality. History was repeating itself. Vernon and Petunia, the first family who took me in, always argued about what to do with me. They had used the word "abnormal," too.

An earsplitting bang cut the cacophony in two.

I jumped. What the—

"I apologize, I was having trouble hearing you, Horace."

I scanned the pews, now filled with wizards who stood frozen, shocked into silence. There — in the very last row. A raised wand with smoke trailing from the tip. Someone cloaked in shadows. A woman.

The auctioneer coughed. "Um, yes. Thank you, Arabella."

Ruby lips, dark olive skin, razor-sharp smile. "It's mistress, actually." Light and shadow slid across her face in a seductive embrace. "Mistress Zabini."

I gulped. Holy hell.

The auctioneer made a squeaking sound and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. "Yes, of course. Well, now that we're all... settled?"

Robes rustled as the wizards sat back down.

"Just to confirm, you're Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived?"

I cleared my throat. "Uhm... those were my parents, yes. And, uh, that's... that's what Mister Snape called me, sir."

"But are you?" The auctioneer leaned forward, mustache quivering with anticipation. "Are you The-Boy-Who-Lived?"

There was some significance attached to that title... something of great importance to everyone sitting in the chamber. "I'm, uh, I suppose I'm a boy who's living, sir. So — err — when talking about the past, I suppose I was a boy who lived."

Titters ran through the room. I frowned.

What's so funny?

A new voice. "Did the muggles never tell you, boy?" A man in one of the middle rows was standing. He had a fabulous goatee that seemed too magnificent to be real.

I opened my mouth to answer but closed it again. Mister Snape told me I should only answer questions from the auctioneer.

"Are you deaf, boy?"

I looked over at the auctioneer, pleading for some assistance.

A wild shout made me flinch.

"Boy!"

"Adresco, honestly," said a woman with mousy hair and glasses too round for her face. "Be human. The boy is terrified." She smiled at me. "You'll have to excuse Mister Carrow. He can be a bit hot-headed."

The man, Adresco Carrow, glared. "You forget yourself, Hawthorn."

"Lucius," said Hawthorn mildly. "Please."

A man with long, blonde hair in the center of the front row turned slowly towards them. Self-discipline, confidence, power. It rolled off him in waves. Before he'd even finished turning, Adresco Carrow was back in his seat, angrily stroking his goatee.

Lucius gave him a long look and turned back to face me. His eyes were a shade of hazel so pale they were almost white. "Is there a reason you don't wish to answer, Mister Potter?"

"Mister Snape — err — he said I should only answer questions from..." I pointed at the auctioneer. "I wasn't sure if..." Even as I said it, I felt foolish. These were the wizards who'd be purchasing me. Of course, it wouldn't be against the rules to answer their questions.

Get it together, Harry.

The corner of Lucius's mouth twitched. "Severus was correct. It is typically customary for the recipient of a noble adoption to remain silent. However, I believe your case is... unique enough that it would be remiss of us not to bend tradition." His eyes flicked to the auctioneer. "Would you agree, Horace?"

The auctioneer made a harrumphing sound that seemed to suggest he had little choice in the matter either way. From within one of the inner pockets of his jacket, he withdrew a wand and with a complicated motion, conjured a chair behind his podium. The moment he sat, the atmosphere in the room changed. Every wizard sat straighter. Their gazes became sharper.

"Perhaps," Lucius continued airily, "it might be useful, and dare I say polite, for us to introduce ourselves when we have a question for Mister Potter. All in favor?" Almost lazily, he raised his hand. No one else did, but he didn't look. "Excellent. I'm sure we'll be able to mediate any... conflicts that might arise. Returning to the matter at hand, I believe the question Mister Carrow was attempting to ask was concerning how, and when, you were made aware of your magical lineage?"

"Pardon, Lucius." The woman, Hawthorn, was smiling. "I don't believe you've given your name."

Lucius communicated more with his eyes than anyone I'd ever met. With the smallest of movements, with the subtlest glances, he was, in his own way, magnificently expressive. When he spoke, ice laced his words. "But of course." He inclined his head towards me. "Lucius Malfoy."

I had a sudden urge to laugh but ruthlessly pushed the impulse down. I needed to focus. "Uh, well, I only found out about magic four days ago."

Angry mutters, wizard shifting in their chairs.

