First off, I'd like to thank everyone for their input about roleplaying. Please bear with me, as I have no internet (I have to bike to the nearest grocery with Wi-Fi) at my house, so my internet time is nil. I will reply to all in time!

I got to thinking: making this story PURELY follow a strict plan is boring. I could run through the main backbone of the thing, but…there'd be nothing FUN. Only main ideas. No randomness.

So, I wrote this chapter. I meant to move the story along, but…I want to update more slowly in that regard. I'm not ready to let this story go just yet, even though I'm already working on a sequel, and an entirely uncanon Layton story. Therefore, I'm not going to rush it, and just write out the main steps of the main point of the story. You get my drift, pal?

Anyway, hope you enjoy. It's a bit of fun, I think…

As always, read and review, and correct any mistakes/typos/grammatical errors you find. Correct errors, not the content, please. Construction criticism and suggestions ALWAYS accepted! Anything you think would make a good part of the story? TELL ME.

Digesting several pounds of watermelon,

Kelsey

CHAPTER 30: OF LOCKS AND SNOWFLAKES

Professor Layton awoke with a start, as he had done on many an occasion for the past few months. He strained to see the clock, a bright-red, digital reading of the morning hour blaring through the blackness.

"6…6:15." He slumped back into his pillow and pulled his blanket tighter about him. His head throbbed. The room was dark, a welcoming atmosphere for one with a severe headache. "Guh, I suppose…I must get up…"

The daily grind: filling the tea kettle (difficult with sleepy eyes). Barely setting the oven knob correctly (another difficulty, could have brought the whole complex down in flames). Oatmeal in a bowl (instant, had to eat it up). A quick flight to the bathroom, then to the front door (Morning paper? No, must be late…).

He flopped himself down at the small kitchen table, the chair's cheap metal frame creaking in protest. He pulled his robe closer—the December air had been creeping into the cracks of the poor flat and freezing the place like a crisper—and began to doze off, for how long, he didn't know. But he was awakened once again by the sharp screaming of the kettle.

"Yes, yes, I'm up…" He grumbled as he rubbed his forehead.

He allowed a mug of Earl Gray to steep as he poured the rest of the water into his bowl, the small, flat oats swirling helplessly against the hot water torrent. They floated for a bit, then went into another whirlpool as he mixed it slowly, careful not to hit the sides of the bowl with the spoon. It seemed as if any noise, any at all, made his head split. He must have slept wrong, his neck at an odd position, perhaps.

The daily post-breakfast shower followed, this time with hotter-than-usual water. He stood in the waterfall, eyes to the ceiling, a searing pain cutting through his skull, as if it meant to break his head in two like a dropped watermelon. He proceeded to wash as usual, rubbing his temples at intervals.

He'd steamed up the mirror—unintentional, of course—but the close-to-scalding water had loosened up his nerves considerably. He stepped out and reached for a towel, shivering as his toes touched the cold tile. Residual wisps of steam danced about, scattering as he walked through them.

One towel about his waist, he went to take another from a nearby shelf before realizing he hadn't replaced his stock with clean ones.

"Add that to the list…laundry…" He removed the one he was wearing to wipe down the damp mirror, the physics of condensation having caused the humid air to cool, crystal beads clinging to the glass.

Layton smiled, then frowned at his reflection, running his fingers through his hair.

"Oh no, don't tell me that's a gray—"

It seemed to take an hour to realize what only took a second to complete: the door, open, and a sluggish Laura standing in the entry way, her eyes squinted as if someone invisible were pinching them shut; Layton, leaning towards the mirror, untoweled, in the middle of picking through strands of hair on his scalp. He stared, completely stunned that someone had just entered when he was…well…

'I didn't lock the blasted, bloody door?'

Laura turned towards the toilet, reaching to open the lid, apparently oblivious to who was standing stark naked in front of her. Then, without warning, she stopped dead in her tracks as if frozen solid, her wits returning at the speed of a bulldozer fallen off a cliff—a solid 9.8 meters per second squared? Perhaps faster.

