When I was a child I truly loved:

Unthinking love as calm and deep

As the North Sea. But I have lived,

And now I do not sleep.

~ Grendel by John Gardner

The night was clear in the aftermath of another fresh fall rain. Grey beings drifted swiftly like ghosts over a half moon, scattered amid the stars. The forest had a shimmer to it borne of a thousand billion little smiles. The trees dripped, a few branches weaving and making the drops dance while others shed them with a single mighty shake. Animals huddled in burrows and crevices with their young, licking their faces. The loud sounds of hunters and their prey were absent that night. Even the Dark beasts acknowledged nature's small interlude commanding them into hovels and out of dew-emblazed webs.

Dyre stood beside Morgan. For the moment a human, he reached only the centaur's flank. Stray beads of liquid nestled in the short fur of the creature's hind and winded in his mane, tail and hair. His face was lifted upwards, fawn-like wiry curls cresting into a long widow's peak that reached between his eyes to his inhuman nose. Pointed ears listened to the quiet intrigue of the forest. Grey speckled his coat, lending him dirty silver shoes. Despite his age, Morgan was a strong stallion, his pride tempered with experience. Wise, cloudy brown eyes, much larger and odder than a human's, surveyed the sky.

Dyre, naked, could feel the grass slick between his toes. The fresh scent of wet wood and dirt was deep. His black hair was darker than the night, which cast sapphire blue candescence to the clearing. The moon, pocked by lopsided grey eyes, peered back at them.

"Did you have fun with your lamb?"

Morgan's voice was not unlike the deep tenor of a grandfather or old master. There was little jest in the words, just a kind manner than pervaded all malaise. Patient and knowing.

"Draco is no lamb."

Morgan's solemn expression did not change. "Aye."

Dyre frowned, not so much upset as uneasy. Draco wasn't a lamb. Though self-absorbed, small and innocent, Draco knew the world. Innocent, he was not ignorant, nor an idiot. He wanted to trust that Draco knew enough about himself and the world around him to understand how dangerous Dyre was and what would happen if… if anything, anything, broached that horrible space within him reserved for monsters. He wanted to believe that Draco would be safe.

"Is it wrong to have this fear?" he asked.

"For you," Morgan said. "Fear is right."

Dyre looked down. His toes curled, uprooting fine tendrils of grass. His fists clenched and an awful motion struck his chest. Still, the boy did not cry out. Morgan did not turn from the sky, giving privacy to Dyre's weakness.

"It is folly to be this scared."

Crickets played serenades, and for a moment, nothing in the world existed except their strings. Frost was already gathering at the tips of the grass, twisting whispery tendrils in Dyre's hair and burning his feet, fingertips and cheeks.

"Tonight is a beautiful night," Morgan said.

Dyre looked up again. Majesty crested the moon and its sparkling cemetery. The sparse clouds, mere remnants of the storm, were like broken ships, wreckage of a battle abandoned to the crypts of the lake. Grey sylphs with great tears in their shifts, ripped nails scratching at air, scarred the sky. Orion and Lypus were like far away cities, somehow connected by the same distance that isolated them.

"It is," Dyre agreed.

He wanted no more than to reach up. He could imagine the thin sheet rippling, stars laughing and winking gaily, as he cupped the night sky in his hands. Inky tears would leak from the crevice of his palms but that small mirror, like a window into God, would remain unforgivably whole. How wonderful to rip though something, break it apart, separate it from everything it knows, and it still remain whole.

o.O.o

With the announcement of the Yule ball came furious courtships. The halls were molested by whispers and gossip.

Durmstrang did not host balls but all nobility knew how to dance. Though the hearty warriors of shield and sword played strings far better than they danced. Even the roughest of them sang. Dyre doubted if the students of Durmstrang would be able to compete with the beauties of Beauxbatons, whose cultured name seemed to demand the respectabilities of pianos and waltzes.

