Jareth returned to the Underground the day after Christmas. The day after that, her father flew out to Kansas for a Cereal Collector Convention. He returned before the New Year with a briefcase he kept nearby, but swore up and down he hadn't seen any limited edition boxes of Lucky Charms.

A few days after the New Year — which Sarah celebrated with her parents, champagne, and watching the Ball drop — she returned to Hogwarts with a Portkey.


Hogwarts seemed even more lively than it had before she left. Everywhere she turned, she saw smiling students greeting each other and their favored professors, lugging trunks around or dashing through halls to make sure gifts had been received. It was as if the break had given them all a chance to breathe.

Sarah watched the hustle and bustle with a smile. She hadn't really given it much thought, but she was glad to be back.

Even before she headed to her room to unpack, she stopped in by the Ravenclaw common room and dropped a few books onto the ever-growing book fort. She stared at the piles and piles of books. Honestly, it looked like the Ravenclaws were trying to set up their own version of the library.

After that, she headed back to her chambers and unpacked. She'd need Filius's help with the espresso machine and the grinder — she had no problems admitting that — but it would be nice to have really good coffee again.

Gurdie was waiting for her, eyes downcast, in the center of her front room.

Sarah dropped her bag and stared at the little house elf. "Hey, Gurdie. Is something wrong?"

"Mistress is not to be carrying her own bags!" The little house elf wailed. "Mistress is not to be unpacking! These are being house elf things to do!"

Sarah stared down at the little creature. "What?"

"And what is this?!" Gurdie pulled her french press from the bag she'd carried it in. The house elf made a noise of anguish. "It is for making coffee? Why has mistress never asked Gurdie for coffee? What a disgrace is Gurdie!"

"You're hardly a disgrace! I just... you're a house elf working in a boarding school in Wizarding Scotland. I didn't expect you to know how to make coffee!"

The agonized sobbing only grew louder. After a few moments, Gurdie got herself enough under control to sniff and say, with a touch of affronted dignity, "Professor Snape is always asking his house elf for coffee. And Madam Hooch, too."

"Then clearly that was my loss," Sarah said, pole-axed. Hogwarts had coffee drinkers? But why hadn't there ever been coffee at the breakfast table, then? "I... tell you what, Gurdie. Could you please make sure my french press always has coffee in it at the breakfast table from now on?"

Gurdie beamed. "Gurdie is having the kindest, best mistress. Now mistress must be going so Gurdie can unpack her things, yes?"

The little house elf's eyes narrowed.

Sarah decided, in defense of her eardrums, not to press her luck. So she stammered out a quick, "Yes. I... really should be going. Important, Hogwarts lecturer things to do."


Outside her room, she found Quirinus Quirrell being chased out his own door. Not by a wailing house elf, but by some sort of squawking.

"W-welcome b-b-b-back, Sarah."

"Glad to be back, Quirinus," she said. "What's that noise?"

"M-m-m-my suh-sneakoscope," he replied. "I t-think m-m-my brother heh-hexed it."

Sarah almost asked what a sneakoscope was, but then she'd have to listen to Quirrell talk.

"I.. I... I c-c-c-c-couldn't h-h-help buhbuhbuh-but overhear," Quirrell said. "D-did y-you just g-g-get bullied by your house elf?"

She looked back at her own door, then gave him a sheepish grin. "Looks like I did. They really know how to handle their humans, huh?"

"As w-well a s-slave race should," Quirrell said, a touch coldly.

Sarah stopped. "Slave race?"

"Y-you didn't know? T-they're en-en-enslaved by wizards."

And Sarah realized that she hadn't looked up their history yet. Jareth had all but told her to, and she'd — had other concerns, admittedly. But still.

Quirrell evidently saw her expression. He reached out and placed one cold, pale hand on her shoulder. She was strangely reminded of a crouching spider, but then he squeezed and gave her a warm smile. "It's a b-b-bit of a sh-shock, for Muggleborns. D-don't w-worry, they like it."

Yes. That made it so much better. (It didn't, in fact, and there was that damned word again.)

Sarah just gave him a wan smile and shrugged away.

Rather than actually do any sort of important Hogwarts lecturer things — did she even have any of those? — she headed out to the lake. The air had turned an even more biting, bitter cold, but she was thoroughly wrapped in warm robes, a sweater, and her winter coat. The black skirts of her robes trailed in the snow along the shore of the lake, but she didn't much care. It was only clothing; she could scourgify it if she needed to.

Slaves. Wizards owned slaves. She'd have to call and ask her father if the wizarding families in America — if the Williamses, her own wizarding family; god, it was so strange to think — owned house elves.


Sarah dressed as carefully for the first feast back as she had for the Sorting feast. She braided her hair into a crown and slipped shiny, pearl-tipped pins into her hair. She picked a silvery white winter robe with gray lace embroidery and a short train. She didn't bother with a cloak; instead, she hurried through the halls and shivered at the sudden rush of heat back into her fingers when she made it to the Great Hall.

Jareth was seated in an ornate — and, knowing him, most likely conjured — chair next to hers. He'd worn his white feathered cloak, but beneath the cloak was his deep blue armor. He'd crossed his legs and was resting his chin on one hand. His eyes were heavy-lidded, but his gaze on her was intent, piercing.

He didn't just see her. He saw into and through her.

Sarah made her way to her seat, watched as students filed in. After a few moments, she leaned in closer to Jareth.

Out of the corner of her mouth, she asked, "Here for moral support again?"

Jareth leaned toward her as well. "Perhaps I wished only to see you again. It has been a few days." His lips pressed against the outer shell of her ear, at the very tip, as he murmured, "I quite like that style on you."

She shivered, but didn't bother hiding the smile she felt curving over her mouth. Her face felt warm.

He threw his head back and laughed.

Rolanda looked at the two of them and raised an eyebrow.

Sarah deflected by asking, "So how was your holiday, Rolanda?"

"Aurora and I went back to Wales. Visited her folk and mine, you know," Rolanda said. "Wore stupid hats at Christmas dinner. Perfectly normal Christmas."

Cam laughed and took his seat, pouring himself a glass of wine. "Except for those five minutes everything was sheep. It being Wales, and all."

"I swear I'm beginning to think you followed me about with a Disillusionment charm on," Rolanda replied, tone dry.

"Can't have," Cam laughed. "I went oop north. The wife's from Innsmouth."

Sarah stared at him. Wasn't Innsmouth a fictional town in Massachusetts? For that matter, how much further north could a human being get and live?

Cam evidently saw her confusion. "Innsmouth's a very tiny little town — not quite wizard-only, but about as remote and mostly-wizard as Godric's Hollow — on one of Orkney's northern islands. Gracey's Orcadian."

"So not a devout follower of the Great Old Ones?" Sarah joked.

But Jareth's eyes sharpened on her. His mouth turned down. And some part of Sarah not only shivered in dread, but actually made her feel too nauseated to think of eating.

'Are they real?' she mouthed.

