Leaving America

AN: Disclaimers still apply, especially as my original characters are entirely mine.

Thank you, again, for reading.

Dora was standing, tickets in hand, by the gate which was the last Apparitionable spot in the Massachusetts International Keyport. It was unlike Calliope to be late, she thought, and with an ironic smile, unlike Dora to doubt her friend. She heard two more Apparation pops behind her and turned automatically to see if one was Calliope – but she saw that a black-clad woman, splayed across the floor, had already gathered around her something of a crowd.

"Get her out of here!" one person said.

"How? Mobilarcorpus, do you think?"

"Are you okay, dear?"

"She's with me!" Dora called, shoving through them to reach Calliope, who had half-sat up by now, trembling visibly and – Dora's mind immediately switched to Auror mode – clutching her bloody left hand tightly.

"Come on, Callie, let's get you out of here," Dora said, and with a flick of her own wand parted the crowd to half-support Calliope to the main gate, pausing only to enchant their luggage to follow them and show their tickets to the security guard. Sitting Calliope down on a bench, she asked "Callie, would you like a glass of water? I have a couple Chocolate Frogs in here, I know I do –" Dora fumbled in her bag for a bottle of essence of dittany. "It's a very small splinch, isn't it? C'mon, open your hand –"

Calliope opened up her left hand willingly enough (it was a nasty sight) but protested feebly through clenched teeth "It wasn't the splinch –"

"Remember our first Apparition test in sixth year, when Charlie Weasley disappeared from sight and we learned he landed on top of an old dear doing her shopping?" As Dora said this, a Healer dressed in the slate-blue uniform of the Keyport approached them. "Registered Healer here," he said, tapping the badge on his jacket, which bore the Rod of Asclepius. "Is everything okay?"

"If you could give us more dittany," Dora said, "and maybe a glass of water –"

"No problem," he said, pulling a jug of iced water and a tumbler out of his left sleeve, and a large green bottle of dittany from his right pocket. "That's very smart, to keep some dittany on hand, but you have applied it rather unevenly, thankfully this is just a minor splinch, I've seen far worse –"

"It wasn't the splinch," Calliope hissed again, so low that only Dora could hear.

After the Healer had tied a sterile bandage around the wound (now clotting rapidly under the pungent dittany oil) and refilled Dora's bottle of the same, and bid them a cheery good-bye, Dora said, "Come on now, the gate's not too far, but we've only got a moment before boarding…" and led Calliope to the gate.

"Dora," Calliope said quietly, "It was not just a splinch. There was a car. A car came out as I ran to the phone booth, I heard a horn beep, and the light flashed at me – "

"What? Did it hit you?"

"Well," Calliope took a shuddering gasp, "It slammed into me, into my side…"

"Where?" Dora interrupted. Taking her right hand from Dora's, Calliope touched her thigh, her hip, and ribcage. "Just my general right-side area," she continued, "but not very hard. I think I'll be bruised badly. But I was frightened and hurt and – I Disapparated."

Dora's eyes widened. "And you think that the driver saw you?"

"And saw me Disapparate."

Dora stopped walking (forcing Calliope to stop too) and didn't say anything for a minute. "Did you recognize the driver?"

"No. It was a silver car. All cars look alike to me."

Dora considered this. "So, chances are, the Muggle-we-assume driver is still lurking outside your apartment wondering where the mysterious woman that he hit went off to. Well… chances are he'll just drive away…"

"Wait!" What little color had started to come back into Calliope's face drained.

"What? What now?"

"My wand!"

"Oh no…" Dora looked around. "Maybe you dropped it in the terminal…"

"No, no, I had it in my hand when I ran out. I just used it to lock the door. And my hand got Splinched… it must be out on the street! Dora, can we –"

"We can't go back, we don't have time."

"But it's –"

"I know. Breathe, Calliope." Dora didn't say anything else until she made sure that Calliope had taken a few deep breaths. "We do not have time. But we have time to post an owl."

"An owl? Oh… wait, I see. Yes. I can write to Andrew and ask him to find my wand."

"Yes, and he will. You can even send more than one letter. Don't worry about it. You've had a very long day."

