The Unexpected

AN: I know this chapter is longer than the last one. I tend to be a garrulous writer, so expect chapters in future to be longer rather than shorter. Also, some of you may have noticed that one character's name switched between 'Tess' to 'Agnes' and back again. That's been fixed, now she is 'Tess,' or 'Tisiphone,' for good.

Thank you, again, for reading.

The sun in Boston was just staining the sky faintly green over the ocean, but had not risen yet. A Great Grey owl had swooped down to the open window into Calliope Ollivander's apartment, where all was dark. It was an inconceivable hour for Calliope to be awake. She was sound asleep and had utterly no intention of waking up.

Someone at her door knocked loudly and woke her anyway.

The knocking continued until Calliope staggered to the door, having slipped her wand into her bathrobe pocket. She noticed that her owl perch was newly occupied, and took a second to close the window behind it and check the writing on the envelope – it was from her great-uncle Servaas. As she put her hand on the knob, one last, loud rap sounded, and she said, "I'm here, you can stop knocking," and pulled the door open. A short woman was standing in the hallway – shorter at least than Calliope, which was an easy feat to achieve.

"Good… morning…" Calliope said slowly, pushing her long, straight black hair out of her eyes, trying to focus on the daringly cut jacket and the flat brown hair. "What can I do for –" suddenly she recognized her. "Dora!"

"Wotcher, Callie," Nymphadora Tonks replied, unsmiling and focused.

Calliope stepped aside, ushering her in. "I didn't recognize you, it's been so long – and – and is your hair actually brown? I can't believe it, oh, Dora, do come in –" there was an awkward pause when Dora stepped in. Calliope held out her left hand. Dora took it, then hugged Calliope quickly. Calliope ushered her friend inside.

"Pardon my appearance," Calliope went on, "but this is – er, unexpected. What brings you to Boston? How long have you been in town?

"Approximately a half-hour," Dora said flatly, "Took me forty-five minutes to get here by Portkey."

"What?" As she took Dora to the sofa to sit down, she took another look at her old friend. Dora's face was very drawn, and her skin was a shade that could only be achieved by sincere exhaustion. "Why, Dora," Calliope asked, sitting down beside her, "why were you going all night?"

"I came to tell you something. You must return to England at once." Dora's voice was clipped and had acquired a tone of command which Calliope found difficult to associate with her petite, fun-loving friend.

Calliope blinked. "I beg your pardon? At once? I – I have –" she groped for an everyday reality to thrust into her defense, and couldn't find one. "What's happened?"

"A family emergency," Dora said evenly, though her hand was clutching the overcoat in her lap tightly, "One that not even the Daily Prophet knows of yet. Calliope, your Uncle Servaas is missing."

"What?" Calliope stared at her tight-lipped friend. She didn't speak for a moment, so Dora ventured, "We think…" when Calliope interrupted with "But that's impossible." She gestured to the owl perch. "Ella only just returned with a letter from him."

"Did she?" Dora sat up straight. "Where? Have you read it yet?"

"No – " Calliope got up to retrieve the letter, "It may even be from Hector relaying the news – "

"It won't be," Dora said matter-of-factly, "No owl would reach you that soon. I got hear as soon as I could, as soon as I heard." A pause. "After I talked to Dumbledore."

Calliope came back with the unopened letter in her hands. She sat back down, slowly, her eyes not leaving the parchment. "If he's only missing," she said, "how do you know already that anything's wrong? He may have taken a day trip to Hollywyck, for example."

Hollywyck was the Ollivander ancestral home, in Scotland, which Dora well knew.

"We got a tip-off from a reliable source. We've already taken your cousin Hector under our security. And Weasley's already done a check on the locks on your uncle's doors – they were locked and unlocked by magic, one from the inside, other on the outside."

Calliope stared blankly.

"He specializes in that sort of thing," Dora added helpfully.

Calliope turned away. "Then," she said, the truth beginning to push into her consciousness, "he really is… a captive of the… the…"

"Death Eaters," Dora finished tonelessly. "I'm really sorry, Callie."

"Sorry – sorry? I wouldn't say…" Calliope set her head on her hands, trying to look resolutely forward. "How many hours do you think it's been… Where did it happen?" She seemed to collapse, her face disappearing into her hands, until she folded in on herself. "What do you know?"

"We know he was abducted, in his shop, last night at around ten thirty-five, London time. So he's been in captivity for almost eleven hours now." Dora moved closer to her friend on the couch and put her hand on her shoulder. "That's about all that I knew when I left."

