Chapter Eight – Nightfall

Turpentine was home early that day, and immediately set up shop in the basement where he kept Servaas Ollivander. He shuttered the high windows, lit a lamp, and set up an ancient, ornate little music box.

Servaas ventured to ask, "What brings you home so early?"

Turpentine gave a little smile. "Today is the first day of my experiment. I need a lot of time to set it up… and I want to do it right." He opened up the music box, which began to play a slow, sad tune. He took the marble slab with the carved triangles on it off of its stand. He laid it in a large tub with a soft green potion that gave a slightly bitter smell. He left it soaking and went upstairs. He returned, levitating a large case carefully in front of him. He set it on the floor and opened it, levitating out three – six – nine glass potion bottles, all, save one, glowing from within with some silvery-white substance.

"Over a year's worth of collecting," he said aloud. Servaas wasn't sure if the monologue was directed to him, if Turpentine was speaking to himself, or for posterity's sake. "Three year's worth of planning. A lifetime of learning. Only one key left."

He turned to Servaas and held up his wand again. "Sir, I must rely on your generosity yet once more…"

The sun was setting over the mountains around Hogwarts. Dora Tonks was patrolling the Hogwarts perimeter with Calliope Ollivander beside her. Periodically the two would break apart and Dora would go some paces ahead, calling to the taller woman, "Now remember! A happy memory, or a happy thought. Focus on it, now!"

Calliope, black hair tied back , gripped the plum wand and focused her mind on the day that she had won a Quidditch match. She, the shy, too-tall Calliope, to whom flight was only a way to spend a half-hour in fun, had stepped up to her duty as a reserve Seeker and donned the Quidditch uniform. It had been a rainy, early spring day that would occasionally clear and sparkle, and it was in one of those breaks that she had seen the Snitch. Adrenaline and ecstasy had riveted through her, and, forgetting strategy, she had put all the momentum that she could summon behind her and nearly sprained her shoulder reaching for the Snitch.

She could still feel the gold quivering in her hand as she held the wand. She smiled.

That day contained a joy that she knew even then would not come again, not for her: the joy of athletics, of physical victory, of a joy suffusing the entire Ravenclaw House that was due entirely to her. The rain had returned and splattered on her face when she returned to the ground to be swamped entirely by the Ravenclaw team. The wind had risen against their backs, driving them back to their tower, for cakes, for warmth, for celebration.

The wind rose against Calliope's face and hand now. It carried autumn on it, carried her out of the early, early spring day.

"Don't hesitate!" Dora yelled.

One more time, she clenched her eyes shut. One more time, the adrenaline, the cheers, the rain and sparkle.

"Expecto Patronum!" she shouted.

Out of the plum wand burst – Calliope kept her eyes shut, imagining a vast swooping eagle, a lion rampant, maybe even a… she opened her eyes. A vague, glowing fog obscured Dora from her sight, dimly.

"Damn."

Dora ran to her, through the Patronus-fog, breaking it apart into little wisps. (Calliope cringed.) "That was very good, Callie!" she said. "I know it doesn't look like much, but believe me, it was a start."

"If I had cast it two seconds before it would have been better," Calliope said, looking to the Quidditch pitch.

"I know," Dora said. "If you hesitate, then… there's time for the memory to get corrupted, you know?"

"Corrupted? What do you mean?"

"Well…" Dora took a while to answer. "I mean, for my Patronus, it used to be that I'd think of a person, one person that I always felt happy with…"

"The same person every time?" Calliope asked (of course, a part of her was wondering if Dora meant her, but her more sensible part dismissed that).

"Mostly, pretty much, yeah, recently," Dora answered. "But lately… that person and I, we've had… a kind of a falling-out. We're still friends and all, but… if I think of him and cast a Patronus, if I don't do it really fast, then the happiness is gone and it's replaced by – it's replaced by what's wrong now. Between us." She paused. "That's why I've not yet cast a Patronus to show you how it's done."

"I wondered about that," Calliope admitted.

"Also," Dora ventured, "My Patronus' shape changed recently."

"It did?"