It was strange to watch the habits of the British. They were peculiarly casual in their dalliances. Dyre did not know much about such things, but he knew enough that the daughters of lords did not flaunt themselves quite so leisurely as these girls. The maids that worked the halls and kitchens were fair game to the rowdy lords, but the daughters were untouchable, intended for political courtships. Transgressions were worthy of death duels in Holmgang.

Dyre felt ill to his stomach watching some of them regard him with those hungry gazes. He was too much of a professor's plaything for the maids of Durmstrang to be interested in. Not to mention Karkaroff's undisguised hatred of him tempered their attention. He wasn't overall sure what to make of this foreign flirtation. Thankfully, none of them had approached him, perhaps because he disappeared whenever they rose to greet him, a habit he was very grateful to have mastered.

Another question that arose with this ostentatious event was that of his date. He had been informed that the contestants were required to participate in the first dance. Dyre had no doubt in his ability, something trained in him from a early age by the Maiden, but his place in society made his acquaintance with any potential escort dubious.

He supposed his safest bet was to take one of the Hogwarts students. Though the elite of their kind, most were neither gentry nor nobility. Taking a muggleborn would minimize insult, but the problem, quite frankly, was that he didn't know any.

The squirming feeling in the back of head wanted to ask Draco. It was a shameful thought though, one immediately dispelled. Not only would appearing together at such a public event damage the heir's status but taking him as a date, in a blatantly submissive role, was highly insulting to a warrior. Culture was different in Britain, but the Icelanders would recognize the offense. No doubt Draco would be considered a whore. Under no circumstances was he going to put him in such a degrading position. If Draco would have even accepted the invitation anyway.

Which meant he was stuck.

Surprisingly, reprieve came from Neville Longbottom. The two had grown comfortable enough to gossip in the evenings and mornings they spent weeding and potting plants, and Neville had casually asked if Dyre had found a date. Dyre was hard-pressed to burden him with his problem, but he was fast running out of resources and time. Neville listened quietly, his shears periodically snipping at the elongated vines tyrannically straggling the eucalyptus blossoms.

"I think I might know a girl," he told him after he had finished. "She's muggleborn. If you explain the situation, she might agree to go with you."

"Will I not insult her by saying I'm asking her because she's muggleborn?"

Neville gave a small shrug and a timid smile. "Maybe," he confessed. "But I think she'll listen to you first. I mean, you won't be rude about it or anything."

Dyre gave a slight hum, and the two elapsed into muted talk about the weather and what it might portend for the tarantacula vines.

The girl's name was Hermione Granger. He had a bit of a struggle with her first name, but Neville tutored him well enough that he wouldn't make a fool of himself after he was introduced. Plucking up resolve to approach the girl, he visited her reputed haunt, the library.

Dyre had visited the library only a few times, but without his reading glasses, the tomes were mostly worthless to him. In the furthest alcove, sitting at a sunlit table empty of all else but three thick stacks of books and strewn papers, was a bushy-haired Gryffindor, stern gaze cemented to a yellowing, moth-eaten text. A simple, unadorned band kept the hair from her face, and other than the sunless pallor of her cheeks, she was rather pretty. Her button nose sat in a small face, just enough to be attractive but not beautiful. Her chestnut hair was unkempt, but her clothes were ironed and her tie straight. She read quietly. Save the slight wrinkle of her brow, nothing of the impatient habits of a young scholar revealed her.

As he hesitated by a shelf, she drew her shawl closer. The day outside was clear but cold. Her back was to the window, and he suspected the spell that warmed the room did not extend to the chill that emanated from the glass. She adjusted her legs, hooking her ankles behind the rung of the bench. Without looking up, she turned the page.

Dyre backed away and came again, making his footfalls heavier, but not heavy enough to seem intentional. When he broached the shelf again, Hermione had not looked up but a more reserved expression masked her face.

"Excuse me," Dyre said, voice clear but soft in the respectable space of the library.