I swallowed. "Um... I don't know much, really. Mister Snape told me I was a wizard and offered — uh — to bring me here."

"He is lying," said a man four rows back with a bald head and deep laugh lines. "He must be."

"Name, Edmund," sang Hawthorn, who seemed to be having entirely too much fun.

The bald man glared at her. "Edmund Burke."

"I also," said Lucius softly, "don't believe you asked a question."

"I didn't," agreed Edmund Burke. "I was making a statement. Harry Potter died on the 31st of October, Nineteen — "

A man on the far right side of one of the last rows snorted. "Well, clearly he didn't Burke, if he's standing right in front of us." He waved at me. His face was boyish and open. "Name's Frank Longbottom. I knew your parents. You're the spitting image of James."

Edmund rose from his chair and spread his arms wide. "And we don't have potions that can alter appearances? Charms? Magic?"

"Our enclave is charmed against such things, Mister Burke," said Lucius smoothly. "If I'm not mistaken, The Wizengamot paid your father handsomely to ward this chamber against such deceptions. Surely you haven't lost faith in his spell work so soon after his passing."

Titters fluttered through the chamber. Frank Longbottom audibly laughed.

Edmund blanched and sank back down. "Of... of course not," he mumbled.

Lucius rose and turned to address the assembled body. "The lineage of Mister Potter is a minor matter to verify, and ultimately inconsequential as an avenue of query. The adoption process is fatal for those with impure intentions. Our forefathers designed it to ensure against such an eventuality. The education of our children is too important, the survival of our families too vital, to leave anything to chance."

Various sounds of agreement.

"The house of Malfoy, for one, accepts that Harry Potter is who he says he is and that he offers no deception in his wish for adoption." Lucius looked over at me with the magnanimous air of someone expecting genuflection and gratitude. "However, I feel the events of his discovery are... circumspect. We know nothing about what Mister Potter was doing before Severus found him. Are we to believe the child who evaded the Dark Lord's clutches for fifteen years was simply... lost? That he grew up, a muggle, for more than a decade with no one any the wiser?"

A man sitting next to Hawthorn raised his hand. He had a grizzled face and seemed to be missing half of his nose. "Pardon, Lucius."

Lucius smiled a tight-lipped smile. "Rabastan Lestrange." His voice was warm. "You have something to ask?"

"A small question." Rabastan's eyes were big, bloodshot, guileless, and wide. "A bit slow on the uptake, I am. Wond'rin' if you could explain your thoughts on what happened."

Frank Longbottom snorted. "Oh, please."

"Dear friend, nothing would please me more." Lucius seemed delighted. "I am merely concerned for Mister Potter's wellbeing. We know not what occurred that Halloween night when Mister Potter disappeared. Surely we can all agree that the people who kidnapped him, who deprived him of a childhood immersed in magic, were only interested in hurting him. Now that Mister Potter's back, we can turn to our most qualified to — "

"We know what happened the night Mister Potter's parents were killed."

"Billius," chimed Hawthorn. "You're being rude."

A frail man with wispy tufts of red hair rose from a chair in the back row. "Billius Weasley." He turned back to Lucius. "We know who killed Lily and James Potter."

"Too right," agreed Frank Longbottom.

"The death of Lily and James Potter was a tragic accident," said Lucius. "An accident of spell creation gone awry. We know this. Were it not for the Dark Lord's timely intervention — "

A voice spoke from the far left of the first row. "And you're suggesting we bring him here to ask about it, eh?"

"Your name, sir," trilled Hawthorn.

The man had a stern face and big bushy eyebrows like caterpillars. "Bartemius Crouch." He nodded at me, a quick, jerky motion. "Well, Lucius? You've obviously been driving towards something."

Out of all the people who'd spoken so far, Crouch was the only one who seemed to command Lucius's attention. There was something between them... old history, perhaps. "I am merely suggesting that the easiest way to verify what happened that night is to turn to — "

"The person who stands the most to gain by killing him?"

"The Dark Lord," said Lucius pointedly, "is a patron of magical innovation. If this child survived a magical explosion — "

"Caused by your lord."

"The Dark Lord has a vested interest — "

"In finishing what he started?"

Lucius's voice rose a fraction. "In attempting to uncover the truth surrounding how Harry Potter disappeared. Had he known the child survived, had the child not been stolen, the Dark Lord would have taken him in. Lily and James were trusted colleagues if you forgot, and the Dark Lord would have provided for their child because of this."