Her head turned slowly, her eyes now wide and terrified like a deer-in-the-headlights. Layton's expression couldn't have mirrored or mimicked it any better than a practiced parrot. Both stood for what felt like eons, but in reality, the reaction time was—

"God save the fruh-eaking Queen, WHAT THE HELL—" The girl spun around and stubbed all five of her right-foot toes full-force into the doorframe as she tried to flee, resulting in another parade of profanity. The bedroom door slammed behind her, hiding her from sight, as the Professor reclaimed his towel and shut the bathroom door with the same force, thoroughly embarrassed and shocked. He wasn't sure which he felt more strongly, to be honest.

He was thankful he would be gone and at the University long before she woke up for the day. He'd deal with the embarrassment later, should she remember… Maybe she was still asleep enough to not pay the situation any mind? He probably wasn't going to be so lucky. Oh well, he'd save it for the dinner table. Well, maybe after the kids went to bed…

'Dear God…'

Needless to say, his headache had disappeared completely, the pain drowned out with all the excitement.

Hours later into the afternoon, he nervously conducted his lectures, still shaken from the morning, even moreso from his enchanted female students that relentlessly smothered him. With the Christmas holiday coming up, he'd had several packages and parcels unceremoniously dumped at his door and into his already-full arms, carrying books and notes around from his morning lectures.

"I do…thank you for these, but I'm having…a bit of trouble carrying all of this," he grunted, attempting to walk straight down a stuffy corridor, followed by a group of giddy students. Needless to say, they were all women. "If you don't mind me ducking into my office for a bit to put these things…urgh, ow, to put these things aside." He tried maneuvering his arms around a particularly sharp-cornered box, fishing in his pockets for his office key.

"Hershel! There you are my dear boy!"

A wizened old man on the short side waddled down the hallway, pushing through the Professor's 'company'. He was wearing a deep burgundy suit, and had only tiny wisps of white hair left atop his shiny dome of a head. He breathed as if struggling, hacking after each drag of breath. The girls all stared, annoyed at the intruder.

The Professor, on the other side of the spectrum, tried showing his thankfulness and enthusiasm through the mound of boxes he was holding. "Ah, Dean Delmona! You couldn't have come at any better of a time! Honestly! If you wouldn't mind helping me with a few of these boxes, my good man…"

They managed to shove the gifts into the office, a few of them popping open and revealing their contents perhaps a bit too soon. But all was well when the door finally closed, the Professor wishing his students a sobering farewell, much to the girls' disappointment.

"Ah. Alone. At last."

"I say, Hershel, you have quite the group following you about. You're quite popular with the ladies, perhaps tone the charm down a bit? Science is getting annoyed." The old man grabbed for a seat, thankful to let the chair deal with the gravity.

"The science department can hold their own, I'm sure. Is it really my fault that discovering glimpses of the past through artifacts is so attractive?" he chuckled, shaking his head. "What to do with all these…"

"I dare say, my grand-daughter would love many of these little trinkets. Sweets, biscuits in this one… I wonder what is in the rest of them? Let's take this big one here…" He pried the top off of one of the flat, wide boxes, his eyes growing in disbelief as he rummaged through its contents. He looked up over the silver frames of his glasses as they slipped down the bridge of his nose. "Really now!"

Layton now looked over from his desk, curious. "What is it—oh dear…" He blushed as the Dean held up a particularly racy article of feminine clothing, the tissue paper falling from it as he held it above his head. The lingerie may have had less material than the tissue paper did.

"Note says… 'I want this returned… Heart, Leslie? Who's Leslie?"

"Must be a student… Dean Delmona, I've told you about this problem before, I can't go one holiday without receiving all these…trinkets, as you so affectionately called them—"

"Nothing to worry about, Hershel. Back in the day…" he pulled on his suspenders, barely visible from underneath his suit coat, and puffed out his chest, "I used to have the same problem, the ladies flocking to my office for advice, trying to buy extra credit with their vile, thieving feminine ways. This is what you have to look forward to, Hershel! A cozy dean position at Gressenheller, and all the negative, aggressive attention you can handle! Heh heh."

