Entering England

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

I feel compelled to add – if you have something to say, feel free to leave a review! And thanks.

In the leather backed chair of Moody's basement based home office, Calliope sat up straight and read aloud, for the first time, her uncle's letter to her of yesterday. Tonks, perched on the arm of the couch, leaned on her elbow against the bookshelf, her light brown hair unconsciously relaxing to shoulder length. Moody sat upright and alert, one eye fixed on Calliope while the other never stopped checking the doors and windows.

"'My dearest niece Calliope,'" she began, "'consider this an overdue thank-you for the raven figurine you sent me –' I'd picked that up in a flea market in Cape Cod, you see," she interrupted herself, "and thought –"

"Don't annotate, read!" Moody snapped.

Calliope without pause resumed reading, a little louder than before, and more like she was reciting an equation than reading a letter. Her voice did soften, however, when Servaas recalled "the little black-haired girl who used to run around asking why aspen leaves shake." Calliope swallowed and then began to read in a more natural voice. When she arrived at Servaas' reference to the stalemate formed between Harry Potter's and the Dark Lord's wands, Moody gave a low "hmm," which stopped Calliope. She looked up at him. He waved his hand to indicate continuing. It was only another paragraph until she finished that page and pulled out the next one.

She paused often on that page, but always resumed quickly, only once muttering "He sounds rambling..." the silence in the room felt absolute as she finished, "I hope that Hector, and Tess and Linus and Benny, rest in peace, will not mind when I tell you that you were always my favorite among the grand-nieces and nephews. Servaas Ollivander." She stared at the signature at the bottom a little longer. Dora leaned forward to sigh, "Well, that last bit almost sounds like a last will and testament."

"Suicide note's what I was thinking," Moody added, looking out the window. "He certainly seems to have known of his capture – unless, that is, he regularly writes as if today is the last day he'll be alive?"

"No, only you write like that, Mad-Eye," Dora said evenly. "What are you looking out the window for?"

"Sent a message soon as I knew you were coming. Reply's awfully late, unless – a-ha!"

Dora turned to see. Calliope started to get up for the window, but shrank back as Moody sprang out of his chair to hobble out of the basement.

"Who's coming?" She asked Dora. Dora looked at her almost pleadingly. "I should have told you before, I guess…"

"Told me what?" Calliope asked, following Dora up the stairs. At the head of the stairs Dora turned to face her.

"Callie," she said, "I'm more than a Ministry-employed Auror. For the last four years, I've also been working in the Order of the Phoenix."

The sound of the door opening creaked between them.

"The – the Order? That still exists?" This from Calliope, flabbergasted.

"Yes," Dora said, "it's re-organized under Albus Dumbledore."

"But, how can you –"

"Miss Ollivander," came a man's voice, very old but calm, assured, "I am so glad to see you."

Albus Dumbledore had appeared at the top of the stairs. "Please forgive my lateness, but the new Head of Durmstrang wanted my blessing before accepting her post. Shall we go into the sitting room?"

Calliope was now thoroughly dazed. But she remembered her manners: climbing the last stair, she shook Dumbledore's hand. He had extended his left hand, which Calliope first saw as a courtesy toward a left-handed lady, but then she spotted his right hand, preternaturally blackened, gave a small gasp, but suppressed it.

As they walked to Moody's sitting room, Dora seemed to be avoiding Calliope's eye. Moody had already taken a seat in his armchair and beckoned Dumbledore to sit opposite him. Calliope and Dora sat together on the loveseat, neither looking at the other.

"Believe me, Alastor," Dumbledore began, "I did attempt to come post-haste, but I am glad that you began regardless of my presence. If you'll allow me to see the manuscript –"

"Miss Ollivander has it," Moody nodded to Calliope, who clutched the paper in her hand and extended it to Dumbledore, saying, "Of course, here."

Dumbledore took it gingerly with his injured hand. He pulled a wand out of his pocket (Calliope noticed that his pocket held two wands, one battered, with a reddish sheen, over which he delicately passed), and a piece of parchment out of another. As he duplicated the ink and pattern on Servaas' letter and transferred it to the new parchment, he cordially asked, "Is anyone thirsty?" he then floated the parchments gently down, waved his wand again, and a flagon of mead appeared, accompanied by four tumblers. They filled and distributed themselves as he asked, turning to Calliope, "Miss Ollivander, I hope you will forgive us. You must feel very confused by now."