Calliope nodded dully, staring at the bandage on her left hand. "Yes. You're right."

"Of course I am. Now, if I remember, I think the post owls are over here. And here's your luggage. And after that, you're going to drink some tea."

"And then…" Calliope, sighing once, took the handle of her violin case gingerly in her hand, and stood up straight again, "And then back to London?"

"Back home to London."

Less than a half-hour later, Andrew had reached the front of Calliope's flat. Mark was still there, just coming out of the apartment's lobby. He glanced up at his friend.

"Andrew?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Just in the neighborhood, though I'd see if Calliope was still around. Has she gone?" Andrew strode forward, hands in his pockets.

"That's the question," Mark answered, standing in the glare a streetlamp beside his car and frowning. "The receptionist in there said she just saw Calliope leave a moment ago. I just came in a minute ago, but saw no trace of her – not a disappearing taxi or –" His sentence stopped suddenly and he glanced sidelong at Andrew. "There was – something."

"Something – you saw?"

"Saw… and hit."

"Hit? What was it?"

"It looked like Calliope. I thought I'd hit her for a second, and I felt the impact of it in my car, but when she screamed, there was a crack like – like a tree branch breaking, and she was gone."

Andrew nodded, brow furrowed. "Have you told anyone else about this?"

"No. Just you."

"Good. Let's keep it that way for now." Andrew surveyed Mark's car. "Not a scratch on your vehicle…"

"There was something else – more than whoever I hit."

"What's that?" Andrew looked up quizzically. Mark was looking uneasily up and down the street. He was clearly edgy. Finally Andrew broke the silence, saying, "Look, how about we go back to my place?"

"Are you sure? You sure I should leave a crime scene…"

"What crime? There's no evidence of anything you hit. C'mon. You're frazzled."

So Mark drove them to Andrew's apartment. He had stashed the white stick in his glove compartment. He had thought that he'd show it to Andrew right off, but some instinct told him to hold off on it.

Tabitha was out for the evening. The space, which had been so full of noise and activity on the Fourth of July, stood quiet in the lull of everyday ambient noise. But it was familiar to Mark, who sat at the little table and glanced at the mementoes of Andrew and Tabitha over the years.

Meanwhile, Andrew took some time in fixing a glass of water for Mark in the Muggle way.

A few photographs stood on the shelves around the table. Mark himself featured in a few snapshots: at a Little League game, at their elementary school graduation, at their first St. Patrick's Day parade as 21-year-olds. Good times. Mark felt calmer already.

Andrew had Mark relay piece by piece the events of earlier that night. When Mark closed his story with, "And then you came along," Andrew leaned back in his chair and appeared to be thinking deeply. Mark's hands were tight around his cup of cranberry juice and his mind was racing. "Do you think we should go to the police about this?"

"The police? Mark, don't overreact now."

"But Calliope – I have to make sure she's okay."

"She's probably over the Atlantic by now. And if she's not fine, she'll let me know."

"But…" Suddenly Mark got an idea, staring at the calendar on the wall. "What if… No. Never mind." Mark's mind was now pursuing its idea, making conversation difficult. "Sorry if I sound rambling…"

"It's okay," Andy said warmly. "You just hit a person with your car."

"… Yeah. You're a good friend."

"Thanks. So – Mark, how about I handle everything from here?"

"What?"

"Seriously, look at it this way. You have plenty to worry about. Your job interviews, the vacation you're taking… I'll find out from someone at work where she's staying and check up on her. How's that sound?"

"… It makes a certain amount of sense."

"Exactly."

"But, I mean, I'm going to England already…"

"Scotland. Totally different place."

"But still, I'm heading there myself, and I know her better than you do – did you just snort?"

"No," Andrew lied hastily.

Mark glared at him. "I do," he said, "You may be her co-worker, but I'm her friend, and since I hit her after all…"

"If you hit anything," Andrew added.

"What if I just want to see her in England for myself?"

"No, I really think you should let me handle this."

"Andrew…"

"Mark. Trust me." Andrew gave a smile. "Have I ever let you down before?"

"No, but…"

"But what?

Mark paused. To keep a secret like this from Andrew was hurting him – but a secret for Calliope was very different.