Jareth considered for a long, long moment before at last shaking his head. "Not as written. There are old gods, Sarah, but they predate only human history, not human thought or existence."

His words drew Rolanda's attention. She looked at them with a raised brow. After a moment, when Jareth and Sarah only watched her back, without explaining — how would one explain Lovecraft, anyway? Paranoid xenophobe invented a surprisingly chilling mythos that was rapidly picked up and expanded on by unrelated people? — Rolanda shrugged.

Dumbledore clapped his hands. Food appeared on golden plates. Wine and juice filled decanters. Sarah watched it appear and found herself frowning almost as deeply as Jareth. They shared a look.

Beneath the table, where none of the students could see, Sarah reached for Jareth's hand. Just as before, his skin was warmer than hers. She smiled for him, squeezed his hand, and turned back to the rest of the table.


The next day, Sarah swept into her classroom. This time she wore a cloak. It trailed and pooled on the castle's floor, but at least it was warm. She swung the door closed behind her, and smiled when her students all merely turned to look at her.

She made her way to her desk. "Welcome back, class. I trust everybody had a good Christmas vacation?"

Dutiful nods.

Witwicky raised his hand. "How do non-magical folk spend their Christmases?"

"Well, it probably depends a little bit on where they are." After a pause, Sarah said, "All right, class, I'm going to hand out your journals. I want a 'how I spent my Christmas vacation' entry by Friday — but sanitized so it could be safely shared with non-magical people."

She handed out journals — to Witwicky she also handed a basic text on linguistics — and grinned when a few of her students began to flip through them. There had been questions she couldn't answer, of course; she'd noted down that she hadn't known.

It hadn't felt as much like a threat to her authority as she thought it would. After all, admitting that wizards didn't and couldn't know everything was half of what she wanted this class to take away. They wouldn't find all the answers in their books and classes; they'd have to learn to look for answers themselves.

She let them read through for a few moments, before resting against her desk and saying, "Right, that's enough. I've got a very important announcement to make before we really dig into today's lesson."


Sarah leaned against her desk and told her afternoon class, "You're going to join with the morning class to put together an event. I've got a few options, but the point of the event is that it's something non-magical people your age do, and no part of it will involve the use of magic."

Half a dozen hands sprang into the air.

Sarah laughed.


"When's it going to be?" Colson asked.

"The event will happen on the First of May. I've already cleared that day with the headmaster."

"How long do we have to decide?"

"You have two weeks. I'll leave a basket on my desk, and everyone will write their vote down and put it in the basket."

"Can we change our votes?"

"No," Sarah replied, shaking her head. "Nott?"

"What are our options?"

"You can throw a bake sale, a sock hop, or a school dance. No music off wizarding radio if you throw a dance."


Evans raised her hand. "What kind of music can we have if we do the school dance?"

"Anything appropriate for children your age," Sarah said, dryly. "This is your party."

Carrick grinned. "Does this mean you'll have to play us music by non-magical folks in class so we can decide?"

Caught in a trap. Sarah gave her students a rueful grin. "Tell you what. If 'school dance' wins in two weeks, we'll play a tape by one artist in the background of every class while you decide your theme."


On Friday night, she stacked the journals that had been handed off to her on the desk in her room, then made her way down to Minerva's office.

Minerva-the-cat was waiting for her, curled up on the couch in her rather more spacious office — Sarah's was cramped, with only an arrow-slit window, and drafty. She only didn't mind because somebody had stuck panpipes in the walls, so the draft was often musical..

Sarah slid into one of the chairs opposite Minerva's couch. She crossed her legs at the ankle, folded her hands in her lap, and regarded the cat with polite interest.

"Good evening, Minerva," she said.

The little gray cat cracked one blue eye open, then stretched. After a moment, Minerva was sitting primly on her couch with an eyebrow raised.

"And how was your holiday?"

Sarah cracked a smile. "Well, my family knows, now. And how was yours?"

"Restful," Minerva said, softly. "Now, shall we begin?"

Sarah looked around and realized that she didn't see any essays. "Are we jumping straight into the practical for this one?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Minerva dropped a few matchsticks onto the glossy cherrywood that sat between them. "Please put your wand away."

"Wait, you want me to —"

"Yes. I have my suspicions about how you've picked up Transfiguration so easily. I'd like to see you attempt it wandless."

Sarah looked down at the matchsticks. They were simple wood, topped with red sulphur. Perfectly harmless. It wasn't as if they'd catch fire or explode if she did something wrong. And even if something went wrong, Minerva could handle it.

She nodded. "Do you... want them turned into needles?"

"Yes." Minerva's gaze turned steely, watchful.

"Then how do I...?"

"The primary difference is that you do not enact the change with your wand. You may need a gesture, at first, or physical contact. But you are the conduit for the enacted spell, do you understand?"

Sarah looked down at the matchsticks. She visualized each step of the transfiguration, then took a deep breath, and silently insisted to the universe that those steps had happened.

The transfiguration didn't work. She turned the matchsticks silver and pointy, but their match heads remained, and they were far too thick and square to be needles.

"A good start," Minerva said. "Now, I want you to remind yourself of... whatever it is you're thinking when you perform more advanced transfigurations."

Sarah looked down. She took in a deep breath, reminding herself that just because those were clearly silver matchsticks didn't mean they couldn't be needles. Take nothing for granted. Anything could be something else.

After a moment, the matchsticks thinned down, and their little red tips vanished.

Minerva nodded. "As I thought."

"What?"

"Your skill at transfiguration depends on your outlook. When trying to do a purely human transfiguration, you're slower." Minerva's mouth pursed into a frown. "Sarah, little as I like the thought of you... wandering about with inhuman thoughts in your head, it may be necessary for your safety."

"My safety?"

"The War, Sarah. Albus doesn't believe it's over, and I've rarely known him to be wrong." Minerva's mouth quirked into a bitter smile. "And outside of Hogwarts, wizarding life isn't quite as safe as you might believe."

"You think that I should learn to do this... fast, wandless transfiguration as some kind of self-defense skill?"

Minerva only levitated a jar toward them. She dropped four beetles onto the table. They immediately began to crawl around. "Buttons," she said, pointing.

Sarah concentrated.


She returned to her rooms mentally exhausted. She hadn't expected wandless magic to be so draining. Maybe she should have. Unlike most wizarding children, she'd never performed wandless magic —

Unless she counted calling on the Goblin King at fifteen. Had that been a magical act? What about that long moment as his world and his Escher staircase streamed past her, that final simultaneous sensation of soaring and falling before she'd scooped Toby up in her arms?

Even if it was or it wasn't, she was still pretty sure the human mind wasn't meant to walk around viewing the entire world as changeable, existing in its present state only because she permitted it to do so. If that was how Jareth saw things, it certainly explained his ego.

Gurdie had left a cup of coffee on her desk, next to the stack of journals.

Sarah picked it up, sat down, and smiled. She didn't often drink coffee black — she preferred to add a dollop of chocolate syrup and a little cream — but Gurdie's was... really good.