"I didn't mean for it to. But let me show you…"

She did. She did not close her eyes, but merely pointed her wand at a nearby tree and called, "Expecto Patronum!"

A silvery light erupted from her wand tip and resolved itself into the form of a large, four-legged animal. Calliope shaped her eyes to get a better look at it. "It's – a dog? No, a sort of a wolf…"

"It really reflects somebody I know," Dora commented idly.

"A… a were—"

"It's their secret," Dora said quickly. "Not mine."

Calliope remembered what she'd read about what caused Patronuses to change. Massive trauma, personal struggle, or falling in love. She ventured, "It really has been a long time, hasn't it, Dora?"

"I guess." Dora shrugged and turned around, walking into the wind, towards Hogsmeade. ""I'm not sure how to feel about it. I mean – to realize that this guy – person has affected me so deeply, it's like, I don't fully belong to myself anymore. Granted, I was kind of aware of that beforehand, but having hard and fast evidence before me is another matter entirely."

Calliope said nothing. Dora turned to her with a little smile. "One day you'll know what I mean." Calliope nodded, biting her lower lip and looking westward.

"I think that's enough practice for today," Dora said. "You won't get much better if you push yourself without any dinner."

"I've got the theory on it, I just need practice!" Calliope insisted. She glared at the wand in her hand. "I'll read up about it more at Hollywyck…"

"Books aren't life," Dora pointed out. She took her friend's arm.

"They're a worthwhile substitute!" A glance at the Quidditch stadium. "Maybe if we returned to a place full of happy memories…"

"That's not a good technique to rely on, come on, we've got to do one more circumference of the castle before nightfall…"

"Wait a minute." Calliope stopped in her tracks. Happy memories… "I need to go… to take a quick visit. It won't be long, promise."

"Where?" Dora didn't let go of Calliope's arm.

"Just to Diagon Alley."

"Ah." Dora let her go. "All right. Be quick. Meet you back at the house."

"All right."

Mark received directions to an ATM and thanked the man graciously. With Linus at his heels, he went to the store and withdrew an undisclosed sum, automatically converted, from his own account in the U.S., muttering only, "That should do us," as he counted out the pounds.

Then, he asked the stationmaster for the name of some cheap but reliable nearby hotel or hostel. Having received those, he thanked the lady generously and followed her directions there, Linus hurrying behind him.

It turned out there was a hotel only a block away from King's Cross. In the lobby of the hotel itself (a cramped but neat and clean place), Mark rented a room with two beds and asked if he could call for pizza (yes, he could, but he had to pick it up at the door) and then he asked for a nearby shopping center ("for souvenirs.") He wrote down the directions he got, borrowed the lobby's phone to call for a half-pepperoni and half-cheese pizza, and then chatted with the clerk about the American disgust for ethnic cuisine, blithely ignoring Linus' paranoid glances at the windows and doors.

As the two of them ascended the stairs to their room Mark said to Linus, "All right – once we're in the room, I'd appreciate it if you set to work removing whatever nauseating spells there are on that cloak. The clerk said he'd send up a call when the pizza gets here. And maybe you could find us a good movie on TV."

As they entered the room (a bit small) Linus protested, "First of all, I don't even know how a TV works. Secondly, my Stone Cloak's magic is powerful and pervasive – it would take hours at least to deconstruct the spells on it and maybe more to put them back. It's a very delicate creation and furthermore indispensable and I'm not going to destroy it so you'll feel more comfortable."

"There's a difference between just feeling comfortable and having actual Muggle Repellant in the room." Mark sat on the bed nearer to the door.

"It's not Muggle Repellent, it's just a charm! And when it's packed away it doesn't even affect you."

"I – " Mark dropped his hands. "All right. It's been a long day. We're both very tired and stressed. I'm going to take a shower. Keep that cloak tucked away, and pay the delivery man when he comes – my wallet's right on the bed. And I'll find a movie for us to watch, or something, as soon as I'm done taking a shower. We should be up bright and early tomorrow so we can find a good shopping center or something."