"A little, sir," She answered.

Dumbledore swirled the mead in his tumbler around a little, as if letting its flavors mix, before saying, "I wish you to be more at ease. How has your life been since you graduated Hogwarts? You were a Ravenclaw, I remember."

"Yes, sir." Calliope took a sip of the mead; it was quite tasty, but she puckered her mouth at the taste of alcohol. "And after my mother died, I moved to the United States, just for a couple of years. Just to study."

"What field, exactly?"

"Magical theory," she stared into her drink, "and advanced music studies. Violin and cello. Have you been to America, Professor?"

"Twice," he replied, "And never for very long, but it was worth it, to see the Statue of Liberty, and the sun set over the Pacific, in a Ferris wheel – not in the same day, of course." He gave a chuckle. "Well, Alastor, what is your interpretation?"

"Servaas Ollivander knew someone was out to get him," Moody flatly stated. "Or at least that something would happen to him. He doesn't seem to be the one to take action. Furthermore," he nodded again to Calliope, "it seems he pegged this one to know what was up."

"Me?" Calliope repeated.

Dora nodded. "Mr. Ollivander wrote that Calliope was very clever, in a way different from himself. He said he liked that. Also, he asked her to figure out the meaning of the Priori Incantetum fiasco from the night of the Third Task."

"Interesting," Dumbledore said. "Miss Ollivander, do you think you could answer that?"

"Y-yes," Calliope said, "with a little research."

"Of course, with research. But if I may override your great-uncle's request, I think it is more pressing for you to come and work with us. With the Order of the Phoenix."

Now Calliope looked at Dora, who met her glance steadily, and then back at Dumbledore. She clutched the mead and took a drink.

"The Order – sir, I'm sorry, but I wasn't quite aware that the Order was still in existence. I mean, it was a renegade group that you organized in the war against You-Know-Who – the first one, anyway – and before that it had come into and out of existence as necessary, that was how I understood it, like a phoenix. It would disappear but always return, hence the name."

"Then why are you surprised to know it is active?"

"I – I guess I shouldn't be, then. But – I do wonder why you're inviting me. I mean, my mum was a duelist, but I've…"

"If I may interrupt, Miss Ollivander, your mother's skills mean nothing to us anymore. We want you to work with us for precisely the reasons given by your uncle. You are curious and inquisitive about wandlore, correct?"

"Yes…"

"And yet you do not work in the shop. You are a student of enchanted objects, but not wands specifically. You are difficult to pinpoint as his intellectual heir. What I mean to say is –" Dumbledore cleared his throat and leaned forward, the tips of his fingertips – one set white touched with blue veins and brown age spots, the other black and shriveled – touching gently, "I guess that there are two reasons that Servaas Ollivander was kidnapped. One is for want of services. Another is want of knowledge. Want of services would apply if Voldemort –"

Calliope winced, though no one else did –

"Wanted a new wand for himself or new wands to equip his followers. Why are his thirteen inches of yew undesirable? Because they reacted in a stalemate against Harry Potter's wand of holly. Why's that? Servaas challenges you with that riddle. The next want is want of knowledge: if your uncle could give a reason as to why the wands react the way they did, and how Voldemort could avoid that. Again, you are asked to know something which Servaas himself already knows – knowledge which may have placed him in danger. If Servaas should have disappeared before the Death Eaters could have seized him, or if, God forbid, Servaas becomes unable to answer their questions, who will be the next person with the approximate knowledge and services to suit their needs in England?"

"Considering –" Calliope clutched at her skirts beside her so she wouldn't play with her fingernails – "that both Harry Potter's and He-Who-Must—"

"Say Voldemort, Miss Ollivander. You should get used to it if you're in the Order," Moody suggested.

"That He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's wand," Calliope continued, stubbornly adding in parentheses, "I'm not part of the Order yet – were of Ollivander make, then the next person would be Hector. Hector Gibbs."

"Your cousin," Dumbledore nodded. "On your mother's side. He is, do not worry, already watched by our custodians."

"Custodians?"

