A/N: Yaaay! I have (hopefully!) redeemed myself in this chapter. I'm chucking the six-page limit out the window, since my chapters just seem to be getting longer and longer and I CAN'T STOP THEM. Francis and Artie are commandeering my fingers!

This chapter is much better than the last, so... enjoy!

P.S. If you've just gotten here from the end of the last chapter, please do continue on. But if you've just skipped straight here for any number of reasons, YOU MAY WANT TO GO BACK AND RE-READ THE END OF LAST CHAPTER to refresh your memory on what's just happened. Thanks!

Chapter Ten: Poems from No One

"Whose is this?" Francis gasped, covering his mouth in horror. The entire wall was splattered in glistening, dripping scarlet blood. The sight made him want to wretch at the thought of someone painting the stones with the wetness dribbling from their fingers, all down their arms, splattering on their robes...

He shivered, trying to break that train of thought. But that wasn't the worst of it. On the wall were words, finger-painted into the mess. Some of the letters were running, but their message was still clear as day.

When the clock strikes thirteen

You will hear the broken screams

It's rising from the broken dark

Killing teeth are razor-sharp

Someone was going to die.

Meanwhile, Arthur still stood petrified, though now his eyes were shut as though he was trying desperately to remember something. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles gone white from the pressure.

"Arthur?" Francis whispered. This silence scared him more than he wanted to admit. Arthur opened his eyes, and thankfully the scared-rabbit look had gone, but only to be replaced by a shakiness that worried him even more. The Brit's green eyes were full of glassy tears, but he took a deep, calming breath and tried to quiet his racing mind. He knew he should know the man who'd written that message on the wall. He knew he should know whose blood this was. But he didn't, and that was what terrified him.

"We need to tell Professor Dumbledore about this," he said quietly, breathing with forced evenness. "Now."

"Oui," Francis agreed without a moment's second thought, feeling Arthur grab his hand, and together they tore off toward the Headmaster's office.

"Professor!"

Dumbledore looked up as suddenly two boys came bursting into his office, flanked by a barely-composed Professor McGonagall. She looked thoroughly shaken, as though she had just fought a dragon and only nearly escaped to tell the tale.

"Professor, in the Ravenclaw tower—"

"Blood, all over the walls—"

"Just got back from Quidditch practice—"

"Silence," Dumbledore ordered, holding up his hands for quiet. Immediately the two boys before him shut their mouths, exchanging nervous glances, and Professor McGonagall placed a protective hand on either one of their shoulders.

"Headmaster, I think these two should tell you what they just told me. They wanted to see you immediately."

Dumbledore's pure blue gaze settled on Francis and Arthur, looking from one set of eyes to the other. Both were filled with restrained terror, but the boy with the green eyes spoke first. Dumbledore knew Arthur; wonderful grades, rebellious streak, and a certain disregard for the rules. He smiled slightly as Arthur took a deep, shaky breath and began the story.

"Professor, I went out with Francis to Quidditch practice, and when we came in it was almost curfew."

Francis must have settled well here, to be bringing his friends to Quidditch practice with him, Dumbledore thought with approval. The two boys exchanged nervous glances and then Arthur continued.

"He told me he needed to drop off his broom in the Slytherin common room, so we did that, and then we headed up to Ravenclaw tower. When we got there, I made the mistake of looking at the wall opposite the landing on the spiral stairs, and it's—"

Arthur stopped abruptly as his voice threatened to give out, swallowing hard. He looked over to Francis, meeting his eyes and silently pleading with him to finish the story.

Francis nodded, taking the hint. "There's blood splattered all over the wall. Someone wrote a poem in it, too." He exchanged glances with Arthur before going on. "'When the clock strikes thirteen' or something like that."

Dumbledore's face didn't change, but his eyes grew dark with controlled panic at the mention of the poem. He shut them for a moment, trying to decide what to do.

Finally his eyes opened, locking with Francis's worried gaze. Francis stared right back, searching for an answer, but Dumbledore made sure he gave away nothing through the mask of calm.

After a long pause, he spoke. "Minerva, could you and Arthur wait outside for a moment?" he asked. Arthur looked uneasily back over his shoulder as Professor McGonagall steered him out of the office, as though he wanted to run back to Francis and stay by him, but instead allowed himself to be shunted out and the door closed between them.