Linus set his briefcase – his only salvaged item from the apartment – on the bed closest to the window, in case of attackers by broomstick. "What do you need a shopping center for?"

"New threads. I've had this shirt on for two days straight now, and it's obviously American. And you can't pass as a Muggle under casual circumstances." Mark glanced at Linus' under-cloak uniform: white shirt, gray slacks, a gray vest and black tie. "Well, maybe a bit, but you still look like a fish out of water. Be sure to pay the pizza guy fourteen pounds. And that said, see you in a bit!" Mark kicked off his shoes and almost leapt into the bathroom.

Linus rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. He took off his shoes and prodded the bed. He shrugged, muttering, "Could be worse." With a glance at the window, he took out his wand and started to ward the room, wondering if they had time for Mark's shopping scheme the next morning, or if they would be safe, and where Calliope was.

Calliope had hoped that, somehow, the shop would still be open.

She had hoped that there would be more lights in the windows than the reflections of the dim streetlamps up and down Diagon Alley. She had hoped that the doors would not really be boarded up, but that students-to-be would be passing in and out of it with excitement, even at this late hour. A part of her had believed that if she stood in the doorway and called for Hector, he would come, his footfalls light, with his chin-length blond hair and ready smile, as always. And then Uncle would follow.

She had hoped that the shop would still be alive.

But it stood there, narrow and empty, its face as dead and dull as an extinguished lamp.

And she stood there, her eyes wide, in front of the empty shop. She stepped forward so she would be in the doorframe, less visible in the street. She covered her face with her hands.

"How does linden wood, a little more than eleven inches, with a phoenix feather core sound to you? Give it a wave, go on."

She could see Uncle Servaas' smile as he wrapped the wand up and gave it to her.

"How could I have lost it?" she berated herself, quietly. "How could I have lost it? Uncle would… he would never forgive me if…" She left that sentence fade off and leaned against the boards of the door, taking deep breaths and refusing to give into tears. Without prompting, she remembered something Mark had told her when she had shared the anniversary of her mother's death with him: "They say that people are never truly dead as long as they are not forgotten – which means that your mother will never be dead, because you will never forget her."

She gave a shuddering sigh, and reflected that, comforting as the sentiment was, it wasn't perfectly suited to the situation. But she remembered Uncle Servaas, and sent a quiet prayer, hoping he was safe, and that he would forgive her for losing his best birthday gift to her.

"Hello?" a voice interrupted her thoughts. A dark haired, middle-aged woman in a peach-and-white striped uniform was standing not far away and looking at Calliope with some concern. "Are you all right?"

"Just… a little rattled, that's all," Calliope explained quickly, and stiffly, standing up straight again. "To see… this shop… all empty."

The woman took a step closer. "Are you from the Ollivander family? I seem to remember you used to be around here quite often. You've been away for a while."

"Why… why, yes. How do you…"

"I'm Dulcinea Fortescue. My husband was… he was taken away recently. Just like Mr. Ollivander."

"Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss."

"I know it must be hard to come back to this." Mrs. Fortescue's eyes lifted to the empty windows.

"It is."

"Say, our old shop has needed some repairs, but my son and daughter and I are operating a little cart of some of our top selling flavors just around the corner. How about you come over and share a scoop or two? On the house."

"Oh, I couldn't…"

"I insist. Please, it'll be nice to talk about Mr. Ollivander with someone, if you don't mind. I remember how he used to say good morning to us every day, without fail. And he'd come over now and again and get into long discussions – lectures would be more precise – with Florean over history. Please, I'd really love if you paid us a visit."

"All right," Calliope managed a smile at the idea of her uncle and Florean sharing tales of wizarding history together, "I think I have time for that. And I've… I really have missed the taste of Fortescue's."

"Well, we'll fix you right up in a jiffy and maybe we can have a little bit of a talk…"

Calliope let Dulcinea Fortescue lead her away to the warm, sweet-smelling cart, but turned to give a last look at the shop before she went. In her heart of hearts, she knew she was promising, 'I'll come back.'