She set the cup back on the desk and buried her head in her hands. She'd thought the Labyrinth had taught her to take nothing for granted — but it had never occurred to her that whatever had laundered her clothes, tidied her rooms, and prepared the school meals would be a small, nearly invisible army of slaves. Did the children know? Was it ever explained to them?

How did you explain that you were relying on slave labor? And how did anybody excuse it as "perfectly okay because they liked it?"

And if her place of employment relied on slave labor — where she'd signed a contract saying she would work until she'd passed the OWLS — then what was the ethical thing to do?


Saturday didn't so much dawn as rain down, gray and cold. Sarah rolled out of bed and tugged aside her curtains only to see a smoke-dark sky and the grounds being busily pounded to mud.

Gurdie had a cup of coffee waiting on her desk.


When Sarah had read the journals from her morning class, she shoved the rest away. She hadn't been able to bring herself to touch the coffee. The cup was still warm and still wafted up white steam; she wondered if that would do anything to the flavor.

She sighed and pushed her hair back from her face, tying it in a ponytail as she left her rooms. The stone corridors were no warmer than they had been earlier in winter as she made her way to the library. She was going to have to learn a warming charm, at some point — or just start wearing really thick cloaks and gloves every time she moved around the castle.

Irma Pince raised an eyebrow as Sarah pushed the library door open. Sarah headed straight for the histories and began checking for goblin histories that wouldn't be gruesome blow-by-blows of the Goblin Wars — which far outnumbered any other kind of goblin history wizards wrote.

She found only two. Sarah was pretty sure they were the dustiest volumes in the history section. Their covers had faded with age and Sarah had to disentangle them from cobwebs when she pulled them away from the shelf.

"These won't mention the Goblin King," Irma said, gaze neutral and tone studiously bored when Sarah checked them out.

Sarah gave her a wry smile. "Does anything?"

Irma thought for a moment. Her thin, pinched expression turned calculating as she hunted down information. After a brief silence, she said, slowly, "No, I don't think so."

Good. The fewer instruction manuals on how to wish children away, the better, as far as Sarah was concerned.


Sarah curled up in her bed and paged through her dusty books. The newer book was almost useless; it was a list of goblin tribes and what they were known for. Evidently Gringott was a tribe — the tribe of gold — as well as the founder of the goblin bank. That was the only remotely useful scrap of information it contained.

The second book had uneven print, too human to have come from a printing press. In fact, it looked almost like an illuminated manuscript. There were even little miniature illustrations of goblins and their weapons.

Just as Pince had warned, neither book contained any reference to a Goblin King. Neither contained any reference to an Underground, either. According to the illuminated book, the goblins sprang up as "love of silver and love of iron given shape — they are steel made flesh."

No mention of house elves. House elves, evidently, were not steel made flesh. Or perhaps they weren't enough of a threat.

After another half hour's fruitless search through the books, Sarah set them aside. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of her bed, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. It didn't really make her feel more awake or readier to deal with this.

Jareth had told her to research their history. They had to be mentioned somewhere —

Probably in more exhaustive histories than she would have bought. So they wouldn't be in the Ravenclaw common room and probably not the school library.


Sarah bundled up in her warmest clothes, several scarves, and her ridiculous hat before she headed out of the castle. She pulled on her gloves before leaving her chambers.

Once again, she ran into Quirinus Quirrell in the hall.

He smiled at her. "S-Sarah! I, uh, had a k-k-k-question for you!"

Sarah nodded and put on a patient smile. "Yes?"

"Rolanda and A-A-Aurora ar-ar-are ha-aving d-d-d-drinks in H-Hogsme-eade." He paused, his mouth working soundlessly and eyes wide, as if his face were caught in a loop, before, in a rush, he added, "and I w-w-w-was w-w-wondering if y-you w-w-would j-j-j-j-join m-me in j-joining t-them?"

Her smile threatened to drain away. She pasted it back up and said, "Well, if you mean like a double date, then I'm sorry. I'm seeing someone else."

After a few awkward moments trading even more awkward apologies, they went their separate ways. And yet there was a calculating glint in Quirrell's eyes that left her faintly unnerved even as she made her way out of the castle.

In the entrance hall, Sarah took a deep breath and resolved to set her other thoughts aside. She headed for the great doors, unfurled her umbrella and stepped out onto the muddy path.

Considering it could support a giant squid, the lake was too warm and had too much of a current to really freeze over. The less-disturbed shallows had a thin layer of ice caked over them; the rain pounded down against it, droplets ricocheting every which way. Despite all the mud and rain, a scattering of snow — stubbornly clinging to its present shape, apparently — dusted the shore and crunched under her shoes.

Sarah stood on the shore, looking out at the dark water and the rain ripples off in the distance.

"Jareth," she said.

At first, he didn't answer. She stood by the lake and waited, let the rain pound down against her umbrella.

And then, when he hadn't been before, he was standing on the shore. Not just the shore: he stood with one foot on the grass and one foot on the ice. Straddling a border. Hadn't they arrived on a bridge, when Toby had wished for her?

The rain didn't touch him. It seemed to bounce off him without leaving him at all wet.

Jareth tilted his head back to look up at the sky, then looked back to her. He raised an eyebrow. "Care to explain, precious thing?"

"I wanted to see you," she said. "And I wanted to ask about the house elves."

That drew a laugh from him. It was a deep, space-taking, belly laugh that left her feeling warm. "I take it Gurdie has intimidated you into compliance, then? The Champion of the Labyrinth, afraid of her own house elf."

He strode forward at that, ducking in under her umbrella. "Then let us talk about house elves."

"What are they, really? How were they enslaved?"

"The first of them were once human," Jareth said simply. His lifted one of his hands, using it to cover the hand holding onto the umbrella. Even through his gloves and hers, his skin was warm. "They had no memory of their prior lives — it's easier for all concerned if they forget, just as they're forgotten — but something about human households... echoed inside them, I suppose you would say."

"So, what, they decided they would be slaves to humans, if that meant they could stay near them?"

"Yes and no, precious thing. They decided any price was worth paying. And the wizards offered a contract." Jareth frowned. "So long as their Ministry holds human wizards superior to all non-human thaumaturgists, house elves will be slaves."

And the Ministry, Sarah could well guess, would make sure humans were superior for as long as it possibly could. Her stomach churned.

"Can a house elf be set free?"

"I don't recommend trying. The fool creatures are devoted. They've convinced themselves they need humans to serve."

Sarah stopped walking. Jareth stopped with her. He tilted his head at an angle that, yet again, would have looked more natural on an owl.

"Sarah? Precious thing, what mischief are you plotting?"

"Nothing," she said slyly. "But what if you set a Gringotts account aside for their wages?"

"They're slaves," he replied, tone flat.

"But someday, they won't be. I'm going to make very sure of that. And they'll be deserving back pay."

"And who will pay these wages? How will you tally what was earned? It's a kind thought, Sarah, but —"

"For Gurdie at least. I can't benefit from slave labor, Jareth. It's completely wrong."