The Professor massaged his eyes ("And it's not even 1 o'clock…"). He didn't like it, thoroughly not impressed with the image of him balding and crumpled while helping manage a university, but he smiled and nodded anyway.

"Absolutely, Dean Delmona. A respectable position, and quite the reputation to boot."

"There was a reason I came to see you but…" The man stuffed his hand into a pocket, pulled it back out, and scratched his head. He did this three times before shaking his head and sighing. "I don't recall, really. Probably will come to me later. You don't mind me popping in, do you, Hershel?"

"I would love nothing more, my good man. Anytime." He helped the Dean out the door. "Whenever you remember."

"Yes, yes… Was it a puzzle? No…it couldn't…" the man mumbled, plodding down the quiet hallway as the Professor returned to his post behind his desk. No sooner had he sat down that his stomach growled furiously, the empty feeling associated with hunger burning from within.

"I'd better go grab something for lunch…"

"I daresay you should!"

He looked up to find Laura at the open office door, her lips tracing out a cat-like smile. She had the face of a child, but the cunning of a practiced politician, and her smile proved it so.

"Oh, Laura…it's you…" He felt his face get hot, and he removed his suit coat. "How did you get here?"

"Cab."

"I wasn't expecting to see you until much later this evening."

"And I wasn't expecting to see any of you until then either. But…let's just say that we don't always get what we expect, now do we?"

He groaned, closing his eyes. "I'm…terribly sorry for this morning. It seems I forgot to lock the door. I only have my headache as an excuse. It was a rather painful one, I just wasn't thinking clearly, and—"

"Save it, Hershel. I didn't see…too much really…" Blushing once more, her turn. "Oh boy, okay. Erm, let's get on with business then shall we? First, how's your headache doing? Heh heh…" She walked towards the desk nervously, wringing her hands together, cracking her joints.

"So you do get embarrassed?" And…his turn for a self-aggrandizing grin. He laced his fingers together and rested his hands on the glossy top of the desk, . No response from the girl now standing before him, licking her teeth and looking anywhere but at the Professor.

"Well, nobody wants to see you naked! It's a fright thinking about it, it's more of a fright to actually experience it!"

"Well, my students don't think so…" He pointed to the pile of gifts, including the half-opened box containing the lingerie. Laura scoffed, rolling her eyes almost to the back of her head.

"Nice. You'll look even better in that."

"No, it's—it's not for me! It's intended for the girl who gave it to me, I—wait, that—that's not supposed to mean what it sounded like…" He expelled a gravely sigh, glaring into a corner of the room as Laura roared, covering her face, uncovering it again, slapping her legs and doubling over in a seemingly painful bout of laughter. He waited for a few seconds, expecting her to stop. No end in sight. "Stop laughing at me, or I won't take you out to lunch."

Her laughter subsided with one last, long, Whoo, what a riot, and she wiped her eyes. "I should report you to the Dean… Wait, lunch?"

"Yes, I meant to make you dinner tonight but since you're here now, might as well treat you to lunch. Apologies for earlier."

"Buying my silence, are you?"

"…I wish I could buy a new morning but…"

"Good, we can discuss our plans over something better than that slop you cook up at the flat."

"Plans?" he asked as he cleared off his desk, ignoring her insult. He was getting better at that.

"Er, I have a trip to America in two days. Aren't you coming?"

"Yes…I…let me get my things straight. Okay, today's exams, final lecture notes, research grant application. Ah, alas, the deadline is soon, I'll have to get that in before heading out… Very good, everything tucked away, I'm famished, let's go!"

He pranced around his desk, tossing a pile of papers onto an already disheveled cabinet. He smiled while walking briskly to the door, his arm loosely draped across Laura's shoulder blades as he ushered her out of the room. She gave him a sharp look as if scrutinizing his intentions.

"What are you on about?"

"What, I can't be a bit excited for the end of semester? The finals are as antagonizing to me as they are for my students."