A man next to Frank Longbottom stood. He had fierce auburn hair and a thick beard inlaid with small flowers. Scotland lay heavy on his tongue, as he said, "Thomas Abbott. Surely, you're not trying to suggest that we hand the boy over to the Dark Lord?"

Frank Longbottom nodded. "It's madness. He should be with Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore," said Lucius with the exhausted air of someone returning to an argument long settled. "Is a criminal in Britain, and entirely not present at this event. A prerequisite for bidding is attendance, if you forgot, Longbottom."

Bartemius Crouch snorted. "The Dark Lord is also a criminal in Britain."

Lucius's head snapped towards him, a snake rearing to strike. "Was. Was a criminal, Mister Crouch. Despite your best efforts, the Dark Lord was pardoned by this very body — "

"That you control," pointed out Frank Longbottom.

"And thus," continued Lucius, ignoring him, "his record was expunged."

"Because you control the vote," growled Thomas Abbott.

Lucius's words were clipped. "I control no one, Mister Abbott. I merely represent the collective interests of the majority."

Thomas Abbott laughed derisively. "That's rich. You represent no one but the interests of your god."

Lucius's lip curled. "We all represent the interest of gods, Abbott."

Frank Longbottom rose from his chair. "Dumbledore," he began, but at that moment, a high, cold voice filled the room, drowning out whatever he was about to say.

"Your god," said the voice, "is dead."

The twin doors on the far side of the room smashed open, ricocheted against the marble walls, and slammed shut again. A gusty breeze blew through the chamber. The torches sputtered and died, plunging the room into darkness. For an instant, all was silent. Then, all at once, all torches flared to life.

Lucius dropped to his knees, along with most of the chamber. "You honor us with your presence, my lord," he murmured.

Standing half-way up the center aisle was a man shrouded in a cloak of living darkness. A darkness that moved and breathed and churned as he walked forward; a darkness that seemed to feed on the very fabric of the universe; a darkness that made Frank Longbottom sink back into his chair with a gasp and a whimper of fear.

The figure reached out a hand. "Lucius..." — he spread his arms wide, welcoming those who knelt before him — "honored friends..." — his tone thinned as he took in those who still remained standing — "fools. Dumbledore was driven out of the country by mere whispers of my power."

His voice expanded, filling every nook and cranny of the chamber. "Your god is dead."

Something very strange was happening in my mind. A scene, a memory long forgotten — a scream in the dark, flashes of green light, and cold, cruel laughter.

"Harry Potter," whispered the Dark Lord, "we meet again."

His scarlet eyes blinked, and my scar exploded in pain. I jerked in my bindings, struggling not to fall to my knees. It felt like my head was going to split open.

"Do you know who I am?"

I shuddered, trying to answer, trying to open my eyes, but the pain was too great. I couldn't move.

"You're being impolite, Harry."

I needed to get a hold of myself, needed to regain control. I tried to slow my breathing, tried to center myself in the reality of where I was, tried to do anything that didn't involve shivering in pain like a frightened little ferret. "S-sorry."

"Does it hurt?"

Tears. Traitors, each one of them.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The Dark Lord's voice was soft. "It's alright, Harry, you can say it."

"Yes," I gasped. "It hurts."

"You must be very strong to still be standing. A child of prophecy shouldn't suffer this way."

It was an invitation. Drop to your knees. It's alright. Kiss the ground. The pain will be better. You don't need to keep your head up anymore.

"My lord..."

I knew that voice. Who did it belong to?

I'll give you a place to belong. The Dark Lord was all around me, inside me. You'll never feel unwanted again. Submit... it's easier than falling asleep... submit.

Would it really be so bad to fall? To submit? Belonging sounded nice. It's what I wanted all along.

Another voice spoke, also behind my eyes. "Harry." The pressure, the rope — mystery girl! Her warmth, her voice — I remembered her.

The Dark Lord, the pain, bore down upon me. Don't you want this to end, Harry? Don't you want to let me in so I can teach you the wonders of the world? We're not so different, you and I.

Pressure, more consistent now. Tugging on the rope. "Harry."

The Dark Lord. You owe nothing to this world. All you have to do is take one little step, and this will all be over.

"Harry!"

Submit.

"Harry!"

Submit.