Dumbledore turned back to Francis, leaning forward urgently. "I will not lie," he said quietly. "This business frightens me. You have seen the look in Arthur's eyes, yes?"

Francis nodded, remembering the terrified dilation of his pupils, eating away the beautiful green and replacing it with panicked black. He hated that look. It scared him to see Arthur so helpless and afraid.

Dumbledore went on. "I need you to accompany him back to his common room, and see that he makes it there safely. Sometimes it is better for one to be in company when he is as shaken as Arthur right now."

Francis nodded, turning to leave, but Dumbledore stopped him for a moment longer.

"I strongly recommend caution," he murmured. "Everything may not be as it seems."

The halls were no longer lit with warm torchlight by the time Francis and Arthur left the Headmaster's office, but they were in no hurry to end this moonlight stroll. It seemed the best time to think, and each boy walked, buried in his own thoughts.

What had Dumbledore told Francis? Why would it be something he didn't want Arthur to hear? Could it just be that it would scare him or damage his pride, or... something more? Arthur shook his head. Stupid brain. It had been wandering in endless circles for a good half hour now.

Meanwhile, Francis was on a completely different track. What had the headmaster meant when he said 'everything was not as it seemed'? Was he implying that he thought Arthur was the culprit? Francis snorted mentally. And how, exactly, could Arthur be the culprit? He'd been with Francis all day, except for lunch when he'd been straight across the room at the Ravenclaw table, and most certainly hadn't skived off any classes to come up here and paint the wall with blood. And still, Francis wondered whose blood it was. What if there was a corpse hidden somewhere, too?

Suddenly a bell tolled out over the school, jolting both Francis and Arthur from their thoughts. They looked at each other before Francis broke the silence.

"Midnight," he murmured. "We should be getting back."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed grudgingly, though he was stifling a yawn as he did so. "I think I'll be skipping Astronomy tonight."

Francis smiled. "Oui, I think I will be, too."

Arthur started in the direction of Ravenclaw tower, Francis close at his side. Again he had a nagging urge to grab that hand swinging gracefully at the Brit's side, but restrained it and crossed his arms just to be sure it didn't happen while he wasn't paying attention. Twice in one night seemed a bit much.

"What was Dumbledore asking you about, when he sent me and McGonagall out into the hall?" Arthur asked on a random impulse. If the frog didn't want to tell him, it was fine, but it was worth a try.

To his great surprise, Francis answered without hesitation. "He told me to stick by you. I don't think anyone liked the look in your eyes when you were talking about the blood."

"I- was it evil or something?" Arthur demanded anxiously as they continued up the corridor. Francis smiled, shaking his head, though the smile quickly faded.

"You looked absolutely terrified, cher," he said quietly. "Your pupils were all wide, like a rabbit that's just seen its family ripped to death by a fox."

"...Oh," Arthur murmured. He looked down at the floor, shoulders giving an involuntary shiver. Francis wanted to hug him, but knew that would only result in some foul language and possible smacking. So he didn't.

They climbed the spiral stairs once more, but this time they looked different by the silvery light of the moon. Francis was deliberately not looking at the wall opposite the landing; he didn't want to see the dripping poem, no doubt obscured by shadow but horrible all the same.

Arthur shivered at knowing that was behind him, hurrying to the eagle knocker on the door to the common room.

"What is truth?" it asked, stretching its wings and yawning.

"The absence of lies," Arthur answered quickly, and the door swung open to admit them. The two boys slipped through and then shut it behind them, nearly breathing open sighs of relief at not having to see the blood on the wall anymore. For some reason, it just bothered them.

Arthur sighed wearily, heading for the boys' dormitory with heavy feet. Suddenly he felt as though his arms and legs were weighted down with rocks.

"I'm off to bed," he told Francis, turning to look over his shoulder. His green eyes sparkled in the moonlight. "I suggest you do the same, frog."

"Oui, I will," Francis replied with a slight smile, before watching the Brit trudge off and settling down on the couch in front of the dormant fireplace. He would wait here for a while, and then check on Arthur one last time to say goodnight. Just like Dumbledore had said.