"Not that. You're a bit too…un-Hershel."

"'Laytonesque', 'un-Hershel'…how does everyone come up with these words? Merriam-Webster would be happy to give you a job at this rate."

"Very funny… I mean, you've been a bit too giddy for someone as debonair as you let on. I guess I know you better."

"Hmm, I guess you do."

They walked out of the building and joined a chittering crowd of students that was heading towards the front gates. Laura noticed the college crowd was slightly different than when she was in school, but the little arrogant bastards still had the same uppity groove that set them apart from "commoners". They broke off from the group as they continued down a different sidewalk, the students' voices trailing off as they continued through the cold. As for the pair, Laura and the Professor were silent.

The winter hadn't been particularly snowy, but was bitterly cold. Layton tucked his scarf further into his coat collar, pulling down on his hat as a sharp breeze nipped and bit at his ears. Laura made sure her earmuffs and gloves were secure, but otherwise was unfazed. Winter was her muse, and it delighted her on a daily basis with patterned snowflakes and rustling, sharp breezes. It kept the lazy and the fat indoors, and the clean, evenness of a snow-laden landscape gave her ease.

Of course, it required a bit of extra clothing (an annoyance), but she was well aware she couldn't have everything.

Layton led them to a tiny tea house, warm and inviting even from the outside. The poor storefront sign—THE DAILY GRIND, in thick, green lettering—swung back and forth, squeaking on its equally poor chains. They entered, skin prickling as the cold in their bones found its match in the warmth that now caressed their faces. Jars upon jars housed tea leaves and coffee beans from around the world along the back wall, appearing almost as a gigantic wall decoration rather than an opportunity for an exotic brew.

Laura turned up her nose.

"I know, I know, but you'll enjoy the fare," the Professor said quickly, noticing her displeasure. "The owners are German."

"Really, now? Perhaps I won't be so harsh on it then."

Choosing a table near the window, they sat down and found no trouble starting up a conversation about whatever came to their minds. It was as if nothing had ever happened that morning. In all honesty and actuality, it was as if the past 10 years had never happened, chit-chat came so easily.

It had been a smooth transition, from the slowly cooling weather of September to the harsher winds of December. The climate of the apartment was also pleasant, Laura's presence fitting in fluidly with the lives of the others. Of course, there were jagged bumps concerning her and the head (or perhaps 'top-hat') of the strange 'family', but…expected.

They would chat and argue and nit-pick and fuss almost every morning and evening during the week, Laura taking up a punctuated, temporary residence until further notice. She'd watch over and teach the children in exchange for food and lodging on most days (when she could safely leave her work and office, without bothersome questioning from superiors), and the Professor would go to teach at the University. Laura had decided it beat sitting behind a stuffy, elitist desk, no matter how many times she'd have to reteach Flora how to solve for 'x'.

Of course, they'd had their differences, rather blatant ones that caused a few major upsets within the small flat, Laura finding it difficult to contain her anger despite the children present. It was apparent even from the most mundane actions of any given day, for instance, cooking. The Professor would cook simply, hardly using any variation in seasoning or spice ("Bland, bland, bland," Laura would grumble in a bored yet sing-song voice, trilling on the last bland, for a long bla-A-a-A-aaand). She would use two whole heads of garlic at a time, as if fumigating for vampires, causing both Professor and children to steer clear of the kitchen, driving them to the outer limits of the house until significant air flow was established. Concerning organization, the Professor's ability to trash a room with a library of open books and scattered papers and preserve that image for days baffled her, one with a tendency toward the obsessive-compulsive. After two weeks of stay, Laura had already organized every drawer and cabinet in the house and taken inventory, composing a report that indicated the Professor's spending habits on new commodities such as soap refills and packages of toilet paper, when he still had enough to survive through a nuclear holocaust, should the need arise. The reporting of this information was met with a blank stare and heavy breathing, as if Layton wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or ruined, his gentlemanly conduct dashed by his more natural tendency to…disarm a space of its order.