"Under the care of our estimable colleague, who arranges for the protection and relocation, if needed, of everyone the Order watches. You can trust us, Miss Calliope. However, the inconspicuous Ollivander child – out of the country for two and a half years now, child of Philomel Ollivander, a rebel against her family –"

"Which could be by itself a cause for suspicion," Moody pointed out.

" – you are in a perfect position to do some work for us."

"Of what sort?" Calliope refused to betray any vulnerability in her voice.

"We would like you to travel overseas – to Switzerland, where the wandmaker Gregorovitch lives and serves much of Europe – find him and tell him about Mr. Ollivander's capture. Ask him if he has any idea as to why Servaas posed a threat, or what Servaas might have known. On behalf of the Order, you will invite him into our protection and security. Your father was a Parisian who traveled often to Morocco. You speak near-fluent French and are familiar with international travel. Gregorovitch respects Servaas and will, I trust, listen to what you have to say. Miss Ollivander, do you have any objections to this?"

Calliope considered a moment. "How long would this trip take me?"

"If you leave tomorrow, Wednesday afternoon, you should reach Gregorovitch's house by Thursday, taking the train from Paris."

"Leaving tomorrow sounds… manageable." Calliope said with reluctance. "I know the Paris station well."

"Your stay in Switzerland should not be long – two days, I would guess – and then upon returning to England, you will return to the Order's members – either Tonks, or Moody, or another agent sent to receive you – and tell what you have found out. If Gregorovitch is with you, we will make arrangements for him. If we think you have done well, and if you wish, we may ask you to gather more information for us."

Calliope's mind split two ways – one ear rang with promised intrigue and pride: "if you have done well" and "gathering information," but another heard the "more" in the second statement, and she had a grim feeling that once one entered the Order, one stayed. She glanced at Dora again. Dora's face had lost its slightly apologetic air, and she held the unflinching, brave look of before – the face of an Auror.

Calliope looked Dumbledore in the eye. "Could my espionage help you find my uncle?"

"It will not alert us to his location, in all likelihood. But you might alert the entire Order as to what Voldemort's intentions are, and perhaps help us prevail against him."

Calliope looked at Alastor Moody's scratchy brown carpet, and paused only a moment before saying, "I'll do it."

An hour later, Calliope and Dora were on the Hogwarts Express heading north. Calliope had sent an owl to the Hollywyck house-elf. Hollywyck was a half-hour's flight by broom – or a short Apparition – from Hogsmeade village.

The two were very quiet, each absorbed in a different book. Dora was starting 'Hairy Snout, Human Heart' with a very serious countenance. Calliope, on the other hand, was writing, in her brown leather notebook, a carefully delineated list of what she was to do, whom she was to meet, a \nd by what times did each require completion (written backwards, just in case.) When she was done with that, she pulled out Elemental Magic in Dueling and Defense, but it reminded her painfully of her precious lost linden, so she put it back. Unsure what else to do, she sat and thought.

She'd told Dora that she was perfectly fine with her new information, with her mission, and with the Order of the Phoenix in general. There was no use in fretting over what was outside her control, and she did want some power to change things, some ability to help her uncle.

Now, though, Calliope was feeling rather less clement towards her friend. The Order of the Phoenix! Calliope's mother had spoken admiringly of their efforts in the last war – though she had never said much. And Calliope loved her mother, but thought that of course she, the fabulous Philomel Ollivander, who didn't change her name upon marriage but passed it on to her children in almost sheer defiance, would approve of an organization that kept to the shadows and took justice into its own hands. And for that matter that's all they did. Whenever a Death Eater plot was foiled and without obvious Ministry interference, rumors whipped around that "The Order did it." Calliope had reflected even as a child that a bit of secrecy was no reason to ascribe tall tales to them.

But that was what she'd bought into, wasn't it?

Frowning at herself, at the war, at the Order, she reached into her bag to pull out a small hardcover book bound in green, well-loved. She opened it to the title page and read softly aloud, with a touch of the dramatic, "The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga, A Historie Of No Little Significance, As Faithfully Recounted by Allison Bath."

Over a year ago, Mark had picked this book up, she remembered, and read the title aloud dramatically. He'd then turned the page, just as Calliope did now, to the flyleaf, with the words "Ex Libris" printed beneath a crossed lily and clematis.