"Harry!"

The heat and pain grew to blistering proportions. A sob burst past my lips. This couldn't go on — I'd go insane. My head was in pain and on fire, splitting from the outside in and inside out all at the same time. I saw the rope before me, jerking this way and that, trying to pull one direction, then another. One end led to fire, the other to pain.

Pain, or fire. Pain, or fire.

What would happen if I followed the fire? Where would it lead? Could I trust Mystery Girl? Would she — would the fire — consume me? At least pain was familiar. I knew how to duck under it, how to roll with it, how to let it break me, but not end me.

Pain, or fire. Pain, or fire.

Known, or unknown. Known, or unknown.

I knew nothing about the Dark Lord, knew nothing of his interest in me. If this was to be my world, wouldn't it be easier to subjugate myself to him?

Mister Snape had spoken of prodigious wizards and wise alchemists; of magic so powerful it was the will of nature herself; of wonders so spectacular my eyes would water just to behold them. The world he described was a world I wanted to see — wanted to be part of.

And yet... and yet...

And yet all I'd seen since entering this world was pain. Pain at the way these wizards snapped and snarled at each other; pain at the way power seemed to be on the forefront of everyone's mind; pain at the way the Dark Lord wanted to possess me, possess everything I ever was or could be; pain except for...

Mystery Girl.

All Mystery Girl wanted was to talk to me. She'd tried so hard to learn about me, to know my name. She healed my neck, she called me Harry in a throaty voice, and she burned me with those strange, black eyes of hers.

Pain, or fire. Pain, or fire.

Known, or unknown. Known, or unknown.

"Harry!" Submit! "Harry!" Submit!

I screwed up my courage, grabbed the rope, and let go.

For the second time that day, the world spun around me in a dizzying spiral of colors and shapes. I saw the inside of an office with marble walls, plush red carpet, and the statue of an enormous gold rooster with three silver stars embedded in its plumage.

I saw a man whose face was wrinkled with age; a man with wispy grey hair and keen yellow eyes that seemed to know I was watching. I saw a memo in my hands, a memo with writing both blurry and out of focus. It was just like before except... except...

Except this time, Mystery Girl welcomed me, embraced me, pulled me deeper and deeper into the very center of who she was. Memories flew past in hazy splashes of faded watercolor, impressionistic and too foggy to make out. I saw a night sky painted with oils that shimmered as I zoomed towards it. Each brushstroke, each splash of color, a thought, an impression, a piece of what gave Mystery Girl vibrancy and meaning.

It was wondrous and intimidating and intimate, and the greatest part of the whole thing was that despite my best efforts, I couldn't understand any of it. A glimpse, a taste, a fleeting touch, that was all. Mystery girl wanted me to go deeper, past memory and conscious thought, to a place deeper than identity. A place that was —

I stopped moving. Water glazed with green surrounded me; deep, dark, and beautiful. A tremor rumbled through the liquid. Ah, the pressure... I had almost forgotten what it felt like. It increased and increased and increased as something... someone... approached.

"Mystery girl?" I asked.

Her voice, her essence, surrounded me in a flurry of bubbles. "Harry." She sounded sad again. "I'm sorry."

A deep, rumbling chuckle thudded through the water.

The bubbles flowed around my body protectively. "Stay very... very still," she whispered. "And reach out your hand."

Water rippled beneath my fingertips as something moved. A massive eyeball, twice the size of my entire body, opened. It was reflective, blacker than the depths of undiscovered space.

A deep rumble, a pulse. I held my breath. Another breath, another rumble. A flash of heat, a reminder of fire. The creature, whatever it was, seemed pleased. The eyelid closed. The pressure decreased. I let go of the breath I was holding.

Suddenly, I was back in Mystery Girl's mind, watching her walk down a corridor lined with doors that glowed with gleaming blue light.

I felt myself drift away from Mystery Girl, back to my mind where the pain lay. "When can I see you again?" I asked. I knew… I just knew I had to.

Amusement. Sadness. Longing. "Perhaps soon. Perhaps never."

She couldn't push me out, not after what she had shown me. "I don't understand,"

Her voice echoed as she asked, "Does it matter?"

My eyes snapped open. A breath hissed from between my teeth. I was still standing. The Dark Lord was still in front of me. No time had passed.

"Curious," the Dark Lord whispered. "You truly, genuinely, don't know who I am."