"He's so old! He was strong when he was young, but he's not very strong anymore, and what will they do to him?"

"The higher-ups have some idea…"

"I mean, what, is he going to make You-Know-Who a new wand? Every wand has something of the maker's personality in it, and a wand made by coercion will not choose You-Know-Who, I'm certain of it… What else do you know?"

Dora shifted uncomfortably. "There's only speculation… some people – some Aurors – are wondering if he willingly."

Calliope started aback and then repeated fiercely, "Went willingly? Are you accusing my uncle of –"

"No," Dora said hastily. "He has always been in Dumbledore's trust, and sometimes confidence, so we assume him innocent until proven otherwise. I'm telling you, all I know is speculation beyond what I just said. But the point is that there was no sign of any struggle. Your uncle may have been Stupefied instantly –"

"Or…"

"We doubt he was killed. The Dark Mark was not sent up, which is often the key sign. He could have been Imperiused. We don't know."

Calliope was breathing slowly, eyes closed, fists to her forehead. "Okay," she said. "Okay, then."

"I'm sorry, dear," Dora said. "I know this is sudden, but I knew you had to hear as soon as possible."

Calliope reached towards the table, and Dora handed her a cup of tea. "No… thank you. I'm – it's good that you told me as soon as you did." She took a gulp of tea. "I wonder if the American papers will report it…"

She was quiet for a long moment, and idly chewed a shortbread cookie. "I have to go home."

"Oh?"

"To England. To Hollywyck."

Dora nodded. "I hoped you might say that."

Calliope was looking around her flat. "This will take about a day to pack… I'll call up Linus and see if I can stay with him… But there isn't a rush." She looked down again. "It's not like he's going to come… strolling… down the street… this afternoon…" she pressed her hands against her face, and her shoulders started to shake.

After a few choked sobs, she hurriedly sat up again, and then picked up her wand to Summon a box of tissues to her (even though the wand itself brought back memories of her great-uncle).

"Do you need anything? Want anything? I'll run downstairs and see what shops are open," Dora offered.

"I'll be fine. I'll be fine," Calliope insisted through a muffler of tissue. "Will you help me pack? I'll have to say goodbye to – some people. Oh god, what am I going to tell…"

"I'll do what I can," Dora attempted a bright smile, "But you know better than to trust me with your china."

"Yeah…" The taller woman took another drink of tea, then looked at her friend. "Did you really come all this way just to tell me that?"

"Ah…"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad I…" She took a breath, "No, actually, I'm not glad I know, but I appreciate you telling me. But there really wasn't a need – I'm sure I would have gotten an owl in the morning…"

"Look, what kind of a friend would I have been to let you take this kind of news by yourself? You didn't let me go through… why are you looking at me like that?"

Calliope took another drink of tea and smudged a tear across her cheek. "I appreciate it, I really do, but your job is so important, especially with the war – who let you come here to comfort me? And what was your little earlier slip about Dumbledore about? What has he got to do with this? He's not the head of the Auror Division."

Dora didn't answer.

"Are you going to answer or not?" Calliope's voice was a little more strained than usual.

"Calm down… I will," Dora said, "but not now. Soon. It will take a while to explain. I came to you because – well, you know that in the First War and now, sometimes Death Eaters don't stop at one member of one family. The Ollivanders are…"

"Nontraditionalists?" Calliope finished, her voice tense. She glanced at the photograph of her mother and father on the mantelpiece. "What, are we blood traitors now too?"

"I didn't say that. And no one could ever say that of your uncle. The Ollivanders are in danger. And, even though I didn't know it when I came, the fact that your uncle sent you a letter, seemingly, right before his capture, is significant. Also, I'm sure that Hector will want your input with your brother and cousin's in regards to what will happen to the shop."

Calliope turned her head to look at her friend. Dora was looking back at her unflinchingly, seeming to be much more wary and subdued than she had always been before.

'And she's hiding something,' Calliope found herself thinking. 'She wants something else from me.'

She was staring at the linden wand in her hand. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, shook her head, and stood up. "Listen, do you want to read my uncle's letter now, or – I don't know – shall we have breakfast first?" The sun was up and leaking into the sitting room.

"Breakfast would be a good idea," Dora stood up, "I have been traveling all night…"

"Would you like some coffee? Come into the kitchen…

"Coffee would work, yeah, is it decaf?"
"I have both, you should have decaf, you need sleep."