"Gurdie may not live to see freedom. Wizards are not changeable creatures."

Sarah looked up at him and set her jaw. "Then for her descendants. I insist."

Jareth shook his head, but dropped his grip on the umbrella — she accidentally lowered it, nearly smacking him in the head — before he pulled her close with one arm and placed a kiss against the top of her head. "Stubborn, precious, exhausting woman."

"You wouldn't have me any other way." She felt a slow, sly smile spread across her mouth.

He made an elegantly disgruntled noise, but said, "No. I would never change you or your restless heart."

They made their way back up to the castle. Just as the day they'd walked to Hogsmeade, Jareth's boots seemed to repel mud. Sarah wondered if maybe the man she was walking beside was a glamor, but she'd felt him, she'd slept with her head against his shoulder and felt the heat of his mouth.

They hadn't quite gained the castle doors when Jareth said, "I leave telling Gurdie of this vault entirely in your hands, Sarah."

Of course. She breathed a long-suffering sigh, but she found herself smiling at the way the corner of Jareth's lip twitched up.


Jareth conjured a chair at dinner that night. Behind the table, where the children couldn't see, he would occasionally brush his hand over hers.

Every so often, Quirrell would look over at them. Jareth seemed to make it a point to look back — he matched Quirrell gaze for gaze. Never once did he seem apologetic or cowed.

"Alright," Sarah said, after they had spent a particularly long moment staring at each other, "that's enough. The silent pissing match is over now."

Jareth's brow drew down. "You think I am in some sort of competition with that mortal?"

Sarah bit down on the response that she knew a wordless dick-measuring contest when she saw one. The thing was, Jareth probably believed that he wasn't in any sort of competition — instead, he'd see Quirrell's stare as either denunciation (and one did not denounce a king) or an attempt at confrontation (and a king did not back down from confrontation).

So instead, she said, "I think Quirrell just found out I'm not single, and I think you need to calm down. He's not hurting us by... whatever it is he thinks he's doing."

Rolanda, who had given no sign whatever of noticing the interplay between Jareth and Quirrell, threw back her head and laughed. "I knew something was different about you two."

Aurora Sinistra looked over at them all with an indulgent smile.

"Congratulations, you are approximately as perceptive as any other mortal," Jareth groused.

"And more perceptive," Snape drawled from his edge of the table, with a flicking glance toward poor Quirrell, "than Quirinus. Though I don't believe that's quite so difficult as Quirinus would like."

"Bullying again, Severus?" Minerva's tone was mild, completely free of reproach, but she turned her blue, blue eyes on the Potions Master, who looked away from them all.

He clearly remembered, just as well as Sarah and Minerva, that he'd been caught inventing rules specifically to inconvenience a particular student.


Classes passed by in a seeming blur. The day of the vote came — it was, as every other day had been since January, she could have sworn, rainy.

"Everybody have their votes in?" She asked her afternoon class while grey water pelted the windows. Sarah looked toward the leaded glass and had the unsettling feeling that the next time she saw sunlight, it would mean the school year was over and she would be bidding her students farewell.

Her students all nodded dutifully.

"Alright. Then we have..." She dumped the cauldron out, scattering scraps of paper all over her desk, and began counting. "Okay, four for bake sale. Eight for sock hop... which leaves, yes, my math isn't wrong. Twelve votes for school dance."

Sarah laughed as a few of her students cheered. She held up a hand, and they quieted enough for her to say, "All right. We'll have music in our classes so you can all decide on a theme. Those of you who want to take a leading role in organizing, talk to me after hours."


Sarah had expected Constantia Evans to want a lead role, but Evans slipped out the door. Persephone Greengrass and Ryan Carrick, however, stepped forward. Sarah nodded and smiled and wrote their names down.

She had the feeling she'd hear from Pollux Nott during the next class.


On Twenty-Third January, Sarah woke to yet another drizzly morning. She stared at herself in the mirror as she dressed. For once it wasn't just to wonder whose nose, whose cheekbones she'd inherited — both her parents were dark-haired and light eyed; her brown hair and green eyes could have come from either side — but to see if she actually looked any older.

She was twenty-two today, after all.

But there was no change. She didn't even really feel any older. So she didn't bother mentioning it to Gurdie. She didn't think Jareth knew when her birthday was, and even if he did, she doubted he attached much significance to birthdays. After all, he was at least a thousand or so years old; after a while, they'd all blur together, wouldn't they?

Because it was her birthday, she spent most of the day working on the idea she'd had the previous semester. The first step, of course, would be to identify the historical role of the witch in wizarding society. Wizarding culture seemed relatively egalitarian now, but why hadn't she seen or heard of contraceptive spells? Were married witches expected to work inside the home? What were the sexual assault statistics? Did they even tally those? Was there a wage discrepancy similar to the one in the non-magical world?

It all made for a very fascinating question, though Sarah hadn't actually answered any of them before it was time to head down to the village and call home.


In the weeks leading up to Valentine's Day, Sarah found herself playing Billy Idol, Queen, Nirvana, The Pogues, Michael Jackson, and, of course, David Bowie. Her students seemed to enjoy Idol, Cobain, and Bowie; she made a mental note of that as she sketched out ideas for the themes she'd offer the students.

Pollux Nott never asked for further involvement. But then, according to Greengrass, he was focused on becoming Seeker for the Slytherin team — Terrence Higgs was seventeen and would need replacing next year.

And, in her spare moments — when she wasn't trying to figure out one bought for the King who could conjure anything — Sarah tracked down statistics and lists of influential witches.


She was busy copying down figures from one dusty tome — Criminal Charges & Convictions 1988 - 1989 — when Hermione scurried into her office. Harry and Ron slunk in after.

"Hey, you three," Sarah said. She put her pen back in the LMH mug filled with them, then used her notebook as a bookmark and closed the text. "Is something the matter?"

Hermione looked at the boys, who looked at each other. Harry didn't seem able to form words; he was pale and his hands had clenched into fists. Sarah suspected he was only a few steps from outright panic.

Ron said, "Snape is going to referee Harry's next match!"

They all stared at her expectantly.

"I can see why that might worry you," Sarah hedged. "But even if he tried to kill Harry during the last game — and I don't think he did — he's not about to try to kill Harry when he's the referee."

Harry had apparently not been panicking. Instead, he'd been building up steam: a frustrated noise seemed to propel itself from his throat, and words exploded out of him in a rush.

"But it's not like he'd even be a fair referee!"

That, Sarah reflected, was absolutely true. And frankly, the fact that Harry was even seriously considering the idea that Snape would try to kill him didn't speak well of Snape. Or the way this school ran things.

She sighed. "Alright. I'll talk to Minerva, see if I can get her to talk to Dumbledore. But I'm only a lecturer, so I can't promise you anything."

"But —"

Sarah held up a hand. "I'm not about to lie to you to make you feel better, Harry. They might not listen to me. Professor Snape isn't breaking or making up any rules, so this won't be as clear cut as getting your book back."