"Come on, please, tell me," Andrew coaxed.

"What I found," Mark began, but stopped. Footsteps were rushing up towards the door. Then there was a loud knocking – more like a pounding.

"I'll get it," Andrew said in a hurry. "I won't be long." He stepped out.

Mark could hear him ask, "Who is it?" cautiously.

"It's me, Scalia. Open up."

The door opened a crack. "Could you come back later?"

"This is urgent!"

"Okay…" reluctantly Andrew let him in. "But please keep your conversation –"

"Did you get Calliope's owl?" Scalia demanded.

Mark heard that. Quietly he stood up to be nearer the conversation, but still out of sight.

Andrew hissed, "Listen, Mark is here, so keep your talk family friendly, okay?"

"What on earth is he doing here?"

"I found him at the accident sight."

Scalia's eyes widened. "Of course. He hit her with his car, didn't he?"

In a whisper, Andrew replied, "I think so."

"Of course. Why am I not surprised? Muggles around here are always driving like maniacs…"

"Will you lay off for once on him?"

"In this instance, when he nearly ran Calliope down, I think my annoyance is somewhat justified."

"Well, what do you suggest we do now?"

"Did you find the wand?"

"No, but I didn't have a chance to look. And you?"

"I performed a Summoning Charm – several times – but no luck."

"Keep it down, here, walk this way… I'll be there in a minute, Mark!" He led Scalia into Tabitha's office. Mark quietly followed into the foyer.

"But the wand…"

"I think Mark may have it."

"Really?"

"He was going to say something before you barged in, so if you wait here I'll go back and coax him to show it to me –"

"Coax? Why not just Summon it now and then Modify his memory?"

"I'm not going to do that! Mark's my friend, and beside, I'm lousy at Memory Charms anyway."

"Then I'll do it."

"The hell you will!"

"Why do you get so sentimental about this? Any other wizard would be fine, but—"

"Every other wizard you know, but I call it having standards."

"Really? Because not modifying the memory of a Muggle who's stolen a wand and – "

"We don't know for sure."

"Looks like lax standards to me."

"If it's good enough for a witch like Calliope and a wizard like me, it should be good enough for you."

"Same we can't get Calliope's consent because she's probably already halfway across the Atlantic by now, after having been hit by car." Andrew sighed angrily, but Scalia pressed on. "If we don't take the wand from him by force, what will happen next? He'll ask questions. He'll want to know everything. It won't stop until daybreak and we'll never get him to yield the wand until I write and give an oral presentation on all Magical history ever. Meanwhile, Calliope is missing her wand in the middle of this mysterious 'family emergency.' And, we are telling a Muggle who has not been given Clearance all about our world."

Andrew mumbled, "I always meant to tell him…"

"But now? Is now really the time?"

"… No."

"No. Now is the time to get Calliope her wand back."

"You're right."

"So Modify his memories, Stun him, take it, mail it?"

"Yes. You can do that." Andrew turned around to put his hand on the doorknob. "But be gentle."

"I know what I'm doing!"

"Do you think Calliope will still be at the Keyport, or should we just mail it to her in London?"

"Actually, I have no idea."

"Well, let's look at her letter." A pause. "… Damn it."

"What?"

"I left it in the kitchen. We'll have to go out past Mark."

"It won't matter. We'll Modify his memories anyway. Come on."

A squeal of tires sounded from outside. Scalia scoffed. "Heh. Someone's driving like crazy."

Andrew's eyes widened. He threw the door open and rushed to the dining area, then the balcony. When Scalia demanded "What?" Andrew called out "Mark! Mark!"

Andrew flung himself onto the balcony to look at the street below. In all the lights and noise of the street, Mark's car was nowhere to be seen.

Mark was in his apartment, alone. The door was locked. When the phone rang he didn't answer. He sat on his couch, laying the white stick of wood carefully in front of them. Muttering, "If I didn't know any better…" he picked up a crisp, fresh new copy of 'So You Want To Be A Wizard.' With the reverence afforded to a just-bought book, he flipped the pages until he found the passage he was looking for. He scanned it, then glanced up at his poorly-but-lovingly mounted bookshelves on the wall to see all the other fantasy titles staring back at him. He shook his head.