She lifted her head. Her eyes were a harmless brown, almost hazel. She set the book down but did not smile, watching him expectantly.

"Can I help you?"

"You are Hermione Granger?" he asked, standing beside the empty space of the bench.

Her expression turned guarded, but she did not shirk from him. "Yes."

Dyre gave a small modest bow, bending his body at the waist with his arms by his side. "I am Dyre Durmstrang. If it is not an inconvenience to you, I would ask a favor."

He could tell that his formality intrigued her and, if the slight blush on her cheeks was talkative, flattered her as well. She said nothing, no doubt not at all knowing how to handle such a situation. Dyre met her gaze for a moment before he gestured to the seat across from her.

"May I sit?"

She nodded, moving her books from between them so that a small wall protected their conversation.

"You are aware that the champions are required to take the first dance at the Yule ball," he began.

She nodded attentively.

"Are you aware of my position at Durmstrang?"

Her brow crinkled just a bit, like she had tasted something unsavory. "Yes," she said simply.

Dyre nodded, taking no offense at her displeasure, though it was a heavy mark against him. "Asking someone to the ball would be an insult to nobility like my countrymen and the ladies of Beauxbatons. But Hogwarts works differently than the sister schools."

She nodded again in understanding.

"Asking one of the students here would not be so offending, but I do not know anyone appropriate to approach."

"What about Draco Malfoy?" she interrupted.

He was startled for a moment, slightly terrified that he had made their acquaintance too well known, but looking at her, he could see that she meant no ill by her words. He devised that she was just extraordinarily observant.

"Lord Malfoy would never agree to act as my escort. Also, asking him to take a submissive role in public would be very degrading."

"But it's ok for girls," she said perturbedly.

He shook his head, trying to appear as earnest as possible. "I would never ask a sheildmaiden to accompany me either. But for a scholar, it is considered appropriate."

She leaned back. "So you want to ask me," she deducted.

"If it would not inconvenience you," he said with another slight bow.

"Why me?" she asked warily. "You don't know me anymore than anyone else in Hogwarts."

"I help Lord Longbottom in the greenhouse, and he directed me to you. Miss Granger, I mean nothing untoward," he promised. "And after the first dance you can certainly feel free to do as you please."

She regarded him intensely for a moment, and he could see her mind at work. She really had a beautiful way of thinking, he noticed. Most people looked like they were trying too hard, straining for things just out of reach. But Hermione's face was confidently serene. She trusted in knowledge and the logical conclusion of events. This was a girl who believed that everything had a purpose and that every purpose was meaningful. To Dyre, she seemed very kind, and he was thankful that he had met her, even if she declined his offer.

He waited patiently for an answer, knowing that this was his last resort. His only resort. Still, Hermione might not want to associate with him in public. Even with the political obstacles of being muggleborn, she was still of much higher standing than him. He doubted that she belonged to a family that would care about such extravagancies, but he knew so little about muggle culture.

Compared to the sheildmaidens, she had a remarkably relaxed way of holding herself but did not flaunt herself like other girls her age. She was much more reserved, and though not timid, he thought, she was quiet. She might not want the gossip of appearing with him in public. After all, what would she get from associating with him but ridicule?

Dyre prepared to withdraw, an apology on his lips, before she spoke. "Shouldn't you ask me now or something?"

He looked up, slightly surprised, but her gaze was clean, revealing nothing of her thoughts. With a respectful bow of his head, he took her hand from the table and lightly brought his lips to her knuckles. Her hands were not as elegant as Draco's and the small flutter of shameful emotion that colored his thoughts was absent. Still, he recognized some fond regard in the gesture as he looked back up at her entreatingly.

"Hermione Granger, will you accompany me to the Yule ball?"

o.O.o

"Is this truly necessary?" Dyre asked, regarding the cuff of his cloak. "My uniform would be more appropriate."