That day had been only a couple of weeks after she'd begun to know Mark. It was raining in Boston, so Calliope had invited Mark inside her flat for a moment – a moment and a cup of tea. He had seen the book on her coffee table (Calliope was slowly learning to keep her most conspicuously magical items out of the sitting room.) He'd turned the page and read aloud.

"The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga, A Historie Of No Little Significance, As Faithfully Recounted by Allison Bath. I take it that this is an old book."

"Dates back to the 14th century – the words itself, I mean, in their original translation. It's based off actual history –" a swift gulp of tea – "but the veracity is a little debatable. Still my favorite version, though."

"14th century? Surprised I never heard of it in Medieval Lit class."

"You wouldn't have. It went out of print a long time ago and is considered inferior to the Canterbury Tales."

"Oh, everything is. Still fascinating, though. Mind if I borrow it sometime?"

"Er…"

He'd turned the page. "'Ex libris – Calliope Blithe – that's your middle name? – Ollivander, Ravenclaw Tower.' What's that refer to?"

"Er, my dormitory."

"Ah. And it says here: 'shamelessly shared with – something crossed out – Dora Tonks.' A friend of yours?"

"Yes. One of my closest friends, even back then."

"I didn't know you were called 'Callie.'"

"Dora only ever used a nickname for herself, so she had a phase of being crazy about nicknames for other people. I'm rarely called anything but Calliope."

"Now… further down the page, what's this? 'Bene – dicte' or 'dict?' I can't quite tell…"

"Benedicte," Calliope had filled in softly. "She was my sister."

"Oh – you – look sad. Did I say something?"

"No, it's just…" she had shrugged, "sort of alien to me. She died when I was three years old, you see. I don't remember her personally at all."

"Oh." That stunned silence. "I'm – I'm sorry to hear that. Truly."

Another shrug. "I'm told she was a wonderful person, but seriously, she's got… I only know what others have told me. That's why it's sort of alien."

Mark, adrift without an answer, had glanced down at the book again. "Aha, now it says, 'shamelessly shared with Bartemius Crouch III' – quite a name. Who was he? Unless I've misread the name and it's a she?"

Calliope's voice had turned from contemplative to tense. "He was a cousin of mine. A little younger than Benny. They went to Hog – to school together. They were good friends – so I'm told – but when they grew up, he turned – to crime. He performed – or participated in – truly heinous acts. He died in prison years ago." A pause. "When Dora and I first saw that flyleaf and wrote our names in it, we didn't realize who those names were. My sister, her cousin. I felt some connection to Benedicte when I read it – still do, in fact – but Bartemius' name there is like a ghost." She paused, then ventured, "You know?"

"Sure," Mark had said a little too casually. "Even Charles Manson must have borrowed books from a friend, once upon a time."

Calliope had never asked just who Charles Manson was, but Mark hadn't said anything farther, and she knew that nothing more needed to be said. That was a virtue of Mark's: he possessed tact. Most of the time, anyway.

Calliope stared out the window of the Hogwarts Express for a moment, at the never-moving clouds against the lashing shadows of trees, and wondered about Mark, and where he was, and if he had been the one to hit her. Unlikely, but he lived close by, and if he had spotted her wand – unwilling to resume cataloguing the possible fates that could befall a wand in Boston, she opened the book, and lost herself in the iambic pentameter recording the first meeting of Rowena "Wren" Ravenclaw and Sister Helga Hufflepuff.

Hogsmeade was quiet around them in the setting sunlight. Dora's flat was on Sow-whet Street, which extended on the edge of Hogsmeade, facing Hogwarts. It was a small town house, only one story which she described as having "one bedroom, an office, a bath and kitchen, and a miserable excuse for a garden."

"And there's probably a boggart lurking in the closet of the office. I'm real sorry about that. Once you get a wand, though, I thought you and I could face it together." Dora opened the door to the flat. "Welcome home?"

Calliope looked around the place. "It's… cozy," she ventured.

"Absolutely nothing unnecessary," Dora insisted.

"Commendable." Calliope went to the empty mantelpiece and ran a finger along the edge. She gave a little sigh, then turned to Dora with a grin. "Well, at least one of us is good at domestic spells, right?"