It took me a moment to find my voice, to remember where I was and what I was doing. "No, sir."

The hood moved, tilting slightly. "Do you know what I can do?"

I could hazard a few guesses, but none of them seemed respectful under the circumstances. So, I shook my head. "No, sir."

The Dark Lord's voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you want to?"

The same choice as before. Pain or fire. Come what may, I'd choose the fire, the unknown, every time. "I don't think so, sir."

In a flash, the Dark Lord's hands wrapped around my bindings. My feet left the ground. I choked, dangling in empty air. The collar cut into my neck, ripping through skin like a knife in butter. Blood gushed, trickling down my neck, staining my white shirt red. I kicked my feet, struggling to breathe.

"Is there... anything special about you, anything at all?"

Cold, red eyes. There was nothing left.

Frank Longbottom's voice. "Stop this at once!"

"Please..." I whispered, "let go..."

The Dark Lord didn't move. "I wondered, you see. You're meant to be my equal... the child of prophecy... you're the only one..."

The sounds of a scuffle. Thomas Abbott's voice. "This is against the law! Stop! Unhand me, Rabastan!"

People were saying words in a language I didn't understand. Someone screamed. Mistress Zabini appeared behind The Dark Lord's shoulder. "My lord," her voice was soft, urgent. "We must keep up appearances."

The Dark Lord hesitated — a moment of deliberation. The floor rushed up to meet me. Blood spurted on impact. I choked and coughed, splattering the stage with blood. I couldn't breathe. The Dark Lord loomed tall, casting a long shadow over my fallen form.

"My lord," Arabella's voice was relentless. "His neck, my lord. Quickly."

The Dark Lord waved a lazy hand. My wound closed. I tried to push myself to my knees, but I was too weak. Every muscle in my body was tense, bracing for impact. A pair of hands pulled me up, and I found myself staring into the dark eyes of Arabella Zabini. "Thank you," I mouthed, knowing with certainty that without her intervention, I'd definitely be dead.

Arabella's lips slid into a sharp smile. You owe me, the smile said.

I looked around the chamber. It was chaos.

The Dark Lord spoke quietly to Lucius. Thomas Abbott nursed a bloody lip. Next to him, Frank Longbottom twitched in his chair. A man to the left of Bartemius Crouch coughed up blood and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his robes. The auctioneer lay asleep in his chair. Everyone was talking, shouting, cursing, and —

An overwhelming pressure engulfed the room. Ash filled my lungs, and manure lingered on my tongue. The room turned monochrome, flickering at the edges with hazy static. It felt like a titanic body of water pressed down against me, like I was back in Mystery Girl's mind under the watchful gaze of her cycloptic eye.

And then, just as soon as it had arrived, the pressure vanished.

The Dark Lord raised a lazy hand. "I think I'd like to participate in the auction if no one has an objection?"

But apparently, someone did.

For the second time that day, the doors on the far side of the chamber slammed open.

My mouth fell open. In walked a woman who... she... she'd been frankensteined together.

Half of her face was male, with angled, haughty features while the other was female, older than the male, with rosy lips, round cheekbones, and kind eyes that gleamed with mischief. Rough, careless stitches held her complexion together, almost as if they'd been sewn by someone new to needle and thread.

A sleeveless dress adorned her shoulders, with yellow tights, green socks, and flashing blue sneakers that clashed so magnificently with the rest of her outfit, it looked too garish to be allowed.

The Dark Lord's voice came out in an angry hiss. "Thorne."

Light flashed. A thin hiss cut through the chamber. The Dark Lord's robe dissolved, transfigured into a colony of ants that fell to the floor and scurried away.

I gasped.

Beneath the Dark Lord's cloak was a swirling mass of dark smoke manifested in human form. So that's why he didn't fight her, I realized. It isn't that he can't defeat her. It's that he isn't actually here.

"No way," I mumbled.

Thorne put her hands on her hips and wagged a disapproving finger. "Now, Tom, I'm all for smoke and mirrors, but even you aren't above the law. Lucius said it earlier himself." She lowered her voice, and in an unmistakable impression of Lucius, said, "a prerequisite for bidding is attendance if you were confused." She raised her eyebrows. "That was you, ten minutes ago, remember? Anyway." Thorne cocked her hands in finger guns. "So long. Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

Twin jets of sparking, spitting, blue light flew from her fingertips. As they neared the Dark Lord, the jets of light corkscrewed in the air, twisting around each other with such frenetic speed they became little more than a vibrating white blur. When the spell hit, the Dark Lord dissipated into wisps of smoke. Thorne took off her left sneaker and looked inside. "Where is that thing? Honestly."