"It doesn't help when I'm trying to teach Luke about how to behave, and you're pointing out all of my personal flaws," he muttered quietly when he and Laura were alone one evening. She looked up at him with a confused expression, a 'Well, why are you flawed then?' sort of glance. "Is it necessary to provide a purchasing chart?" he said after a long slurp of his tea cup.

"You will save over £500 a year with this model that I have written up. Now, should you choose—"

"Laura. It's toilet paper."

"And you spend too much on it. You have to note sale times at stores, and bulk prices, and really, you're quite stocked as it is, it's ridicu—"

"And another thing that's happened too often to let it go: I go to class smelling like an Italian eatery. I'm asking that you not use garlic anymore when you cook. It's fusing into my closet."

Her face contorted into an ugly snarl, failing to hide her building irritation that he wasn't interesting in listening, rather, chastising her for efficiency and good taste. Who'd he think he was, the Queen? "Who cares? Garlic smells fine," she stated plainly, as if a fact.

"It's offensive to many noses, and I'm not going to be the one offending anyone with my vampire-warding coat."

She stood and stomped off, knowing that if she stayed any longer, she'd end up saying something scathing and unforgiveable, not that she cared about forgiveness. She called behind her, "You blow off my advice, and then take my garlic. Real suave, Hershel. Fine, I'll get rid of the garlic."

He found 5 raw, potent garlic cloves in his jacket pockets the next morning during a departmental meeting.

But it hadn't all been arguing and childish tactics (which, even the Professor found himself stooping to, but rarely so, he'd sustain, as he'd only purposefully left all his research materials out on the bed once, knowing full good and well that she'd explode in anger over dusty book germs). Layton had taken to making extra tea in the evening, leaving it in the refrigerator for Laura to enjoy cold. She'd make desserts for Luke and Flora, and would sneak some into a packed lunch (which, she also prepared for the Professor), even though he would protest that sweets were not adult-like; he'd always have some compliment on the treats upon his return home, showing that he'd eaten them after all.

Laura had even started trimming his hair along with Luke's in an effort to save on monthly barber costs. For Luke, it was like a sort of bonding experience, and he'd share many stories with his newfound confidant as she skillfully kept the hair off his ears and prevented it from traveling down the back of his neck with a few simple clips.

"A boy bred to be a gentleman musn't ever appear ragged and disheveled," she would affirm seriously. "You'll look like a sloppy poor homeless boy with no etiquette."

Luke soon took most of Laura's 'suggestions' to be subtle demands for excellence, unlike the Professor's polite prodding for growth. The boy wasn't sure which he preferred to receive personally, but he did notice the job getting done much more quickly when Laura was the one dictating and flashing a stern glance. He was never frightened, only pressured more intensely to present himself well. But when he failed, she was no less nurturing than the Professor, which he was thankful for; she could have been a real snob about it, but she always encouraged to 'do better next time.' A stern smile, a raised finger, then a tight hug.

For the Professor, haircuts felt like something more intimate, as he knew she hated hair altogether, yet gingerly made sure each strand was snipped and in its place. He would never admit it, but he hoped she didn't notice his goosebumps each time she'd brush her fingers over his skin, through his hair, the brief and gentle sensation creating a flurry of feelings each time. As she carefully studied his hair line along the top of his forehead, watchful of the scissors' blades against his skin, Professor Layton would stare into her face quietly, reading every fleeting smile that would suddenly flash as she made a good cut, getting lost in her eyes as they darted from side to side as she judged the evenness of her work on each side of his skull.

A twinge in his stomach, one he hadn't encountered for a while. He kept his opinions to himself, but he wished for his hair to get 'much too long,' much more often.

On Laura's end, she struggled every day to keep her feelings neutral and steady. If she wasn't happy and easy-going, she'd be anxious and would have to stabilize herself, perhaps after an argument with the Professor. She wasn't quite sure what was responsible for her erratic moods, but figured it was mostly her discomfort at seeing him every day when she'd had a huge break in communication. She couldn't help finding him annoying on many days, but even on days when he wasn't…she had to shake off his smile, fearing that she'd eventually grow to feel something else…

Something dangerous. The 'scary feeling'.