Dora perched herself in a chair. "C'mon, I'm an Auror, no need to tell me when to sleep." Calliope didn't have the energy to argue. "Callie," Dora asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'll be okay," she insisted. Then she was quiet for a long time as she poured out cereal and milk. "I guess I'm going to have to tell my friends."

"I would suggest that, yeah."

"I think most of them I can tell by owl…"

"By owl? You're sure?"

"Yes." Calliope gave a last sniffle. "I mean, I don't want any scenes."

At about that same time, in England, in a mansion completely invisible to those who were not told of its existence, Servaas Ollivander stood blindfolded, wrists tied, and tongue silenced. He'd just been informed, in a voice which he recognized with a chill as belonging to Macnair, executioner of dangerous creatures, that he was held captive by the Dark Lord's army and that he might enjoy his stay, if he could. Only one comfort did he have: the secure rustle of a small notebook and pencil in the pocket closest to his very skin: if need be, the paper could be fire, message, or just a refuge for sanity.

"Any questions?" Macnair's voice had finished with a low chuckle.

Servaas paused before answering. "Well," he said carefully, "I don't suppose I can send a message to anyone, so can I ask for someone to know of my dietary restrictions? Or will I just be thrust into your gentle care?"

"A good question," came a new voice, one so high-pitched it was almost womanly, but a voice without any compassion or warmth. Servaas guessed, with a shiver, to whom it belonged. "Which of you will take our honored guest into his house? He must be treated nicely after all, and Macnair hasn't the proper gentle touch."

Murmurs of laughter swam around the room like fish in an unlit pond.

"Anyone?" the Dark Lord repeated.

"If I may, sir," came a voice which Servaas did not recognize, "I think I could make a good host." A male voice chimed, rather loud, scratchy in the lower notes, with traces of a Scottish brogue.

"Any particular interest in this man?" asked the Dark Lord again.

"With your permission, my lord, I should like to run a few experiments on him."

"Oh?" the Dark Lord sounded amused. Louder laughter, like sharks around a seal, rang throughout the room. Servaas' hands tightened in their binds, but he hoped his face was expressionless.

"Experiment away, Turpentine," the Dark Lord said, "but step lightly. We need him alive, after all, and we want all his memory of wandlore to be nice and intact and accessible. They are what we are in need of."

The voice of the man called Turpentine said only "I know, my Lord" and for the next twenty-four hours that was all that Servaas heard of the man who had just been given his custody.

Linus Ollivander's days started when he stood in front of his mirror and put on his glasses, letting him see his own face – snub nose, silver eyes, black goatee. Not liking to be rushed, he would dress and comb his hair while the kitchen fixed his toast, so that he would be all set for the day by the time the Daily Prophet arrived.

Lastly, and most carefully, he put on his new Stone Cloak – the unmistakable uniform of a second-tier Obliviator, which he had recently become. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility along with the weight of the enchanted cloth. He was just doing the clasp – decorated with a star and two moons – when his routine was interrupted.

An owl was tapping at the window, loudly, and persistently.

He went over and let it in. It was a very nervous barn owl, which he recognized as belonging to his cousin, Hector (who also had a tendency to be nervous, though thankfully not to eat small rodents). It had a letter in its beak.

"Thank you," Linus said to the owl, idly noting that he'd have to refill the owl perch's feed bowl. He opened the letter and read it leisurely – or at least started to. After a moment, he gasped and sat back on his bed. His hand covered his mouth in a childish gesture, but he didn't say anything. After he had read over the letter three times, he stared at the carpet, abstracted in fear and despair.

Then he stood up and went to a table by his flat's door. It was covered with photographs, mostly of Linus' family. He stared at two of them in particular: one in which he stood in the wand shop with his Uncle Servaas, on his tenth birthday, a rainy fall morning.

The other photograph showed him and his two sisters, Calliope and Benedicte, when they were all young and together. Benedicte, too, had vanished, in the First War, so long ago that Linus had only a few cherished memories of her voice and kindness.

After a long time, he whispered two words to his uncle's photograph: "Not again."

A few hours later, Hector Gibbs and Linus Ollivander were standing in an office of the Missing Persons Division of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic. Unlike the severe and forbidding courtroom, where Linus had been more than once, this office, belonging to Mr. Jonas Earhart, was in the headquarters of the Missing Persons and Kidnappings Division of the Ministry of Magic, and, designed as it was for confused loved ones rather than sentenced criminals, conveyed a greater aspect of the merciful side of the law – though the law nonetheless. The straight-backed wood chairs were upholstered and stood on thin carpet, while Mr. Earhart, with his flyaway hair and delicate spectacles, peered at his appointment list closely.