Half an hour later, a blissful and still damp Mark stepped out of the bathroom, re-clothed, accompanied by billowing steam. "Aaaah." To Linus, who was sitting on the bed, experimentally chewing a slice of pepperoni and olives, "Pizza's here, I see. Timely. Is it good?"

"I – don't think I've ever had pizza before."

"But is it good?"

"It's….not bad."

"And you paid the guy?"

"Yes, I paid the guy. It was actually a blonde girl, if you must know."

"Good, good." He took a slice of pizza and bit into it. "Mm, mm. This is pretty good. Mind if I turn on the TV?"

"Go ahead."

Mark took the remote control and turned the telly on. The electricity hummed in the air, then hushed. "I just want to check the news. And maybe Masterpiece Theater if it's on. The reception's not that great here."

"That may be my fault. Magic makes electricity less reliable."

"Really? Huh. It's watchable, though."

Time passed as Mark flipped channels, at last arriving on the BBC. They both watched the news in silence. When a commercial came up, Mark muted the sound.

Linus asked "Is this what American Muggle families do?"

"What?"

"Sit in front of their televisions, saying nothing and eating junk food?"

"Well, I don't have my own family, but no, this is not what Americans do all the time, and not Muggles either. I want to hear the news, I'm too tired to talk, and this," gesturing to the pizza, "nourishing meal, my friend, provides us with dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow, compliments of the icebox there. Evidently you have never been to college."

"Well, excuse me."

Silence.

The news returned and Mark turned the sound on. The weary-eyed newscaster reported: "The total casualties from the Warwickshire bridge disaster have been at last tallied at two hundred thirty-three dead." A picture flashed on the screen of a bridge clearly severed.

Mark said, softly "Whoa."

Linus swallowed his second slice of pizza and said, after a pause, "That was wizards."

"What?"

The newscaster went on: "And now a special report from the Prime Minister…"

Mark muted the television. "What do you mean, 'that was wizards?'"

"Precisely what I said. That was a recent act of a renegade criminal society that targets Muggles and Muggle-born wizards specifically…"

"Terrorists?"

"You might call them that," Linus said thoughtfully. "Their business is terror. And death. They're the Death Eaters."

Mark turned to look at Linus. "Are, are they very influential?"

"We're at war. You, of course, have no idea. But it's been waging for – a year, maybe a year and a half now, though the press ignored it…"

"That sudden?"

"That was when their leader returned. We all thought he was dead. But –" he shook his head, "He came back. After thirteen years…"

"Who is he?"

"We call him You-Know-Who."

"But, what's his name?"

"Nobody speaks it – nobody who values their life, anyway."

"Does the name have power?"

"I don't know. I've only said it twice in my life."

"That bad? What is he, Sauron?"

"Who?"

"The Lord of the Rings… never mind. That's how bad it is?"

"Yes, that's exactly 'how bad' it is." Linus stared blankly at the television screen for a bit, before saying carefully, "You know that Calliope and I had a sister, an older sister, right?"

"I've heard. She died when Calliope was two…?"

"She didn't die. She was murdered by Death Eaters – the people, terrorists, who work for You-Know-Who."

"God's sake, why?"

"You think I know?" Linus faltered. "We… we think it's because… well, you've noticed that some wizards, wizards who are very traditional and… foolish, believe that Muggles are inferior. As a consequence, they believe that wizards who are Muggle-born are inferior, and wizards who marry Muggles are inferior, as are any children resulting from that union. My mother's family – the Ollivanders – from whom Calliope and I take our name – is a very old, very pure-blooded family traditionally. At least, in the official documents. But our father – our father was not only a foreigner, but his family is mixed. So our blood is mixed. That was the closest we could get to a reason for why Benny should have died. Not that there was any reason to be found."

After a pause, Mark asked, "How old were you?"

"I was seven."

"Oh god. I'm sorry."

"Well… thank you. It was a long time ago."

"And those people are back?"

"Yes."

"Do you think that's why your uncle was… taken?"

"No. Even Umbridge would find it impossible to fault Uncle Servaas for his bloodline. Uncle Servaas is, however, a great wandmaker. And he knows about everything there is to know about wands… and that could be very valuable, or very dangerous."