Sirius Black ignored him, drawing in the shoulders of his old robes. He held his wand between his teeth. Dyre dropped his gait and slid out from under his hands. Sirius rolled his eyes, slipping his wand from his mouth to push it back into the holster of his belt. Dyre eyed him distrustfully before walking across the room. The door to the dresser was open, revealing to the animagus the single pair of boots squatting at the bottom and the two habits dangling forlornly from the hangers.

Dyre reviewed himself in the mirror. He felt both ridiculous and out of place. A servant had no right to wear these sorts of things. The waistcoat was of an 18th century fashion, darned with thick, tight yarn and emblazoned with leather trim. The cufflinks were crafted silver, tied in ancient Celtic knots. The high collar protected his throat and brushed his still unruly locks. The pewter buttons tapered his waist and the cravat puffed obtrusively from its confines. Sirius had tailored the pants a tad too tightly and the dark knickerbockers clung. The damn shoes pinched.

"The clothes suit you," Sirius, his designated maid, said behind him.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. The English were such a pompous people. He unbuttoned the coat.

"What are you doing?" Sirius shouted in distress.

"I am not a fop," he said.

As he disrobed to his undershirt and johns, Sirius pouted.

"You going naked then?"

Sirius was not so different than his cousin in that he enjoyed playing doll. Narcissa was more assertive in her decisions, demanding the obedience of her poor model. Sirius, at least, savored his toying in offhanded comments. He sighed as Dyre continued to stand there in his underwear, making no attempt to either swipe up his servant attire or pick the clothes from the floor.

"Wait here," he instructed tiredly, disappearing into the hall.

Dyre watched the space he had vacated apathetically. When he did not return immediately, he turned his gaze to the mirror. His patch was dark against his face. Though Sirius had tried to convince him to adorn it like a Venetian mask, he preferred the clean, naked quality of the smooth cloth. He could feel the knot against the back of his head, buried in the layers of his hair. It glided over his nose, covering the upper brow of his uninjured eye and disappearing completely in raven locks.

He had no problem deciphering the knot, tugging the ends loose. As the blind came undone, he closed his eyes. The cloth sagged before falling over his nose and away from his face entirely. Waiting a moment, he opened his eyes again.

The scar was no less hideous than it had been his entire life, cracking a full third of his face. It ran from the middle of his forehead, jutted beneath his eye, arching towards his nose, and continued down his cheek in a disfigured lightning bolt. Having covered the main portion of it for nearly a month, he felt surprised that the opaque liquid quality of the blind orb was unchanged. He raised his hand to his right eye and the world went dark. He spaced his fingers and his reflection returned between the calloused digits, a somber face lending him no solace.

He half-expected that restrained to darkness, his eye would come alive, seeking revenge on its enforced dormancy, but it was as cruelly callous as it had ever been. It stared back at him despondently. He slammed his palm into the mirror, covering the deformity. The glass was cool, cracking slightly. His breathing was ragged and his chest heaved.

He turned his head away. Now was not the time for this. He withdrew his palm, taking a small sliver of glass with him. The band went round his face again, tied in a quick yank. Easing his breath, he moved the liquid of the glass over the distortion, covering the evidence of his outburst. His reflection stared back grimly, once more whole and solid.

He wondered if Yrsa had perfected her scrying yet. She often slaved over the medium in her bowl, slapping the water when it refused to yield her sight. Mirrors were a step above water, the liquid more dense and slow though it lent a two-way to the observer. Sound was impossible to direct, but Dyre would have given dearly to see her face. For a moment, he pondered if the Maiden had witnessed his act of violence. She did not require the passageway of a medium, and he hoped dearly that She had skimmed over him this evening.

The thought sobered him, and he was able to clear up the mess of clothes he had made of the floor. By the time Sirius returned, he had folded them neatly on the bed.

"Alright, sour puss," the man grumbled. "These are Remus'. If you are even more of a prude than he is, not even Merlin could help you."