His eyes closed and his thoughts wandered, slipping away from the moonlit common room to trail silently behind Mental Arthur as he pulled his long black school robes off over his head and lay down, wearing only his boxers. Arthur always had a very British elegance about him; something that Francis couldn't quite place. Maybe it was in the way he moved, or in his heavy accent or that thinking face that seemed to appear so often. Or even in the way anything he did was done proudly, outright and forward. Francis smiled in spite of himself. Like wearing that beautiful green ring, that seemed to glow with his eyes—he never took it off.

Was Arthur still having nightmares? Francis's mind had begun to drift back to rejoin his body, and he opened his eyes to glance around the room at nothing in particular. It had been about ten minutes... If Arthur was as tired as he'd seemed, he would be too sleepy to kill Francis by now. He smiled, standing from the couch and starting for the boys' dormitories.

Following Arthur's footsteps to the sixth years' dormitory, he opened the door and quietly slipped inside.

Arthur was in the bed directly across the room from him, facing the wall. From what Francis could tell, he was asleep, but not soundly. As he watched, the Brit rolled over restlessly, giving a tiny whimper in his sleep. He was hugging his pillow, trying to block out the voices that were now invading his dreams.

As I live, you die...

They were coming from nowhere.

Through the sleepy haze, Arthur felt a warm hand on his shoulder and the mattress dip with someone's weight. The hand was comforting, so he relaxed into it.

"Shhhh..." Francis breathed, stroking the Brit's messy blond hair. "Vous êtes en sûreté, mon cher..."

He looked out at the full moon through the window, its silvery glow shimmering in a ring around it. Rain was coming soon, he thought absentmindedly. His hand still stroking Arthur's hair, he began to sing a lullaby his sister had used to sing to him when he couldn't sleep.

"Mon petit enfant, mon petit enfant

Le ciel est dans tes yeux.

Mais ferme les maintenant, mais ferme les maintenant

Demain c'est un autre jour..."

But it had always sounded better when she'd sung it. She'd made up her own tune, one that rose and fell like gentle ocean waves. Francis couldn't replace it.

He looked down at Arthur, who was now relaxed into the pillow with his eyes closed peacefully, and brushed another strand of hair behind his ear. He smiled softly. His work was done here.

But just as he quietly got up off the bed and turned to go, a warm hand caught his own.

"You have a nice voice," Arthur said quietly. He hadn't even opened his eyes, but Francis smiled.

"Merci, Arthur." He had the strangest urge to kiss the Brit's forehead, but stopped himself. "Bonne nuit, dormez maintenant."

"Thanks, frog," muttered Arthur, before rolling over and burying his face in his pillow.

The next morning, Arthur woke so late he didn't even want to check his watch. It must be after ten, he thought as he sat up to look out at the gray sky and groaned, flopping back onto the warm covers.

Did he really have to get up?

Yes, Arthur's mind replied bossily. He groaned as he dragged himself out of the bed and clumsily pulled on some Muggle jeans and a baggy T-shirt. Arthur hated his mind more often than not.

By the time he'd attempted to brush his hair into submission, he was much more awake and not so very grumpy. He'd actually slept well last night, which had been rare these past few months. Arthur sighed and headed down to the common room.

"Bonjour, mon cher" was most certainly not the greeting he'd been expecting.

He almost jumped, then spotted Francis lounging on the couch, his arm thrown over the back and feet propped up on the armrest. Arthur rolled his eyes.

Francis smirked, but otherwise didn't even seem to notice the other's annoyance. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," Arthur muttered. "What time is it?"

"Still early enough to get breakfast," Francis replied with a grin, gracefully swinging his legs onto the floor and coming over to join the Brit. "I was waiting for you. You know, it's amazing how long you can sleep."

Arthur smacked his shoulder a bit more gently than he'd meant to. "Not my fault you stalk me," he retorted. But despite this lovely argument, both of them were avoiding looking at the blood on the wall as they climbed down the spiral stairs and emerged into the corridor beyond.

"It's not stalking," Francis replied primly. "I merely observe your daily activities and take close note to I can use them against you later."

"Well, fuck," Arthur growled, glaring at the floor. "Blackmail, then."

"Closer," Francis said brightly.

Arthur fell into a smoldering silence. Francis was grinning in victory.