"Magic wands – impossible. Just impossible."

But he got up and paced back and forth, trying to make some sense of the night's events, and the innocuous-seeming wand with its blood on the kitchen table. On a sudden inspiration, he took the white wand and rapped the refrigerator door smartly with it ("wand" had already replaced "stick" in his mind.) Nothing happened. He tapped it again and said "Open sesame!"

Nothing still happened. He wondered what he was doing trying to break his own refrigerator, and desisted.

He put the wand carefully on the table and began counting on his fingers.

"1. Andrew is hiding something. Andrew, my best friend since fourth grade, is hiding something big from me.

"2. He's in cahoots with Scalia – a jerk.

"3. Andrew mentioned knowing Calliope much, much better than I do. There are some possibilities:

"A. Andrew is delusional. And Scalia is delusional. They're stuck in the same delusion – which they never ever talk about? But they could be cultists. Then again, they were talking about wands, and what we have here is a wand that belonged to Calliope, and which they were anxious to return to her. This may mean,"

Mark paused in an attempt to come up with a suitable opening for the new idea, flashing back to reviewing outlines with his fifth-graders.

"i. Both Calliope and Andrew are/were delusional and think these sticks hold some… symbolic or, maybe, totemic power for them."

He paused. "Counter-i. Delusion does not allow one to vanish into thin air.

"Possibility B. the sticks do have power, and –" he stopped, "Counter-B: that's freaking impossible, resuming B, the sticks have power which Calliope used to disappear… Dissent to B, how did she vanish and leave her stick behind if it's important? How and why? Dissent to dissent, of course, getting hit with a car would do that to a person… and that's why Calliope was always ignorant of traffic laws… maybe even that's why she never got a telephone! If she and Andrew can communicate with their wands – sticks – " he paused. "No wonder he says he knows her better.

"These are important questions," he resumed. Are the sticks wands? Do they have power? Can I access this power, or is it just Calliope, Andrew, and that jerk Scalia? Why did neither of them tell me before? Perhaps they had their reasons, but the next question is, how do I find out?"

He went to his kitchen and poured himself a second glass of cranberry juice. "I could," he mused, "Go back. Drive back, or call Andrew, and talk about what he meant. But considering how he and Scalia were talking about – what, changing my memory? I do not like the sound of that. On the other hand, I could wait until Calliope comes back home – and ask her."

A pause.

"Boring. Or, I could… chase her. Once I'm in Scotland and after I've seen Lydia's play, I can try and seek out Calliope in England. She's talked about places she's been. I can try and find them. Andrew and the jerk talked about her like she wouldn't be coming home for a while." His eyes wandered between the plane tickets on the refrigerator and the calendar of faraway Hawaii on the wall. "Has its benefits. Talking to Andrew, I risk losing a friendship from the past fourteen years. And my memory. Finding Calliope, I give Andrew and Scalia a chance to cool down from why-ever they wanted to attack me, and, even if everything goes cataclysmically wrong, I get to go to England. I should go once in my life. I really should."

He took a swig of cranberry juice, which served, as it had in every crisis of his life, to steady his nerves. He took another swig before resuming his monologue: "It would, however, be rude at the very least – inconsiderate, selfish, disrespectful – to drop in on Calliope and demand all her secrets in a family emergency." He winced. "And after I took her wand – stick." Another wince. "And after I hit her with my car."

He stopped his monologue and took a deep breath, studying the wood grain on the familiar table, in the familiar kitchen.

"I think – " he said at last, but did not finish the sentence. He quietly took his suitcase, all packed for his weekend trip to Edinburgh, out of his room, and tucked in a few more shirts and boxers, just in case. He also threw in a battered copy of 'Europe on Ten Dollars a Day,' inherited from his mother and no doubt outdated, and his new copy of 'So You Want To Be A Wizard,' for reading material, and plenty of spare cash. Then, he took a Post-It note and tried to make a list of all the places that he'd heard Calliope mention specifically: the Leaky Cauldron, on Tortile Street, was the only one he could recall at that time. He put the note into his journal, and let it go at that.