"Are all of you assembled?" he asked.

"No," Hector said. "My sister Tess is late. She had to come out from Wales, you know."

"And my sister will have to come out from Boston. So she's not here either." Linus looked more ruffled than usual, and cast his eyes about the Missing Persons office as if it brought up bad memories – which, Hector reflected, was very likely.

The door flew open and Tess Gibbs, looking very ill-tempered, charged in. She dropped into the chair next to her brother. Linus sat up straight, reassuring himself that his black hair and goatee were neatly trimmed, and readjusted his glasses. On his left, Hector, looking more anemic and tired than usual, brushed his pale blond hair out of his eyes. Tess reached out to hold her brother's hand, though her stern face betrayed no emotion. With Linus' black hair, Hector's blond mop, and Tess' thick chestnut ponytail, they did not look very much like cousins.

"Hello, Hector," Tess said distractedly.

"Morning sis." Hector leaned back, glad that Tess was here at last and the anticipation was over.

"Good morning to you too, Tess," Linus cut in from Hector's right.

"Don't you two start on this," Hector began, before Mr. Earhart over-rode them both in a clipped but not hasty or unkind voice.

"So now are all the available parties assembled here? Linus Fortitude Ollivander, Hector Irving Gibbs, grandnephews to the missing, and Tisiphone Imogene Gibbs, grandniece to the missing, through his elder brother Andries Ollivander. This is correct?"

"Yes, sir," all three assented.

"You'll need to give us complete contact information," Mr. Earhart's wand flicked in a habitual manner, and parchment forms flew up and landed themselves neatly in the three laps. "And we'll need to question all three of you separately. Are you willing to set aside, perhaps, a morning for this?"

All three nodded.

"In addition – " Mr. Earhart leaned forward a little, "You understand this is a rather high-profile case. Of course we will put all our available resources into it, but something will depend on whether or not you decide to maintain the shop."

They exchanged glances. "I'll have to consult them in private about that," Hector said quickly.

"Very well, we won't rush you," Mr. Earhart said, though his eyelid twitched as he said that. "I took the liberty of recovering your uncle's will from Gringott's Bank, and I have not yet looked at it, but the goblin Clayborn assures me it delineates the fate of your uncle's shop, properties, and library, and, uniquely, includes a provision for his disappearance." Earhart took the liberty of raising his eyebrows. "You've got an uncle with some foresight there."

If this statement troubled any of the listeners, they gave no sign. Outside the door, the sounds of activity seemed to grow louder. Hector said, "Thank you for procuring a copy of his will, sir. We'll inform you of our decision as soon as possible."

After the contact information had been filled out (street and Floo addresses, work and home), the three were excused to go. As they opened the door, all three stepped aside to make room for a very tired looking family of four who shoved past them to get inside. The hallway was nearly impossible to navigate, so crowded it was.

"So," Hector called over the din, "Shall we get lunch and discuss current events?"

"Sure," Tess replied. "How about the Black-Eyed Stoat's?"

"Sounds fine. Let's get out of here first."

They managed to all push out into the Atrium of the Ministry. As they strode towards the Apparating deck, Tess said evenly, "I'd like to suggest the possibility of recruiting special help to find Uncle Servaas. Special forces."

"Who, the Order of the Phoenix?" Linus snorted. They had entered the deck.

"Yes, or some private inspector," Tess replied. "This is not a random disappearance like – oh, I don't know, Emmeline Vance. This is a threat against the Wizardng populace at large." Politely, Linus and Hector let Tess go first before they turned on their heels and Apparated in front of the Black-Eyed Stoat, an Unplottable pub in Hector and Tess' native neighborhood of Swindon.

"So you don't think they've killed him outright?" Linus said as he stepped up to her.

"No," Tess asserted, "I'd bet he's going to be held for ransom."

"Ransom to be paid by whom?" Linus asked.

"The Minister," Tess promptly replied. As she reserved a table for three, Linus whispered to Hector: "She's given this an awful lot of thought, hasn't she?"

"She likes spy novels," was all Hector would reply. Quickly he changed the subject, saying, "So how soon do you think Calliope will be able to join us?"

Linus sighed. "A day or two at most, I hope. I sent her an owl, right away, but she probably hasn't gotten it yet. I'll let her stay with me, so this should be easy."

"You think she'll think it's worth it to come across the Pond?" Tess asked, but Hector chided, "Sis! Please…"

Half-consciously Linus looked to the sky, dotted with cumulus clouds. "Yeah," he said, "she'll come as soon as she can."