"Right." Dora managed a smile.

"It's the least I can do." Calliope put her satchel on the bed and began to take out her photographs. "My luggage from the Keyport should be arriving soon, don't you think? I'll go wait for it at the station and then… well… unpack. I'll make an early night of it."

On the east side of the Accidental Magic Reversal building, with an underground bridge connecting it to Magical Law Enforcement and the Muggle Liaison Office, there was a wing so different in architecture and color that it may have been another building altogether. A marble bust of former Minister of Magic Mnemone Radford stood in plain sight of the door, with the words 'Our Illustrious Founder' engraved at the base.

On the floor in a mosaic of white and black marble there was set a wide circle divided down the center by a black line. A white six-pointed star sat in the center of the circle. The left hemisphere, flooded in black, had a white crescent moon on it, facing away from the star, and the opposite hemisphere, laid in white, had a black crescent in the opposite attitude. Around the ceiling was written the words "Splendide Mendax."

These were the unmistakable, unforgettable marks of the Obliviator and Paramnesiac Department.

The room was quiet, for now, the magical synthetic light from the fake skylight falling onto nothing on particular. Pops from outside the door echoed in the chamber. Next minute, about five people entered the chamber, clad in robes that varied from grey to darker grey to almost black. The one person with the almost black cloak carried it over his arm already and was barking orders to the others.

"J.T., I want you to sent an owl down to Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, in case what that Muggle said about the playground set is true. All of you will report back to me in case there's a single Modification you've failed to report, and C.B., write the Society of Potioneers for some more Veritaserum, we're running low – or brew some yourself, I don't care…" he entered the Paramnesiac Department's hallway. A man in darker grey ran up to him and called,

"Mr. T.R. – Mr. T.R., sir – "

The one addressed as T.R. looked about him a minute but did not stop walking until his pursuer shrugged off his grey cloak and called in a loud voice, "T.R., if you please!"

"Oh!" T.R. turned around. "Sorry, L.O., but I didn't notice you." He nodded approvingly at the cloak over L.O.'s arm. "Congratulations again on that promotion. That cloak works well on you."

"Thank you, sir," L.O. said brightly. He continued to speak in a slightly louder voice than usual, "I just wanted to report that I spotted a young Muggle girl – probably no older than nine – watching us from the rim of the fence on the other yard. I pointed my wand at her – she didn't see me, of course – and performed a Child-Safe Memory Charm on her, just before we left. She leaned back from the fence and walked away."

"Nice done," T.R. nodded. "And impressive, using the Child-Safe Charm from such a distance."

"Such a well-made spell is easy to cast well anywhere," L.O. returned. The Child-Safe Memory Charm, they both knew, had been invented by T.R. himself years ago.

"Thank you, my good man. By the way," T.R. began to walk again, with L.O. beside him, "I heard of the disappearance of your uncle recently and wanted to extend my condolences."

"Thank you, sir," L.O. nodded.

"It must be quite painful, to lose yet another close family member in the war against You-Know-Who… you suffered losses in the first war, did you not?"

"Well…"

They had stopped walking. T.R. was facing L.O. and eying him keenly. L.L. found his hands balling into fists, his one nervous habit. "Well, my uncle Hector, and yes, my sister Benedicte disappeared. That was hard for us…"

"What did you say just there?"

"Benedicte, my sister," L.O. repeated, loudly.

"Ah, yes. You never found out what happened to her, did you?"

"No… why?" L.O. looked up, all gracious pleasantries lost. T.R.'s thin, blotchily complexioned face was slightly sad, a touch quizzical.

"No reason. I do hope they find your uncle soon though…"

A call came from farther down the hallway, "L.O., mail call!" L.O. nodded to his superior and wished him a good day as he hurried down to the Messages room, close to his own office.

"Hello, A.T.," he said to the diminutive form wearing a beginner's turtledove-grey robe, organizing letters with her wand hand and shooing away owls with the other. "What's for me?"

"Hold on, they just got lost under another pile of those Ministry pamphlets on the most effective use of Memory Charms on witnessing Muggles, don't they have anyone better to send these to?"

"I don't know. I'm half-tempted to mail these to… I don't know, The Quibbler." L.O. took out his wand and levitated the emerald green flyers to a shelf stuffed with the same.