"Jesus."

"It's kind of fascinating," Linus went on, in an emotionless voice, "to consider everything that might be done if you didn't have any moral qualms – what avenues of magic you could explore thoroughly… but fortunately, most of us have moral qualms. They're rather important."

"Well… I guess that your sister's death must have influenced you a lot, huh?"

Linus gave him a look that was sufficient answer.

"I mean, you went into Magical Law Enforcement. You clearly have a strong sense of justice."

"I… my branch of M.L.E. doesn't arrest criminals or anything like that."

"Oh? What do you do for a living?"

Linus again found himself unable to meet Mark's eyes. "Ah… well… I'm an Obliviator."

"You mentioned that before, but I didn't quite get what you do."

"There are several varieties of us – some specialize in making buildings impossible to find or draw, others work more purely on research into the human mind – my primary job is to Modify the memories of any Muggle who has a run-in with magic without proper clearance."

Mark blinked. "Modify memories? Clearance?"

"Well, yes. The parents of Muggle-born wizards or witches, for example, or sometimes the Muggle spouse of a witch or wizard. Some Muggles just have the privilege of knowing about this world, like heads of state."

"You mean the President of the United States knows wizards exist?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Explains a lot. But what do you mean, 'modify memories'?"

"Using magic to remove the memory permanently from the conscious mind. Make it irretrievable." He glanced at Mark, who was about to speak. "I know what you're thinking, everyone thinks we erase or delete memories, no, they're still there, we just – relocate them. We're not wiping minds clean, like windows or something. It's about moving a precise occurrence so that the conscious mind of the Muggle cannot recall it. A very delicate skill, and one essential to the survival of the Wizarding World."

Mark was silent for a long time.

This was unusual, Linus decided, and glanced over to look at him. He looked – disappointed? Apprehensive? At length, Mark ventured, "So you mean any Muggle who has any magical, unexplainable encounter – you just take it away from them? Blip it?"

"That – take it away – not really, but, yes."

"What about me?"

"I know it sounds harsh," Linus swallowed, "I know it is kind of harsh, but believe me, you would rather forget everything about the magical world than be sent to Azkaban, even without Dementors."

"The mentors?"

"Don't even ask. Don't."

"Fine, I won't… does this mean that, if all goes well, if maybe I get acquitted, that I could receive clearance to remember my experiences?"

Linus made a face. "That's a long shot, especially in these days. It's likelier that your memory would be Modified."

Mark's face was impassive. "Does that mean… does that mean I would have no memory of having ever met Calliope?"

Linus did not answer for a few moments. When he did, he spoke professionally. "Well, leniency suggests that you retain your memories of Calliope, but your memory of the past three days will be modified. You will completely forget that Calliope is a witch, for example, or that witches and wizards even exist, or that you met me."

Mark said nothing.

More gently, Linus said, "You'll be happier that way."

"Okay, I get it. And you're saying that you'd be able to do that to me if…"

"If I saw fit. Yes."

Mark swallowed. "Okay. Um. Let's talk about something else."

"As you wish. If you're sure you don't want to watch…" he gestured towards the flickering screen.

"The television? Well, it's not going away, is it? But I want to talk now. Um… tell me about the Wizarding United States."

"American wizards? Well, I don't know a lot. I guess – well, the stereotype is that they're loud, boisterous, kind of rude…"

"Typical American stereotypes…"

"But they're also reputed to be really lucky."

"Lucky? Us? How?"

"It started out as thirteen colonies, right?"

"Yes."

"That's one of the single unluckiest numbers in Arithmancy. Wizards – some more than others – put a lot of stock into Arithmancy."

"… is that fortunetelling with numbers?"

"It's complicated business with numbers. But most folks would agree: a country that started out in thirteen parts would be doomed to fail."

"Ah. But…"

"But now it's one of the most successful countries in the world, with forty-nine states – a very lucky number. There's even a song called Yankee Jinx, goes something like…"

"Forty-nine? There's fifty states."

"No, there's forty-nine."