Harry gave her a serious nod. Sarah hoped he could respect that she wasn't willing to lie to him. He still clearly had issues trusting the adults in his life; she hoped, at least, to be someone he could trust. And not only because she'd promised Jareth to keep an eye on him.

"Anything else on your minds?"

"We think we know what Fluffy's —"

"Hermione!" Ron hissed. "What if she's —"

But Harry looked at her for a long moment. His green eyes seemed to glint with something as he thought; Sarah wondered if she'd ever looked that way as a child. She suspect she hadn't until the Labyrinth.

"No," he said at last, "I think we can tell her. It's the Philosopher's Stone."

That startled her. Sarah was glad she was already sitting; her knees felt weak and unable to support her.

"The Holy Grail of historical alchemy? Turns lead into gold?" She asked. "Grants eternal life? That Philosopher's stone?"

The trio nodded.

Sarah just stared at them. "I almost can't believe it's real. But of course it would be. Three-headed dogs are real. Goblins can run banks. Why not a stone that turns lead to gold?"

Ron stared at her like she was crazy. In a prosaic tone, he asked, "What's so weird about goblins running banks?"


She brought her concerns up with Minerva during their lesson that evening, after asking about flooing into Edinburgh.

"Oh, I know he won't be fair," Minerva told her. There was an edge to her voice that made Sarah suspect she was even less pleased with the idea than Harry was. "But Albus himself has chosen to allow it. Trust me when I say he has his reasons."

"That's not going to be much comfort to Harry."

"In this case," Minerva said, in a tone that permitted no further argument, "Potter's feelings are his concern, not the staff's. He is an excellent Seeker; I am sure that even disadvantaged, he will secure a win for Gryffindor."

Rather than reply, Sarah focused on her beetles. It wasn't as easy to turn them into buttons when they were crawling around everywhere.


Valentine's Day was the first break in the clouds she'd seen since early January. It dawned bleak and gray, with light as weak as rainwater, but Sarah noted the absence of dark clouds as she scrubbed her face and tied her hair up.

She grabbed yet another pair of white robes — a wintry shade of white, given the season, but these at least were thicker and heavier. The robe was lined and bordered with burgundy and a lace-encrusted train. With the addition of a cloak and white scarves, Sarah suspected only the burgundy embroidery on her sleeves and her train would be visible.

She made her way down to the Great Hall for breakfast. She stopped on the staff table's dais.

Someone had left an envelope in front of her chair. Her chair had not only sprouted leaves and slim, short branches, but fruit — full sized fruit; the Goblin King never did anything by halves — was hanging from it.

Peaches. They hung, fat and juicy, from the branches. A gift? A taunt? She couldn't tell, but they filled the air around the table with their scent.

Sarah took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and strode forward. She felt her skirts flare around her despite the way the heavy train dragged; her sleeves and cloak billowed as she moved. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the letter.

She used one of the table knives to break the wax seal — purple wax, not red — and then withdrew vellum parchment from the envelope.

It was in the same, spidery, elegant hand, but though there were more flourishes, the spelling and capitalization were more modern.

A gift for you, precious thing. No dreams this time — you have my Word.

J Rex

So the peaches were safe.

Sarah reached out for one. The fuzz of it was soft against her palm. She tested the peach with her thumb and tried not to figure out how he'd done it. Was this transfiguration? Had he planted the seeds some other time, and charmed them into bearing fruit out of season? Were they conjured?

Or was this some piece of Underground magic she would never be able to duplicate or understand?

She bit into the peach and had to close her eyes. The sudden explosion of taste was almost dizzying. She just barely grabbed a napkin in time to keep juice from dripping down her chin.


Sarah played Let's Dance all through her classes that day. Greengrass and Carrick got into a lively argument over whether they wanted an 80's glam rock themed dance — Greengrass was in support; Sarah found herself wondering if she had been one of the Slytherin girls unduly influenced — or an 80's punk themed dance.

"Why not," Sarah said, when the argument had worn her patience thin, "an Awesome Eighties dance? You can put up posters of glam and punk rock stars as examples."

"Glam and punk," Carrick asked, furrowing his brow like, for all the world, some of the music snobs she'd known in high school. As if mixing glam and punk was some sort of musical crime. (She'd have considered calling it a sartorial crime, but Jareth mixed the glam aesthetic with baroque fashions and armor, and it worked.)

Sarah rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Trust me. Glam's more flexible than you think."


Her chair still had peaches growing all over it. Evidently no one had touched them since breakfast. Jareth wasn't there, so Sarah stayed at dinner only long enough to eat. She picked and handed out a few peaches.

After that, she picked the rest, carrying them in a fold of her cloak, and hurried back to her room.

She dumped the peaches into a bowl, which she left in her front room, then took a quick bath and changed clothes. It was one of the few formal dresses she had left from her non-witchly life, packed away in one of her garment bags — black, floor length, its lower half spangled with silver beadwork.

She didn't have a pair of opera gloves. Hopefully this concert wouldn't be quite that formal.

Once she had her hair pinned up, she grabbed her sensible coat and placed her hand on her mirror.

"Jareth," she said. "I need you."

Jareth stepped through the mirror without hesitation. He seemed to be dressed casually, but he tilted his head as he looked at her. He tilted his head even further, at an owl-like angle, and then lifted one brow in a sardonic arch.

"Are we going somewhere?" His mouth quirked up.

"Well, if you'd rather we stayed in and ate peaches, we can. But Bryn Terfel is performing some obscure lieder in Edinburgh."

"And do you plan to ride a broomstick there?"

"I... planned to Floo? You know I've never flown on a broomstick."

"If you plan to stay in this world for long, you ought to learn." But Jareth gave her his toothy smile. It was friendlier than usual; his eyes glinted merrily. "But come. Take my hand, and we shall go to Edinburgh."

"You don't Floo, I take it?"

"No," he said, "and humans are fools to bother with it. Dirty, full of spinning, and the fire tastes strange. Take my hand, Sarah, and travel my way."

Sarah reached out for him. Their fingers touched. The heat of him spread over her, washing in first from her hand and along her arm, then into her heart, where it seemed radiate through her with her pulse. The world was a dizzying array of sensations: she tasted the frost on the air, could hear the smell of cloves, could see the throbbing beat of what she suspected was Jareth's heart.

And then they were standing on a well-lit street in the early dark of winter. Sarah looked around and saw street signs she didn't recognize, buildings that seemed almost as cramped as London. People moved past them in hats and thick coats, scarves wrapped around their faces and necks.

It was snowing.

Sarah took a deep breath of air so cold it felt sharp in her mouth, then let it out in a huge silvery cloud. Jareth's breath fogged even fiercer than hers did; after a moment, even his inhuman sensibilities apparently conceded to the weather and he dressed himself in a black woollen coat.

"Well, shall we find this concert hall?"

They made their way through the streets, snow turning her hair and the rest of her dress into a starfield of dark and light. Though he seemed — of course — impervious to the cold, snowflakes stuck to him and stayed, flecking his black coat with white but blending into his hair.