A.T. snickered, her blue eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Good idea. So –" A.T.'s voice became more casual, give or take an invective aimed at a certain persistent owl, "I saw you gushing to Mr. Rowle back there."

"I don't gush, and call him T.R."

"Oh, come on –"

"That's Obliviator policy, it's how it's done!"

"Oh, come on, I see no reason not to just call him – oh, don't look like that, we all know each other's names anyway, Lin—"

"Amity! Please, we're on duty! See, I called you by your given name, happy now?"

Amity Tweak grinned. "That's more like it. Anyway, you sure do spend plenty of time taking to Mr. T.R. now that you're promoted."

"If you mean anything negative by that, you can keep it. I just find T.R. to be a brilliant example and I want to emulate him. That's all."

She only shrugged, handing the black-haired man his letters.

"And it's not like I exclude you guys now." L.O. pointed out.

She nodded. "I know. But it's T.R. that bugs me."

"He's a great Obliviator," Linus insisted stoutly.

"I'm not disputing that," Amity replied, "But he doesn't listen to me." Brushing her wavy blonde hair out of her eyes, she went on, "I've been trying to tell him for a long time about this pattern of attacks I've been researching – people whose memories have been Modified in harmful ways – and he just brushes me off every single time. It's extremely irksome."

"Wait a minute." He held up a letter edged with a green border design. He sighed irritably. "My cousin Tess."

"Ah. You don't seem to like her."

"That's… astute." He opened the letter quickly and read it with an impassive face.

"What's she say?"

"Says that the time is up for her and Hector and I to decide what to do with the shop. Calliope hasn't written back to me yet. I don't know why."

"Does she usually forget to write?"

A beat. "She has forgotten when under a lot of stress – like final exams. Damn it. Well… Hector and Tess and I agree that the shop should be closed."

"Oh." She put down the envelope she was holding. "I'm sorry. That must be a really tough decision."

"It's the only one. Calliope can't exactly overrule us, could she? I just have to write back to Tess. And maybe I'll send another owl to Callie – see you later, Amity"

"You're welcome. … I'm sorry again, L.O."

Linus nodded, but didn't say anything else as he left the mail room.

"Have you written to Linus yet?"

Calliope almost dropped the photograph she'd been holding. "No! Shoot, I forgot. I forgot completely."

"What were you planning on saying?" Dora said carefully. She took the last three photographs out of Calliope's bag and set them on her bed.

"Well, you know, just telling him I'm in England, and that I'm with you, and… that I'm here… what's with that facial expression?"

Dora took a deep breath. "I don't know how to tell you this, but, Callie, I don't think you should write to Linus just yet."

Calliope put down the photograph she was holding. "And why not? He's my brother, I've delayed long enough in answering his question about the shop. I don't want him to worry about me."

"Calliope, right now only three people know that you're in England: myself, Moody, and Albus Dumbledore. If more people know that you're in England now, you could be in…"

"Danger? What would anyone want with me?"

"If your uncle is in danger, then you are, too."

"Well, we're all in danger, aren't we? My uncle and I – you can barely compare us just because we both know a bit about wandmaking."

"Callie, there's a lot I can't tell you because you're not fully inducted into the Order yet…"

Calliope folded her arms across her chest.

"Don't give me that look…"

"What if I wrote to Linus, but didn't say a word about where I was? Can't I do that? Write to my own brother?"

"Yes," said Dora, with a certain note of relief. "I mean – eventually the word that you're here will get out – I mean, we're not keeping you in hiding or anything. But if you just kept quiet on it for the time being, it could make all the difference."

Calliope unfolded her arms and set her hands on her hips. "All right. Do you have a post owl?"

"Not of my own. I mean to get one soon, we can go shopping. The Scops owl I got is only a loan – just for local deliveries."

"I know. I'll go to the post office then."

"Okay." Dora nodded brightly to the photographs on Calliope's nightstand and bed. "We can put some of those photographs on the mantelpiece, if you like. They add life to a place, you know. And you Ollivanders are a really photogenic family."

Calliope tried not to grin. "That's not what photogenic means, Dora. That means we look good in photographs. Papa loves taking pictures of us more than anything else."