He then changed into his pajamas and made up a bed on the couch, where he fell into an uneasy, dream-tossed sleep.

The weather in London was a sharp contrast from Boston's humidity and oppressive heat: even though August was just waning, the sky was uncommonly overcast and fog lay in the morning air thicker than usual.

"So, where am I staying, for now?" Calliope ask Tonks as they left the Keyport on the outskirts London. Calliope was still fingering the gauze bandage on her left hand as if that could replace the cool feeling of linden wood.

"For the time being," Dora said, "you'll be staying with me, in Hogsmeade. I already had your luggage expressed there."

"You're very on top of things."

"It's in the job description. First, though, we need to make a detour."

"A detour? To where…? The wand shop!" Calliope concluded out loud.

"No," Tonks said in that serious, clipped tone of before. "We're paying a visit to Alastor Moody's house. You can Apparate, It isn't too far from here – just take my hand."

Calliope slipped her right hand into Dora's, noticing how cold it was, and clutched her satchel with her left hand as tightly as the stinging pain would allow. They Disapparated and opened their eyes to an unattended street shadowed by an overgrown Lombardy hanging out of someone's front yard. Calliope looked up at it warily.

"He keeps Lombardies?" she asked.

"No," Dora said, "his neighbor from a half-a-block down does. Be ready."

"So which way does Moody live, exactly?"

"That way," Dora pointed left. "Follow me exactly."

She then proceeded to turn right and, still grasping Calliope's hand, began walking.

"Wait, Dora – you just said…"

"This is Moody's house we're talking about," Dora said. "I think you met him once or twice."

"Oh, yes," Calliope recalled suddenly, "He used to come to my house for Christmas dinners, but stopped after – some time."

"So you know him. He'll not make his house easy to find. Paranoid, but brilliant. Right now, he uses magic that traces intentions – I know how to get past all these. He's been teaching me, remember. Now, keep your eyes on your feet, but don't let go of my hand."

Calliope complied as well as she could. She focused on her black, Cuban-heeled, buttoned boots, and looking ahead to Dora's tattered and stained but unquestionably comfortable leather boots. But Calliope's vision was attracted by something else. The edge of the sidewalk, the flowers on the walks, all began to look slightly warped to her sight, like glass in a paperweight.

"Stay close," was all Dora said.

Calliope resolved to not look up from the ground, but her peripheral vision picked up the too-sudden alterations in the neighborhood, twists and turns as if she were being spun.

"It senses your intentions," Dora said helpfully. "That's really the simplest way to describe it – and rest assured, I know all the tricks. Brace yourself."

They passed a low garden wall and suddenly, a black dog, a Doberman, lunged across the corner of the wall at them, barking so loud Calliope's head rang. She blinked and the dog was joined by two others, and it looked like more were coming around the corner, and –

"Close your eyes. Keep walking."

"What? And let them attack – oh. Just illusion."

"Yes."

Calliope winced at the dogs. "Very loud illusion." She shut her eyes tight and within a few seconds the barks faded away and died.

"Almost there –" after a few more steps, Dora stopped and guided Calliope's hand to what felt like a gatepost, and pulled her inside it.

"Okay. Open your eyes, Callie."

Calliope blinked and saw a very simple, but neat backyard, featuring a bench, and a device that looked like a birdbath (complete with sparrows), but which Calliope suspected had a much more nefarious purpose (probably the sparrows were equipped with Stunning Spells). Ivy grew all over the garden walls and climbing roses (probably with poisoned thorns) lined the doorway. In the doorway stood the grizzled and bent figure of Alastor Mad-Eye Moody, looking at Dora with his keen black eye and at Calliope with his over-eager electric blue one.

"Took the back door, did you Tonks?" he growled. "I knew you'd take none but the easiest route with your guest. She could've handled the front door. Come on inside." As he turned to go, Dora leaned to Calliope and whispered, "Notice the marigolds under the window. They're his one and only aesthetic indulgence."

"And don't you mutter like that either!" Moody called. "I won't have you prejudicing Philomel Ollivander's daughter against me."

Calliope gulped and let go of Dora's hand, striding forward in step with her.