"I'm an elementary school teacher, I'm pretty sure there's fifty."

"Oh! Maybe for Muggles, but I'm pretty sure that the Wizard government doesn't count the Hawaiian Islands as part of their jurisdiction. They're associated and protected, of course, but not a state per se."

"Why?"

"I'm not familiar with Hawaiian magical practices, but I hear it's a terrible thing to get on the bad side of."

"Cool. I'd like to hear more about that."

"That's about as much as I know. But I hear the more traditional types use hollowed-out gourds in addition to wands for magic… but that's seriously about it."

"But how come the Hawaiian Islands aren't a state in the Wizarding world but they still remain a state in Muggle politics?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Oh. Sorry."

"Other thing about the U.S. – one of the few countries in the world that actually followed Quodpot instead of Quidditch."

"What's the difference?"

"Quidditch the ball goes through hoops, Quodpot the ball explodes if it's not put in the cauldron on time. Completely insane."

"… Oh. What?"

Linus looked confused, then realized, "Quidditch is the national sport. Played on broomsticks."

"Broomsticks? Really? Do they ever televise games?"

Linus looked at Mark. "I didn't know how to operate a remote control until today. Answer is no. However, they do air commentary on the radio. I like to listen to a match if it's after work, maybe with some folks from the office."

"What's your home team?"

"Oh, it varies. Depends on what gang I'm with – but I have a fond spot for the Montrose Magpies. Most successful team in the League by far, and sort of my home team – they're closer to Hollywyck than any other team. Yeah, they'd be my home team."

"Awesome. But America doesn't play that game at all?"

"Well, they have some remarkable teams. I've heard good reports of the Los Angeles Seraphim and the Baltimore Orioles – I think that's the name. But American Quidditch really doesn't quite compare. On the other hand, America quite surpasses England with its rich theater tradition."

"For example?"

"For example, the current toast of Mockingbird Lane (it's an alley just off of what you'd call the West End) is an American retelling of 'The Little Mermaid.'"

"Really!"

Linus gave a smirk. "No, actually, I'm joking. Yes, really. From what I've read, for half of the show the stage is flooded with six feet of water that doesn't spill to the audience at all. The actors swim and sing in authentic Mermish with a translation provided."

"Oh, I'd love to see that."

"So would I," Linus admitted.

"Hold on – does it retain the original ending, or does it go the Disney route?"

"The Disney route?"

" I mean, is the ending happy or sad?"

"Oh, it's quite happy –"

"Aha, the Disney one –"

"The mermaid, Andrea, discovers that she was actually switched at birth with the evil 'human' princess, who's actually a mermaid, and in the end Andrea transfigures herself back to a human permanently and marries her prince."

Mark blinked.

"And then she forgives the evil princess, who has to live as a mermaid."

"Wait." Mark shook his head. "What? That's not the real ending at all! That's not even Disney!"

"What's Disney?"

"The one where her father turns her into a human."

"But she was born a mermaid? Well, we couldn't have that marriage, that'd be – uncomfortable. For the audience."

"How so?"

Linus sighed. "I keep forgetting how much you don't know. Merpeople are real. To a wizard, the idea of marrying a mermaid is utterly repellant."

"Then why make a play off of the original story? Or the Disney movie?"

"What's a Disney movie?"

"Oh… Oh, you don't even know. I've got to educate you, man."

"The same way you educated Calliope, you mean?"

"Well… yes. But somehow you don't strike me as a Disney person."

"And why not?" Linus bristled. "What makes Calliope a Disney person and not me? What's Disney, anyway?"

"They make cartoons, okay? I'm just saying – wait, did you say mermaids are real?"

"They prefer the term merpeople, as there is only a slightly greater number of mermaids than mermen."

"But they're real?"

"Yes. And spread out all over the world."

"Wicked."

"Wicked? How is that wicked at all? They're quite harmless if not provoked…"

"No, no, wicked, it's a slang we use in Boston. Like frappe. Or bubbler."

"… I'm not even going to ask."

Calliope had returned to Hogsmeade. She and Dora were sitting in the living room. Dora was quizzing her on the guard schedule.