Dora picked a photo up from the bed. "Well, here we are at our first playdate. Three years old and scared stiff of each other."

"Really? That's how you remember it?"

"Well, yeah."

"I think we were just shy at first."

"How did our mums meet again?" Dora asked.

"The playground. You and I were playing around, and when you first showed that you could change your hair color I dragged you to my Mum to show you off. Your mum came over then, and – my Mum told me this later – she couldn't believe that your mum was so young. And she added that your mum probably thought mine was so old!"

"I don't believe she ever said that…"

"But they recognized each other. Mum's face had been in the papers a lot, and, well…" The taller woman trailed off.

"My mum, the walking talking Bellatrix Lestrange lookalike."

"Yeah. They were the ones who really hit it off, not us."

"Oh no. We never got along."

"Never."

"Now who are these people?" Dora held up another photo. "I don't know them."

"This was taken – must have been this past winter. My friend Andrew has another friend who's also very camera-happy. He took this picture of the bunch of us when we were in a café. That's Andrew there, there's his older sister Tabitha, that snooty-looking one is Scalia, and there's me, and then there's… Mark."

"Mark, eh?"

"Yeah. Scalia would call him the 'token Muggle.'"

"Token?"

"It was just… a put-down. Mark was rarely the only Muggle in the group, if he was with us."

"I'm gathering you don't like Scalia much."

"He's all right if he likes you. He doesn't like Mark."

"You seem to."

Calliope started a bit. "Of course. Mark's very likeable. Scalia's just been around pure-bloods too much of his life."

"Mm-hm. C'mon, let's put this photo of the two of us in the living room."

"You sure? I'm looking in a different direction from you…"

"And my hair looks like a bird's nest. We'll live."

"All right. And then I'm writing to Linus."

"Fine. That's just fine."

About six hours after leaving Boston, Mark Printzen was lingering just outside of the international baggage claim of Edinburgh Airport. He looked around the flourscently lit space, looking for Bridget and trying to loosen up his stiff legs.

He could still feel the wand sitting in his backpack. Just the thought of it made him excited. He started singing softly to himself as he strode up and down the sidewalk, "Could it be? Yes it could! Something's coming, something good – if I can wait. Something's coming, I don't know, what it is, but it is, gonna be great –"

"Nice that you still have that memorized," came a voice from behind him.

Mark jumped and turned. "Bridget!" He straightened up, trying to act like he had not been singing a minute ago. "You caught me by surprise."

She grinned, tossing her pale blonde ponytail over her shoulder. "Who was I to interrupt such a performance? Do you still have that whole song memorized?"

"Probably…" he mumbled.

"Cool. Do you want me to take that bag?"

"Ah, no, thanks, I'd rather hang on to it."

"Okay. So! About today: My show tonight starts at six, and we're planning for dinner at this nice place… you can keep singing, you know. This is the Fringe Festival."

"Ah, I'd rather not, thanks."

But when the bus clattered past the Royal Mile, giving the two Americans a glimpse of the crowded Fringe Festival street, Mark couldn't help but hear in his head, 'The air is humming, and something great is coming… it's only just out of reach, down a block, on a beach, maybe tonight…'

In the long, brick-walled basement of a certain house in northern England, Servaas Ollivander lay with a spell-weakened throat, in fetal position on a thin mattress. He had a small water closet to himself and a bed, and a window that leaked in unwelcome sunlight to the room.

He still had not seen his custodian's face, but knew that he was 1. Male. 2. Younger than Mr. Ollivander himself, although as Servaas had been a schoolmate of Aberforth and Albus Dumbledore, this said very little. 3. Held a position of power at the Ministry of Magic 4. He was the younger brother of another Death Eater, who was married.

The only way to identify the man, as both the Dark Lord and his own brother had called him, was to say 'Turpentine.' It was an odd nickname, considering that Mr. Turpentine was neither smelly nor liquid, but it made thinking about the man much less fearsome, when he could be at least mocked a little.

As mentioned before, Servaas' feet were bound. He had been given a potion with his soup dinner, which spoiled the taste, and weakened his strength. But he had enough strength to take out the battered notebook from the unfound pocket in his vest, and the pen that was with it, and write in it,

"My name is Servaas Ollivander, and this is the first day of my captivity."