The glare of the parked cars seemed to shimmer in the humidity. As Mark strode out of St. Francis Xavier Elementary, he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He was irreverently whistling a song when he saw Calliope on the corner. She appeared to be looking for someone.

"Hey! Calliope! Hi!" He hurried over to her. "How are you? What are you doing here?"

"I'm – I wanted to see you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Ah… how did your interview go?"

"Really well! I mean, I've got high hopes. I said that before. But I think this guy and I got along. What's up with you?"

"I – I have something I have to tell you."

"Okay, I'm listening." He smiled involuntarily. She swallowed, painfully aware of the earnestness and sincerity in his smile. She thought 'It's time to lie. Time to protect him.' Then, 'No. He deserves to know something.'

"Yes?" he coaxed.

"My friend Dora is come into town today," she said in a hurry.

"From England?"

"Yes."

"Wow! I'd really like to meet her."

"Yeah – well, um, I'm going to – be really busy for a few days, y'know…"

"Showing her around?"

"Yeah! Yeah…"

"Say, that trouble back home. Does she have any news about it?"

"Yes…"

"What's up?"

"There's – things have gotten worse. I'm going to be spending some time coping with that."

"Well, I'm sorry, but – definitely I wanna meet her. So introduce if you can, please, okay?"

"Yeah…"

He looked at her. "Are you going back to England?"

"No." She said it abruptly. After another pause she stammered, "But, but I'm really glad for you and that interview."

"Thank you!" when he nodded, a lock of fringe fell into his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure this is going to be great. By the way – tomorrow evening I'm flying out with Bridget and company for the show. Scotland!" he posed dramatically, then, "So I'll be gone this weekend. But make sure I can meet your friend when I get back – if she's still here."

She nodded, then reached over and flipped the hair out of his eyes. "Okay. Mark – thank you for listening to me the other night."

"You mean the Fourth of July?"

"I guess…"

"Of course. Anytime."

"Okay. Thank you. And for… well… um… good luck." She nodded and smiled thinly. 'Stay away from me,' she thought. 'Please stay away from England. Stay away from the Death Eaters.' "I'll see you later," she heard herself say.

"Do you need a ride?"

"No, thank you."

"Then I'll see you around – or, when I get back."

"Okay… good."

"Bye!"

"Good-bye…"

He waved as he got into his car. She waved back stiffly. When she began to walk away, she said "That went well," in a low, flat voice.

Andrew DuPont and Mark were talking on the telephone (with much static on Andrew's end, but Mark was used to that by now.) Mark was wrapping up his story of his interview earlier that day: "… So yeah, that's how it went. Just wanted to keep you posted."

"Thanks, Mark. Good to know. You all packed?"

"Absolutely. Oh, one other thing – Calliope met me outside the school."

"… Oh?"

"Yeah. Said a friend of hers is in town. So we'll have to all get together when I get back, right?"

"Um… she didn't tell you?"

"Didn't tell me what?"

"Ah… um… she's had a family emergency. She's going back to England."

"When?"

"Tonight, I think. I'm surprised she didn't tell you…"

"How long will she be gone? Do you know?"

"I don't know."

Mark was silent for a while on his end, then said, "She was talking about moving back to England to stay… Um, Andrew, I've got to go."

"Where? What are you doing?"

"Nothing dangerous. See you next week."

And Mark hung up.

The lamps were gone, the window shades were drawn, and the only light was austere and unforgiving. Calliope's flat was empty, all her belongings nearly all packed away.

Even her faithful, hardworking owl, Ella, had taken flight. Calliope had coaxed her to fly to the house of a friend to seek out a new home, and had attached a note to said friend to Ella's ankle for the last time. Then she'd watched her first real connection to American life fly away into the thickening night.

After Calliope had slammed the window shut, she'd stood and looked at the bare, expressionless rooms. She had packed everything, now there were only her emotions to sort out.

Dora, coming in from the restroom, checked the clock on the wall, and said "Hmm," in a calculating way that Calliope, back in their school days, had learned meant trouble. "There's a Portkey leaving in a half-hour, if we Apparate there now we can get tickets."

Calliope snapped out of her reverie. "Now? Dora, you're insane!"

"Why? We've no time to waste!" Dora turned on Calliope, but at once her face softened into a self-amused smile. "Ah, cor, I sound like Mad-Eye, don't I?"

"The Mad-Eye? You mean Moody?"