"Tomorrow, Tuesday, you'll be patrolling the platform at Hogsmeade when the Hogwarts Express comes in. Following that, all Tuesdays from then will be patrolling the train platform, and then it's to the castle perimeter for the late evening and the wee sma's." Calliope slumped in her chair. "Can I go now?"

"No."

"But I have to practice more with my wand."

"You practiced enough. Besides, you know the mandatory curfew."

"But I'm behind on the Patronus Charm."

"You're not behind," Dora explained calmly. "Even a cloudburst is a good start. And the concentration to make a proper corporeal Patronus is incredible. It can come and go." She gave a dark smile. "As I demonstrate. But even the first corporeal Patronus takes time. What is it?"

Calliope had sat up. "If the mandatory curfew is on now – who's that at the window?"

Dora spun around as a knock came at the door.

"It's me, Remus," said the voice on the other side.

Calliope watched Dora to see what she would do. Dora's facial expression became panicked for a moment and then – sad – and she stood up and did not go to the door.

"Shall I get it?" Calliope offered.

"No, no, I'll get it," Dora strode to the door with a new, set look on her face. Leaning one hand on the doorframe, she asked, "Remus, what is your Patronus?"

"A crow," came the response. "Dora, what is your favorite book?"

"Saria, the Self-Reliant, by Clytemenestra Eyre." Dora said, opening the door. She added to Calliope, "We've got to decide on some good long-term security questions, not just random nostalgia that hi Remus."

Through the door stepped a tall, pale-looking man. His graying hair did not give him a distinguished look, only an aged one. Calliope stood up. He nodded to her.

"Remus Lupin," Dora said, "This is Calliope Ollivander, one of my oldest friends who's working with us now. Calliope, this is Remus Lupin, another Order member who – is a very good friend of mine."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Ollivander," Remus Lupin said courteously, shaking her hand. "Dora's given me a favorable idea of you."

"Good to hear! Thank you. It's an honor to get to know more of the Order."

"I'm very concerned about your uncle, too, by the way. He is in the Order's top priorities, I want you to be aware."

"Thank you." Calliope nodded.

Remus turned to Dora. "I'm heading off for my assignment tonight and I wanted to see you before I went. Just to check in."

Dora gave a kind of half-smile, then glanced at Calliope (without intended significance). Calliope demurely remarked that her clothes needed unpacking.

As she hung up the skirt, blouses, and overrobes in her closet, she could hear the two conversing in low tones. At one point Dora's voice suddenly raised to a near-cry of "I don't care!" but it was quickly silenced.

Shortly afterwards, their voices faded, and Calliope heard the door close. And she heard Dora say, "Godspeed."

"Mm," Turpentine mused. "What a pretty scene. A great-uncle reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard to his beloved niece. A bedtime story, complete with glass of milk, a moon-shaped lamp, and a blue plush –" he squinted to see the memory better in its tongs – "elephant. How peaceful."

He deposited the memory into the bottle. "Really, Mr. Ollivander, I must commend you. Every memory I gathered of Benedicte was of a helpful and clever, charming child, a memory held dear. Really, I'm a bit sorry that Benedicte is such a fit subject for this experiment, but you see, only she fits the criterion I need. A young person, well-loved… subject of some media attention, who died suddenly and in her late teens… died some time ago… and when you showed up, Mr. Ollivander, well! That was just the closure of serendipity, I'm sure. And who am I to disagree with that? But now…"

He had placed the bottle, uncorked, exactly equidistant between two other bottles. They all sat on the marble slab, which had a nine-pointed star carved on it from three overlapping triangles. Thanks to Mr. Ollivander's 'cooperation,' every bottle now was full with a teeming, treasured memory of Benedicte Ollivander. Servaas Ollivander himself was curled up and gasping in his corner, like a child that has woken from a nightmare.

Turpentine carried on. He pulled out of his pocket one last bottle with an innocent collection of flowers in it: four blue pansy heads, and five carefully suspended dandelion clocks, along with a handful of forget-me-nots. The dandelion clocks and the pansy heads he placed alternating around each inner corner of the star. The forget-me-nots he tossed over the whole table with a careless air.