They rounded the corner to the Great Hall, only to be nearly run over by a cackling Gil.

"Hey, the lovebirds have returned!" he yelled, crushing both Francis and Arthur into a rather violent hug. They exchanged awkward looks as they were being strangled, wondering how the hell this had come about.

As soon as Gilbert released them, Arthur pointedly stepped away from Francis. "Gil, I don't know where you got this insane theory, but you're hallucinating. We are not lovebirds."

Gil's evil smile widened. "Oh, you can say that, but The Awesome Me knows all about what you two were up to last night."

And with that, he skipped away, leaving Francis and Arthur to stare at each other in horror. Oh, bloody fucking hell... Was that what the entire school would be thinking by Monday? This year might turn out to be just a smidge more embarrassing than Arthur had thought.

Francis and Arthur walked into the hall, still looking permanently scarred, and Patrick laughed at the priceless looks on their faces. But then again, Gil's theory was fairly plausible. There had been reports of people seeing Francis and Arthur walk back from the Quidditch field holding hands yesterday.

"Ignore him," Patrick laughed as his best friend and Francis came to sit at the Ravenclaw table—breakfast wasn't crowded anymore, anyway. Arthur flopped next to him, Francis sitting down across from them with a smile.

Patrick smiled in return, pulling two letters from the pocket of his robes and handing them to their respective owners.

"These came for you," he said. "I had to save them from Gil trying to 'detect a forgery'." He shook his head, and Arthur laughed. "I swear, 'The Awesome Him' will be the death of me. Oh, and by the way. Never let him get hold of sugar this early in the morning."

"I wondered what was wrong with him," Arthur grinned, ripping his letter open along the top and pulling out the plain Muggle notebook paper inside, riddled with his father's messy scrawl.

Arthur—

How is your year going? I'm sorry I haven't written, but you know me.

Arthur smiled; he did, indeed. His father was one of those people who have a memory equivalent to a leaky faucet.

We've been keeping very busy with everyone in the house, and overall life has been good. Rosie and Michael send their love! Money's a little tight, but we're managing.

Arthur couldn't stop a tiny seed of doubt from seeping into his mind at this. Rosie and Michael (the very affectionate twins), Luke (next oldest to Arthur), Johnathon, Mikey, and Lily were quite a handful, and not to mention an expensive one. Both his mum and dad worked full-time jobs, but sometimes even that wasn't enough to support their entire family, and he had to get a summer job mowing lawns or delivering papers. He read on with increased worry.

I don't know how to tell you this, but I don't think we'll be able to have you home for Christmas this year. I have to work, and so does Mum. We need the overtime. Your siblings miss you, but I don't think we could get together the train fares for all the transfers you would have to make to get from Hogwarts back to Muggle London. I love you, Artie, and I can't tell you how sorry I am!

Arthur just set the letter down, sighing and running his hands over his face. He understood. His parents didn't want to keep him away, but the money was just too tight with everything else going on. He wasn't angry, just disappointed—he'd wanted to come home again this year, but it wasn't looking like he would be able to.

Francis looked over his letter, skimming the loopy hand of his mother. Apparently his family was traveling back to France this year, to spend time with relatives. He could come if he wanted to, but they wouldn't force him if there was someone else he wanted to spend the holidays with.

He looked at Arthur, sitting with his head bowed, shoulders drooping uncharacteristically low.

The letter he'd gotten lay on the table, and Francis's eyes briefly caught the words money, overtime, train and Christmas. Oh, no... would Arthur not be able to go home for the holidays this year? He looked into the Brit's green eyes, dulled from their usual sparkle, and made the decision right there.

Francis was staying for Christmas.

A/N: THE FLUFF! IT BURNS! You like, honhon?

By the way, the name Mikey, the way I write it, is pronounced Mike-y. MIKE-y. Not MICK-y, MIKE-y. LIKE 'MIKE', ONLY WITH AN 'EE' SOUND ON THE END. Alright, enough of that rant. It just bugs me how people can never seem to get that name right. So now you know.

Well, how was that? Was it worth the wait from last chapter? Thank you to all my lovely readers out there for not oozing through the internet to my house and murdering me in my sleep! It is much appreciated.

Hugs to all! And love from Maple.