To my astonishment, she reached her whole arm into her shoe and started rummaging around.

"This is really embarrassing. I wonder where... ah!" Sporting a proud smile, Thorne withdrew a pouch stuffed to the brim with large gold coins. "There it is!"

"What the fuck..." I mumbled. That didn't just happen. How did her foot not fall right in?

Thorne walked to the center of the stage, swinging her pouch like a baton. "So... I'm willing to place a starting bid of... uh, let's say… a million galleons for the-boy-who-needs-a-meal over there. Does anyone wanna up the ante?"

I blinked. Had I heard that correctly? Did she say a million?

"Anyone? Lucius, you sure? Going once... going twice? Great." Thorne looked over at the auctioneer, who was still fast asleep. "I'd ask if we should wake Sluggie, but to be honest, I was the one who put him to sleep in the first place. He'll wake up once we're gone. I'll just... pay on my way out." She flashed me a thumbs up. "Let's get outta here."

A million galleons for me? Thorne thought I was worth all that money? She wanted to — what? Train me? Adopt me?

A hand under my chin had me raising my head. Thorne was tall and gangly, with a long torso and unnaturally thin arms. "You ready?" She touched my collar, and it turned to ash under her fingertips.

"I don't know," I mumbled, rubbing the tender skin of my neck.

"For now, there are only three things that matter." Thorne held up a finger. "One. I'm getting hungry, and I become a raging you-know-what when I'm hungry, so hurry along so we can eat dinner. Two. For better or worse, you, sweet, clueless boy, are now my apprentice, which means it will be my responsibility to ensure sure you don't become the-boy-who-died-too-soon. And three." She raised her voice so everyone in the chamber could hear. "In one year's time, you'll be strong enough to kill me, and when that time comes, I'm going to make sure you follow through with it."

Whispers broke out.

Thorne grabbed my hand. The male side of her face was facing me: handsome features, sharp cheekbones, blonde eyebrows. She turned, so the female half was toward me: freckles, brown eyes, skin crinkled by age. She was testing me, gauging my reaction, as if she were Frankenstein, and I was a butterfly resting on her finger.

She didn't have to worry. Thorne was weird, and strange, and powerful, but she didn't scare me. I didn't know her, but I knew her. Like most butterflies, I could recognize gentleness when I saw it.

"Thorne?" The word left my mouth before I had a chance to think about what I was going to say.

At the door, Thorne dumped her bag of coins into a collection tin labeled: GALLEONS GO HERE. "Yes?"

She led me through one hallway, then another, up an elevator and down a flight of stairs, along a room with a ceiling so high I couldn't see its end, and past a pair of double doors into the lavender soaked haze of twilight.

"Harry," she whined, "tell me what you were going to ask."

"I don't know," I mumbled. "I spoke without thinking."

"No, no, no," Thorne argued, "you felt compelled to speak. I could tell."

Had I felt compelled? Maybe. I didn't know the right — the appropriate way — of saying it. Commuters passed us on their way home and Thorne stopped to greet a few of them by name.

"Harry," Thorne moaned, "the suspense is killing me."

I sighed. She wasn't going to let this go. "Fine."

"Actually, hang on a second. Let's go this way." Thorne led me down a dark alley on the far side of the street. Orange twilight slanted in. The bricks smoldered — a rich, dark chocolate.

"Right," she said. "You were saying?"

"You don't need to worry about it."

"Uh... what?"

Hoping she'd understand, I tapped my index finger against one of the stitches that ran through her nose, and with the same finger, tapped my temple.

I'm not afraid of you, I said with my eyes. You're like me.

Thorne's gaze softened. We stood in silence for a long moment. "Have you ever apparated before?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"You should prepare yourself. It's a bit of a trip. Put your hand on my shoulder, will you?"

Hesitantly, I reached up and grabbed her shoulder. Then, before I had a chance to react, before I knew what was happening, Thorne turned on her heel, and we vanished with a loud crack.

Ending Note:

[1] Beta'd by Jarizok.