The concert hall turned out to be a cramped and yet beautiful square building made of limestone, with a copper cello on the facade. The cello was so tarnished that though it must have once been brassy and gold, it now looked green. The auditorium's outer walls had been lit up, making it a green-gold glow in the darkness, and against the city lights she could just barely make out the concert hall's name.

Once inside, she handed over their tickets to the usher and tried not to gawk too obviously at how gorgeous the building was inside and out. She'd managed to land tickets for, if not the best seats in the house, the best section.


The stage lights went up. The house lights dimmed. Sarah watched with interest as the musicians took their places. A man who must have been Terfel strode onto the stage, young and stocky, hair haloed by the stage lights.

He smiled at them all, thanked them for attending. He was older than than she was, but he still seemed young, almost unsure of himself, as he gave a brief history of Louis Spohr — born Ludwig — and his work. His speaking voice was pleasant, but Sarah wasn't ready to be impressed yet.

And then he began to sing.

Whether Sarah had been impressed or not ceased to matter. The sheer beauty of his voice made the sweet swell of the violin accompaniment almost meaningless.

It was like being immersed in sound. She felt almost as if she barely had time to breathe.

It took her several minutes to wonder what Jareth might think of this. When she finally looked over to Jareth, he had leaned forward in his seat, eyes intent on the singer.


For the last set, the other musicians walked off the stage — leaving only Terfel, a single violinist, and the pianist. Terfel smiled at them all, though his demeanor seemed more grave. Sarah got the feeling, from the way he timed his breaths and the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, that he was readying himself for something.

"This last set," he said, almost casually, almost conversationally, "is my favorite of the sets we've been planning. Thank you for joining us, and thank you for listening."

Without further ado, the violinist and pianist launched into the next song. Sarah looked at the program, and saw Sechs Lieder für Bariton, Violin und Klavier, Op. 154. She turned to look at Jareth. He turned to look back at her, then tilted his head at an owl-like angle.

His eyes widened for a moment, but then Terfel began to sing.

Sarah closed her eyes, listening raptly. That voice could make the rest of the world almost not matter.

Three other songs passed by her — passed by them both — but on the fourth, Jareth seemed to jerk out of the trance.

Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht? the baritone sang, and Sarah shuddered. There was a translation in the program notes somewhere, but as she dug for it, Jareth gripped her arm, stilling her movements.

The song continued, varying between three parts, that she could hear. But she was sure she wasn't grasping the story. It didn't seem to matter; it was beautiful enough simply to listen. Still, as Terfel continued on, she felt chills begin to run up and down her spine.

Something strange — the Labyrinth kind of strange, the Goblin King kind of strange — was happening. She could have sworn that underneath the sounds of violin and piano, she heard the wind whispering through dry, dead leaves. The chill in her spine sank and spread into her bones. By the time Terfel sang In seinen Armen das Kind war tot, Sarah was shaking.

The next two songs only provided a brief respite. By the time the concert was over and they were all standing to clap, the chill had returned. She clung to Jareth's arm as they left, feeling light-headed and wanting nothing more than to be back at Hogwarts, or better yet, at her parents' house in America.

The audience members clustered into groups in the lobby. Jareth began to steer them out the door, and Sarah was glad to go. An auburn-haired man in a suit and tie stepped into their way for a moment. He was holding the hand of a boy with blond curls and wide green eyes.

She noted brown and gold patterns on his black vest, an antler-shaped tie clip. But Jareth didn't deign to notice him, and the man murmured something in a language she didn't speak. She looked back as they left, and saw that the man had almond-shaped eyes, the same color as Jareth's. He had Jareth's nose, too, but slightly darker skin — no resemblance to the boy clinging to him.

She didn't quite put the pieces together until she saw the crowd gathered around a boy with blond ringlets. A woman held the boy's head in her lap and sobbed.

She turned to Jareth. "Did we pass the actual Erlkoenig?"

"My father, yes," Jareth looked out on the scene. A man in a suit was now crouched by the woman's side, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. "He's much older than that simple legend, but it's a convenient shorthand."

"The Erlkoenig is your father? Why didn't you stop and talk —"

"He was here on business," Jareth said. "And don't go off about my making decisions for you, Sarah; not only is he dangerous to you, he's not nearly so friendly as I am."

Considering that Jareth had once set the Cleaners on her for saying his Labyrinth was easy, Sarah didn't want to think about what the Erlkoenig would do if she tried to rescue that boy. Still, she couldn't just ignore what she saw.

"Can I bargain with him? To give the boy back?" Or failing that, could she take the boy back?

"The boy is dead," Jareth said. His tone was bleak. "I like his business as little as you, precious thing, but done is done, and gone is gone."

They walked away in the snow, and gradually, the heat of him passed to her. She watched as snowflakes fell, white in the air, but melting the moment they touched her. And then they were standing at the threshold between her sitting room and bedroom, both pushed in too close together.

She sighed a little, then looked up at him. He was looking back down at her with an amused smile curving along his mouth. "I'm sorry, I had no idea your father would be there. Please tell me you at least enjoyed the music."

Jareth merely quirked an eyebrow before he cupped her cheek. He bent down just slightly — she stretched up onto her toes — and he whispered against her lips, "Every song, precious thing."

His mouth was soft against hers. She reached up to cup the smooth skin of his cheek, gently opening her mouth to him. He obliged her, pressing his tongue into her mouth while she let go of his cheek so she could throw her arms around his neck.

He pulled away from the kiss after a moment. His tone was smug as he murmured, "You've been eating my peaches, precious."

"You promised they were safe."

Jareth shook his head. "No, I promised you wouldn't hallucinate. I gave you no assurance of safety. You... trusted me that much?"

"I did," she said.

He gave her a crooked smile, but vanished. Sarah looked longingly at the mirror, wondering if she could call him back. But done was done, and gone was gone.


It was as if Valentine's Day had marked some meteorological turning point. The clouds began to dissipate, although the mist didn't always. She liked to look out the windows at noon, at the dazzling glitter of bright sunlight burning away the droplets that seemed suspended in the air. It left everything with a sort of glow and reminded her, however faintly, of the Labyrinth.

The day of the quidditch match Harry feared started out surprisingly bright and only looked as though it would grow brighter.

Sarah awoke at seven, braided her hair, and dressed in the same sensible robes she'd worn on the students' first trip to Hogsmeade. This set had become a bunch of 'mud clothes' in her mind. She tried to dress them up a bit with a nice cloak — one that wouldn't pool into a train — and headed out.

Quirrell stood waiting for someone at the alcove between their little neighborhood and the stairs.

He looked up as she approached. The smile he gave her was bright, though he fidgeted as if shy.

"S-s-sarah," he said, wringing his hands in a jerky motion.

She curved her lips into a patient smile that didn't show teeth; hopefully he'd get the hint. She tried to add a touch of frost to her tone when she said, "Professor Quirrell."