Dyre balked quietly over the ridicule. He certainly hadn't asked the man to oversee him like an irritable chamberlain. He turned his attention instead to the clothes. It pleased him to see that they were of lesser quality, wool as opposed to finely bred cotton. Also, the ridiculous knickerbockers had been replaced with a pair of formal trousers.

"We'll have to change the colors," Black mused, running the fabric between his fingers. "Is this any better?"

Dyre looked up, a bit shocked by the eager-to-please tone of the man's voice. He was sure a moment ago that this whole absurd dolling had been little more than a deluded whim. Dyre was used to Karkaroff's intolerant bicker, in which insults were flung about as profusely as autumn leaves. He was sure that Black had some role for him to play. Best friend to his… father, he was probably entertaining thoughts of a magnanimous uncle, in which dressing him for his first dance was something of a ritual.

Dyre had no qualms throwing out the ill-suited costuming nor of dissuading the clumsy animagus from thinking he could play some perfect part of an even more perfect family. He had not expected the anxiousness that kept his shoulders bundled and his grey eyes peeking past unkempt locks. Sirius fiddled nervously with the hem of tailored vest, watching him from the corner of his eye like an uneasy hound. He was unused to this type of attention, where his opinion honestly mattered.

He stared at Sirius as if trying to find some hidden meaning behind his words. Sirius squirmed uncomfortably, masking the action by scratching his nose. His lone green eye still on him, he approached the robes. The vest was tailored with a subtle and somewhat comely pattern of interlocking herbs, blooming in archaic designs with almost unraveling threads. The burgundy fibers were stitched into golden brown fabric, a few shades lighter than the trousers, which were cut loose and unassuming. Golden buttons tucked the vest close, allowing room for the cravat to froth at his neck.

He still thought it too much, but he supposed Miss Granger deserved something more than his uniform habit, tidy though it was.

"This will do," he answered to Sirius' question.

Sirius beamed like someone had given him a treat. He waved his wand enthusiastically, his optimistic mood returning as sudden as a thought.

"Of course, we'll change the colors. Remus is gold but you are definitely silver. And we don't have a waistcoat and Remus said you'd hate the jacket as much as he does."

Dyre watched him as he continued to ramble, marveling at the fact that the man actually seemed to care about his comfort and wasn't just indulging him for the sake of it.

He changed the dirty blond fabric to black, and Dyre had to admit that he was slightly impressed with his craft. Dyre wasn't intimate with many tailoring charms, lacking the skill or the will to learn the intricate designs of fashion. But there was a reason that lords and ladies did not simply weave their clothes with magic. Other than the fact that it was outrageously plebian, it was also difficult.

Cloth was very delicate. Casting too many spells on it made it unravel or become impossibly stiff. When he first began charms, Dyre had trouble aplenty simply summoning the blood from his habit. Magic clung, and, like fire, was very difficult to manage with any manner of artistry. He had ripped through numerous tunics with his practicing, sewing into the wee hours of morning so Karkaroff would be none the wiser. Only someone with a lot of control could direct the fine nuances that bleached and dyed wools, silks, and cottons. It was a master's art.

He watched intrigued as the vest turned black in a pulsing wave. He had even kept the maroon threading. He performed the charm on the britches as well and recrafted the gold buttons into silver with a light tap of his wand. He stood back to admire his work, and Dyre took the chance to do the same.

It was something a lord would wear. Perhaps one of the minor clans that served as buffer between the upper gentry and the merchant's guild, but a lord nonetheless. Dyre could only stare at it, consumed with the sudden urge to wear it. He could remember an embarrassing episode when he was young when he had gotten into the storage closest and stolen one of the adept's dresses. The Maiden had laughed and tightened the buckle that dipped from his waist, smoothing the shoulders before tapping him on the nose. When the All-Mother found him, the scolding she gave successfully erased that childish fancy, and he had never again worn anything save his habit and the occasional cheaply sewn fabrics that Yrsa had hazardously stitched together and dyed for him.