The spell began.

He took a deep breath and took slow, deliberate steps counterclockwise around the table to begin the spell in earnest. He tipped over the first uncorked bottle, the one of Benny's christening, and let its silver contents spill out and diverge into the two lines. He said, "Be."

Then he tipped over the second bottle. "Ne."

The third. "Dicte.

The fourth. "Cle."

And so on. "Mence. Oll. I. Van. Der."

Now the entire star was full and almost pulsating with the memory fog, which immersed the little flowers. Back at where he started, the Death Eater let the memories blend for a minute. After gathering himself, with the hunter's speed he crouched and pointed his wand flat into one of the angles.

"Damnatio memoriæ!" He called. Three of the points in the star were emptied immediately, the memories evaporating as if they had never been.

Not losing a beat, the Death Eather philosopher almost sprang a third of the way around the table, and repeated his crouch and aim, "Damnatio memoriæ!"

Now only a third of the memories were left – and with a spring and a shout of "Damnatio memoriæ!" they, too, had evaporated.

When the table was empty except for the bottles, four withered pansies, a few dead blue petals, and scattered, spinning dandelion seeds, Turpentine stood up, breathing as if he had run three flights of stairs. He muttered to himself, "Well, that's done," and turned to Servaas on the floor.

"I am sorry, sir," Turpentine said, "They were beautiful. I'll question you in the morning."

Servaas had fainted. Turpentine levitated him onto his pallet, and then, with only a backwards look at the table, he climbed the stairs out of the cellar and closed the door.

Miles and miles away, Linus Ollivander, kept awake by stress, and a feeling that he should stand guard, gave a little gasp. He started to sob. He slid off of his bed and into the bathroom. After much fumbling, he managed to find the light switch. The hideously bright light flickered on. Without his glasses, he could see his own shape very vaguely in the mirror. He was hunched over the sink, and crying and crying like a child.

When the first storm was passed, he rinsed his face weakly and said to himself, "Oh god… I'm so tired… I've got to go to bed," but gave another sob and was heartbroken even by that statement, and could not say why.

On October 31st, 1966, a young black-haired girl raced into the wand shop on Diagon Alley. She shoved through the door, dripping rainwater onto the welcome mat, and calling, "Uncle Servaas! I'm here! Let's get started!"

Her parents, more subdued, followed her into the shop, shaking out their umbrella. "A young lady of ten like yourself," her father tugged her out of her coat, "should compose herself better."

"Hop up and down on one foot," her mother suggested dryly.

"Ahh, what have we here? Do you know how early it is?" Her great-uncle descended the stairs, a rather spry man for his age. The girl drew herself up to her full height, and he crouched down to her eye level. "Are you ready for your measurements?"

"Yes I am, Uncle!" She declared.

"This evening, Uncle, if you're interested," her mother added, as Servaas took out the measuring tape and began measuring the girl's right arm, "The Crouches are taking us out for dinner to celebrate. You're welcome to come along."

"We'll see about that, Philomel. This child may be tricksy to find a good wand for," he fixed the girl with a steely gray eye. "You know her."

She smiled back irrepressibly.

"Take a seat," Philomel indicated to her husband. "This might take a while."

"Actually," Servaas took down a long box from a shelf at his shoulder level, "For some time I've had a feeling that this wand – in this box, would suit you."

The girl clenched her fists. Her wide gray eyes glanced from her great-uncle to the box in his hands. When he took off the lid and offered it to her, she took it tentatively.

"Ten and three quarter inches. Lithe. Cypress, from Mount Cynthus, in Greece, and a strand of unicorn hair from a yearling."

As the girl held it, a smile bloomed on her face. She drew the wand rapidly against the air: a crackle of yellow light followed the wand and illuminated the store. It could not match the pride on the face of her clapping parents, or the satisfaction on the face of her great uncle. He placed the wand back into its box and paper, and handed it to her with a kiss on her forehead.

"Happy birthday, Benedicte."