"Are y-y-you g-g-go-ing t-to the k-k-k-Quidi-itch m-match?" His eyes were alight with something, and despite their color, Sarah was reminded of a happy, beetle-eyed spaniel.

She had a feeling she knew what the next question would be. Plenty of men and a few women had found ways to ask it (or its many variations) from her junior year of high school.

"I am," Sarah said. "I'd planned to stand with His Majesty and a few students, but you're certainly welcome to join us."

"Ah," Quirrell said. His lips moved soundlessly for a few moments before he managed, "Nuh-nuh-No, I d-d-don't th-thi-nk that w-w-would do. I'm-m-m-m," he stopped again until he could add, softly, "s-sorry."

Sarah gave a cheerful wave. "Then I might see you at the match."

With that, she continued down the main stair. Once again, Jareth was waiting for her. Today he'd worn his red and black armor. She couldn't help but smile.

"You know, I find myself wondering," she said as she took his arm, "just what you did during Quidditch matches before I came here. Did you have such stellar attendance to all the Gryffindor matches?"

"And a good day to you, too," Jareth said, but he was smirking. "Go ahead and add that to your list of Goblin King mysteries, precious thing. Until you and young Harry were here, I spent most of my time in Hogwarts' halls unseen by all but the shape-changers and the Headmaster."

Sarah opened her mouth to ask more questions, but Hermione and Ron came pelting down the stairs. She smiled at them.

"Jareth? Lecturer Will — uh, Sarah? Are you standing with us?" Ron asked. His expression turned hopeful.

She looked to Jareth. Jareth looked at her. Their eyes met.

Jareth raised an eyebrow and offered his arm to Sarah. He didn't answer Ron until they were arm-in-arm. And then, he added with an air of both distance and fondness, "It would seem that we are."

They followed the students out the Great Hall and down the muddy path to the Quidditch pitch. Once again, Jareth's boots and clothes seemed to repel mud. Hers ended up spattered, both from her own slogging along the path and from the mud that squelched up after the students' shoes.

She was glad once she and the students had made it to the rickety, wind-blown stairs. Yet again, Jareth managed to keep her on his arm as they ascended. And yet again, she settled onto the stands in a pack of Gryffindors, close to Hermione and Ron.

"We ought to keep an eye on Snape," Ron said, just loudly enough for her to hear.

Jareth raised both brows. "You don't think the rest of the stands will do so? In my experience, the referee is often as closely watched as the players."

Sarah tried to restrain a chuckle. It came out anyway as an inelegant snort. "Yeah, god forbid the ref miss a foul."

"He tried to kill Harry. What if he tries —"

"When he's down on the field, refereeing? Where anyone can see him try? I don't think so." Sarah shook her head. "And besides, we've never proven that he has any reason to want Harry dead."

"Are you kidding? He hates Harry!"

"He hates Longbottom more," Sarah pointed out, as quietly as she could. "Has Snape tried to kill him?"

Ron squirmed, but didn't answer. Hermione looked thoughtful.

"If anything, I expect he's trying to protect Harry," Sarah said. "After all, the whole staff knows that Snape hates him. If Harry gets hurt or dies and Snape is anywhere near him at the time, he knows who we'll all turn to."

"You don't think that's the only reason," Jareth said, too quiet for Ron or Hermione to hear, as the players strode onto the field.

"No," Sarah admitted. (The team captains shook hands.) "But it's probably the only kind of reasoning Ron will listen to."

Snape, looking particularly grim and unhappy, blew the whistle. The players launched themselves on their brooms, and Snape tossed the Quaffle up — one of the Hufflepuff Chasers caught it — and kicked open the chest.

The game began in earnest just a few moments later. As he had before, Harry drifted above the game, circling. Jareth tilted his head back to watch him, and Ron was watching Snape closely, so Sarah tried to take in the game.

She hadn't thought it would be — after all, there were only six other players on each team — but keeping track of a whole game was hard. Maybe it was because they could move in three directions. As it was, the Chasers were like a flying wolf-pack, or maybe a trio of lionesses on the hunt; they flew across the field in concert, while the Beaters seemed to careen around completely randomly.

At least Keepers didn't move much. How, exactly, the boy running commentary kept track of it all was beyond Sarah. It was the visual form of cacophony.

About ten minutes and two goals in, Snape awarded Hufflepuff a penalty shot.

"Ron," Sarah said, this time loud enough for Ron to hear. "Nobody's fouled, right?"

"I don't think he's been watching the game!" Ron shouted back.

Somebody laughed unkindly. Sarah turned to see Constantia Evans's weaselly little cousin, the pointy-faced blond boy.

"Draco Malfoy, wasn't it? Something funny about your Head of House cheating?"

"It's not cheating," Draco sniffed, "if he's the referee."

Jareth's hand sought hers. Once again, his skin was fever-warm. Sarah sighed and turned back to the game. She hadn't really formed too many low opinions of the Hogwarts students, but she was pretty sure Malfoy was an obnoxious little snot. She only hoped he didn't stay that way.

In an impressive bout of acrobatics from the hunting, flying wolf-pack, Gryffindor scored two more goals.

Snape, in an impressive show of apathy or possibly hatred of his life — Sarah couldn't really see his expression, but the downturned curve of his mouth was even grimmer than before — awarded Hufflepuff another penalty shot for no apparent reason.

And then Jareth squeezed her hand. She recognized the signal for what it was: a sign to look at Harry. He'd gone into another of his spectacular dives, the nose of his broom pointed almost straight down. Even from a distance, she swore she could see his hands flex on the broomstick as he plummeted. Once again, near the ground, he swung on his broom and flung his hand out.

He was maybe a foot away from the green when he scooped up something shiny and golden.

"One hundred fifty points to Gryffindor," the commentator shouted.

That, apparently, put Gryffindor in the lead for the House Cup. Sarah watched with amusement as the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors cheered. Not even the Hufflepɵffs seemed to mind losing — not when it was clear the referee had been unfairly favoring them. In fact, only the Slytherins seemed particularly put out.

"Cheaters," Sarah pointed out to Malfoy as they filed down the rickety steps, "never prosper for long."

The boy snorted but made no other reply.

The students in red seemed to be congregating on the field, so Sarah grabbed Jareth by the hand and dragged him back inside.


They ate in her room again that night. The meal seemed almost lazy, lit by oil lamps and floating candles.

After they'd finished eating, and thus once she'd begun her second glass of wine, Sarah asked, "So your father is the Erlkoenig?"

"He's much older than that idea, but it... encompasses him, for now. He's embraced it, I suppose you could say." Jareth gave her a crooked, darkly amused smile. "He wasn't always. Once, when a tribe woke in the morning to find a child had died in the night, everyone knew the Old White Bear had stolen his breath."

She tried to imagine the auburn-haired man she'd met as an old polar bear, and couldn't. From the color of his hair to the colors he'd worn, he had seemed a creature of autumn, not winter.