The allure of posing as a lord, son of a modest clan, had always been a tempting illusion that he forbade himself to indulge. To believe he could be worth anything more than a servant was arrogance and heresy. Still, how wonderful to imagine him a maker of magic, to walk through the halls with pride and his father's name. Everything was embodied in that simple vest, something that for a moment he could selfishly believe in.

"Well, don't just stare at it," Sirius admonished. "Try it on."

Dyre, caught out, startled. His hand, which had reached out towards the bed, jerked back as if burned. He looked up to Sirius with a small measure of fear, certain for a moment that his small shame had been discovered. Sirius gave him a bewildered look, and he composed himself, reminding himself that he was not Karkaroff and that no cane would break over his outstretched fingers.

He tugged on the trousers. They hung off his hips, much too big even buttoned. Sirius came forward, drawing his wand down the seams so that the waist went snug. They still fell a bit low but would no longer fall off when released. Dyre shrugged the vest over his undershirt, tucking his tails into the trousers. Sirius sat back to watch him dress, adjusting the fit when called until the buttons were secure across his chest. He set the wand aside to slip in the cravat.

Dyre allowed him to mess with the fabric, puffing it then patting it down. He held his face tightly, concentrating on the opposite wall.

"You know," Sirius said suddenly, adjusting the light cloth. "Draco thought you might have asked him to the Ball."

Dyre snapped his face to his, jaw stiff and eye ablaze. "I would never do such a thing!"

Sirius backed away, hands raised, startled by his vehemence. Dyre glared at him hotly before turning to the mirror, readjusting the kerchief with a violent yank.

"I thought you two got along," the man said in confusion, watching him from the mirror.

Dyre twitched and opened the dresser to grab his boots, newly polished and trim. When he didn't answer, Sirius pressed forward again.

"Don't you like him?"

"What I do and do not like is of no consequence," he snarled, thrusting the loose material of his britches into the hem of his shoes.

"You shouldn't treat him like you like him if you really hate him," Sirius retorted.

Dyre turned to stare at him, his mouth slightly agape, his hands frozen on his shoe. "Are you mad? I would never degrade him so."

"But… I thought," the man floundered. He growled suddenly, thrusting his hand into his long hair. "Why did you react like that if you don't hate him?"

Sirius came from an upper-class house. He should know why courting someone like Draco would be disastrous. Even if he wasn't a curse, he must see why his attraction to the young lord was wrong and shameful.

He turned from the man and finished with his boot. "I have no patience for this."

He let Sirius take from that what he would. He tucked in his other boot, and finishing the tail of his hair, grabbed his long coat, which served as a pseudo-robe.

"Wait."

He turned at the door. Sirius pinned a broach onto the cravat. His hand rested there for a moment, fingering the jewel, before drawing away. Dyre's breath caught when he saw it. Fixed in a frame of old silver was a large polished bloodstone. A ruby forged in the third lung of a dragon. Rolled and smoothed in the liquid-like organ, bloodstones returned not as a diaphanous gem but a milky drop of sanguine, the inside still tossing warmly even centuries later.

"I can't wear this," he said, moving to unpin the clasp.

Sirius' hand stopped him. "Please. I would like you too. No one knows it's mine so you don't have to worry about people connecting us or anything. I don't know if you know, but… I am… I was going to be… your godfather. I would really like you to wear it."

Dyre stood torn. Such refinery was not meant for him. A great part of him chafed at wearing another man's gem, like a claim, but if no one knew… Even if Sirius just wanted to play out the role of a beloved godfather, he could tell that this was something precious. By the way his fingers and eyes lingered he knew it meant something. Even if this was just a game, he could not bear to throw off such endearment, as surely as he could not reject the crude embroidery that Yrsa revealed to him when they were both so very small.

He nodded, letting his hand fall. Sirius looked relieved, staring down at him fondly. Dyre turned away, unable to bear the hope that blossomed there.