"Yep. He's my mentor. I guess he's rubbing off on me. Like shoe polish. He's crazy about keeping to schedules."

"Granted, Hufflepuffs take easily to schedules." Calliope pulled on a long black coat she'd last worn in March – it was too bulky to be easily packed. "Well, if Moody's been teaching you, I guess I can accept some discrepancy between you and the Dora I knew of yore."

Dora nodded. "Please forgive me for being so tense, Callie." Dora was one of perhaps two people left alive who could refer to Calliope as "Callie." "But all the time I'm worried that there's some emergency that desperately needs me. Being in the Or – being an Auror is an incredible strain in these times."

Calliope felt suddenly rather ashamed. "If we've got to go, no use putting it off. Go on and order the tickets."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'll catch up with you at the Portkey. No point in waiting."

"Oh, great. All right, then." Dora ran to Calliope and kissed her cheek lightly, planting an involuntarily smile on both their faces. "Thanks," she said. "I'll get your luggage, too." She carefully levitated the large suitcases, Calliope's cello and violin cases, and the hatbox, and Calliope helped her take them downstairs. As per Boston city regulations, could not be Apparated or Disapparated into or out of. Instead, there was a phone booth across the street which had a good resonance for Apparation.

Calliope sighed as Dora's footfalls faded away and she went to her room to pack up her nightstand. Much like in her brother's flat, she had stored her most beloved photographs by her bedside. For packing, only her denim satchel and her small suitcase were left.

The first photograph she picked up was of herself and Uncle Servaas on her tenth birthday. His gift to her had been eleven and a half inches of springy linden wood and phoenix feather, which had a strong affinity with the natural elements. Her ten-year-old self held her wand proudly in the photograph, while Uncle Servaas looked on, with a proud and slightly detached smile.

Calliope took that photograph out of its frame and tucked it into her brown leatherbound journal. The next picture was of her mother and father's wedding day. Calliope glanced at herself in the wall mirror, hoping to see some resemblance to the beaming English lass crowned with pink roses. The groom and his soft smile seemed to dim in comparison to his bride, but Calliope loved noticing how their hands clung to each other at the bottom of the frame.

She slipped those two photos into her suitcase, followed by the last photo of all, Hollywyck in Scotland's high summer. Hollywyck had been built in the full flower of Mock Tudor architecture, with the high eaves, paned windows, and striking color that such architecture required. Standing by the door of the house – merely a stripe of color in the photo – was a young girl whose name and history Calliope knew well, though they had never met. The back of the photo said only "Benny at Hollywyck" and gave a date before Calliope's birth.

All went into the suitcase; everything was going to change. Calliope was aware of the time she was losing. Then, when she took one last, long look around her apartment –

"This is it," she said aloud. "This is how things are going to be. I'm going to England, and I'm going to be in the war. And I'm not going to look back."

Gripping her suitcases with her right hand and swinging her purse over a corner of her suitcase, she pulled her wand out with her dominant left hand and pointed it at the door. It opened the door to her journey, and shut and locked itself when she exited.

Down the stairs she rushed, not even pausing to tuck her wand into her pocket. From her second-story apartment she sped down the stair and into the lobby, and taking a deep breath, she ran out the door.

She was wearing a black coat, and it was night on a street with little traffic. Her apartment building stood near the corner, and Calliope, heedless of Muggle traffic laws (she could never keep them straight), had run straight into the road, making for the Apparation-friendly phone booth across the street.

She didn't see the car until five seconds too late.

The driver got the shock of his life – in more ways than one – when his headlights caught the black-coated figure that ran in front of him, right before he heard a horrible thump as the front of his car slammed her, splaying her figure against the night.

He stood on the brakes.

She let out a brief, high-pitched scream – and vanished with a crack like a gunshot.

Mark Printzen, leaping out of his car, opened his eyes wide against the darkness to see – nothing. The woman whom he knew he saw – whom he thought was Calliope – was nowhere to be found.

A nearby clatter caught his ear. He turned to see a long, perfectly straight stick of white in the light of the streetlamp, rolling towards the gutter and storm drain. With adrenaline still coursing in his veins he sprang for it and caught it just before it fell in.

Holding it up to the light, he found it to be very light and made from what seemed to be pale wood. Around the thicker end of it was carved what looked like a handle and a collection of branches and leaves, growing upward, intertwining.

There also – he looked closer – was a splash of fresh blood – he leapt back with a gasp – on the handle.

Not far away, Boston traffic roared.

He looked around him into the answerless night and softly called, "Calliope?"