"And then the true winter came, and my father loved her. Her cold helped him, you see; their breath steamed in it, and he made the steam stop. All her white stars in the black sky, endless above the white plains — she was beautiful." Jareth's gaze turned remote, as if he had turned back time in his thoughts. He seemed to be drifting away, fading, and it almost frightened her.

So she said, "Jareth. Are you talking about... about Cro-Magnon people? Your father is that old?"

He seemed to snap back into focus. His gaze sharpened on her, as mad and mismatched as usual. She smiled to see him back in the present.

"Yes," Jareth said. "At least that old."

She had started her third glass of wine when Harry's voice said, "Valentine evenings."

Jareth looked askance at her. His lifted eyebrows asked, very clearly, why she hadn't changed her password.

Sarah could only give him a sheepish shrug. And then Harry, Ron, and Hermione tumbled in. Harry and Ron were both speaking in a rush.

"Kids, kids, I don't understand —" she started to say.

Jareth held up a single hand and fixed them all with a stare. "Enough."

Sarah suspected that if he'd been addressing his goblins, he'd have shouted. But Harry was too used to being shouted at — and she got the feeling that Ron hero-worshipped Jareth a bit too much for shouting to go over well.

Jareth's tone was enough. Ron and Harry both shut their mouths, staring at the Goblin King.

"Are you seeking an audience with me, or with Sarah? Answer one at a time."

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Behind them, Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed forward.

"We wanted to see both of you," the girl said.

"And what could have you so frantic?"

"Snape is trying to get Quirrell to help him steal the Stone," Harry said, breathless. His eyes shone in a mixture of excitement and determination.

Strange, but her heart swelled almost as much as when she saw Toby. Even if he was probably wrong.

"Do you think so? What exactly did you hear?"

"Something about Hagrid's dog," Hermione said. She folded her arms over her chest and added, "And deciding where his loyalties lay."

"You're all very set on this idea that Snape is evil." She tossed the words out, conversationally. "But you're standing in a room with a child-stealing fairy tale king. And me."

The trio stared at her blankly.

So Sarah offered a thought exercise. After all, if the kids could jump at shadows, then Snape — who had proven himself irrational where Harry and Jareth were concerned — could, too.

"Did you know that I think in the same language Jareth does? Professor McGonagall spent most of an hour convinced that I was just a few steps away from being a child stealer myself, and Snape hasn't trusted me since the troll."

"You mean... you think that Snape thinks," Ron said, slowly, as if reading out a word problem, "that you want to steal the Stone."

"It's a possibility," Sarah said. "It's also possible that Snape really is trying to convince Quirrell — who, with that stutter, I wouldn't trust to cast a single spell — to help him steal it. Or maybe Snape thinks Quirrell wants it. Conversations about who's on whose side can mean a lot of different things, kids."

"But you can't be evil!" This came from Harry. It was actually... sweet. And terrifying. Not for her own sake, but for his.

Jareth threw his head back and laughed. "Ah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. Do you remember when you viewed the world so simply?"

"It was simple, for me. I couldn't go home without Toby. Not and live with myself later," she told him. To the kids, she said, "You don't have any proof one way or another that I'm evil or not. And Snape thinks he has proof that I am. Even professors can misjudge people. You don't think it's possible you did, too?"

"You're trying to trick us into thinking it's too complicated," Hermione said. Her eyes glinted. "You want us to give up."

"I want you," Sarah replied, "to stay safe. Which means staying out of whatever's going on with that damned Stone. Whether Snape steals it or Quirrell steals it or Professor Binns possesses Nicholas Flamel and uses it to make himself a new body, you three are safest far away from it all."

"Well, I'm not going to forget about it," Harry said. "Voldemort's already tried to kill me once. What'll he do if he comes back?"

Strong sense of personal responsibility, or a burgeoning hero complex? Sarah eyed him for a moment, then looked to Jareth.

Jareth shook his head. "You've warned them, Sarah. Their choices are theirs."

His voice was bleak. Sarah wondered if he was operating on some knowledge of the future, or some sense of destiny. Or maybe that was just how fae viewed the lives of mortals.

So she pointed out, "They're eleven."

"Twelve!" Hermione pointed out. "I turned twelve in September."

Sarah levelled a glare at Jareth's smug, inscrutable owl smile. If she truly did think like a fae, maybe she could think don't encourage them really, really loud, and give him a headache.

But Jareth said only, "Your choices are yours. Make them wisely — or be bold, and rush like young lions. What is done is done, and what will be must be."

"Thank you, Jareth," she groused. "That was extremely helpful in my attempt to keep them safe."

He eyeballed his wine. "You should be thankful. Do you know how often the Goblin King gives advice?"

She had to toast to that. Jareth didn't often advise so much as issue commands. Impossible commands, too. She'd been hearing Turn back, Sarah in her dreams for years now.

The trio all looked at each other. After a while, Ron asked, voice tentative, "Does that mean that even if we try to stay out of it, we'll get sucked right back in?"

Jareth arched a brow and took a sip of his own wine.

"I think," Sarah said after a long silence, while each of the trio chewed on Jareth's words, and Jareth slumped in his chair, shedding glitter, "that it means whatever you want it to mean."

The trio nodded — Harry with the same mulish look on his face, Ron more thoughtfully, and Hermione more thoughtfully still — and turned to go. Sarah wondered just how frustrated they were with her, that she hadn't believed their theories.

Part of her wondered if maybe they were onto something. But surely Dumbledore knew his staff? Surely he wouldn't have worked, year in and year out, with a man who would betray him.

She really hoped so.


oh, Sarah, you eternal optimist you.

Only two (maybe two and a half!) more chapters to go, and then I'll be on a little break until it's time for "Bite Hard, Lest Remembrance Come After". This fic has garnered the nickname Thing. Which I guess is better than That Gorram Fic That Ate My Brain Several Times Over And Then Spawned Sequels.

I'm sorry that this chapter has taken so long to put out; I got really discouraged at one point. And it's eleven thousand words. Next chapter should be shorter, smoother, and sooner. The chapter after that, though, I make no promises.

For the curious/Google allergic, Bryn Terfel is a Welsh baritone with a beautiful, beautiful voice who had just got his start singing professionally in 1990, and in the real world made his Covent Garden debut in 1992. I had intended to have him sing in Edinburgh's massively lovely Usher Hall (which, completed in 1914, would have been 'what? Since when has that been there?' to Jareth). But that location would never have been available to a relative unknown singing German songs by a fairly unpopular composer. Both Terfel's voice (which really does hit, IMO, like a fucking wall of beautiful sound) and Spohr's Erlkoenig are available on YouTube, though I can't link.

And now... the weather. I kid, I kid. But y'all really should go listen to Night Vale; hopefully I'll manage to keep myself from referencing it next. You also narrowly escaped a SCP Foundation reference! Please don't forget that the Chapter 9 game is over; those of you who guessed Erlkoenig have received a message from me; please message me back with requests for a Broken Statues 'verse drabble. No characters/events introduced after the climax of Book 3, please, to prevent spoilers.