"Laura?"

She'd been dazing, staring at the spoon sitting in Layton's tea cup. She blinked several times, startled, a dippy grin plastered just below her cheeks. "Oh, sorry. Were you speaking?"

"I had been, yes… And I'd asked you what you thought about Luke and Flora not coming along?"

"Oh, I…I suppose that's fine, they aren't in my care, so… Rosa's going to watch them for you, as long as you need?"

"I just don't want to put them in danger, and rushing off to America doesn't sound very responsible. Europe's so contained, America just seems so…wide."

"You shouldn't talk about people that way!" she chuckled, draining her cup in one last sputtery gulp.

"I…wasn't…"

"Very well. Anyway," she pulled out a several times folded-up piece of paper, opening it wide and pressing it down flat and pointing to thin lines of words as she spoke, "we have a 7:30 AM flight, will land in Washington D.C., and then we'll transfer to another flight, which will take us further south. We'll get off the plane, find a taxi, and make our way to Stabilnon. I did some research…" She hurriedly whisked the transportation itinerary away, replacing it with another badly folded paper, a print-off from an internet search. "Stabilnon isn't a very well-known location. That, or it's just not popular enough to garner much information on the internet. I searched books, I searched articles, nothing. I at least got this from the computer. Says there's a population of 1,250, and three little 'suburbs'—if you could call them that, given Stabilnon isn't even a big city!—make up around 1,000 more people. So, it's a small place, really."

Layton looked at her oddly over his own cup, eyebrows pursed together, his forehead wrinkling. "Such a small, strange, and cloistered place, yet Leopold wants to drill there, hmm? Sounds out of the ordinary."

"A diamond in the rough, I guess. The city nearby doesn't really matter, I doubt he even knows an inkling about the place. But, supposedly, there's an immense amount of oil out in the ocean. He wants it, so… I have to do my job. But, this place sounds so lovely, a quaint little village." She smiled broadly as she talked, using her hands as involuntary puppets as she expanded and retracted the gap between them, showing how thrilled she was to be going. She'd clench her fists, shake them slightly, rest them on the table, before again starting the whole thing over. "I'm quite excited to go, if you'll believe it. I love little villages, charming little towns. London is too big, too big. I'm tired of it. I don't want to hear so much as a car going by, I'm so tired of smog and soot and…people. Everywhere people."

Layton's face was struck with genuine amusement, a low laugh escaping his partially open lips. "I don't think I've seen you this excited in ages. Since that concert I took you to, maybe. You rarely show this side…"

"I've always wanted to go to America. It's got a charm all on its own. Maybe not its people, but… We'll see if the rumors are true."

A short and sullen waiter came to take their dishes away, small round plates filled with bread crumbs and small dabs of mustard, tea cups with dark, cold dregs swirling around the curved bottoms. Layton paid the bill while Laura sat in silence, her grin still intact. She couldn't contain her excitement, she didn't care if it was bothersome. She rather hoped it was infectious. The investigation took a backseat, the thrill of aeroplanes and villagers and American accents and hamburgers filling her mind.

"Ready to head out?" the Professor said. Laura nodded and followed him through the café's door.

Once back on the streets, they strolled past the many store fronts, decked in holiday trimmings and plain-faced manikins that showcased the season's most flashy garb for Christmas. Layton looked over at Laura, stuffing his scarf in his shirt in front of his neck. "So, we'll be in America for Christmas?"

"And New Year's, so it seems."

"I'll have to give Luke and Flora their presents early then." He raised his eyebrows, then looked straight ahead again. Laura shrugged, wondering if she should get them anything as well, but thought no more of it.

They arrived back at the University, Layton nervously trying to ask something, but unable to spit it out, Laura could tell.

"So…what exactly are you…well, do you need a ride back?"

She laughed. "I know you don't want me here, so I'll just call a cab."

"That's—! That's not it at all, it's just that I get a little…self-conscious if someone hangs about my office while I finish up my work, so…"

"You just don't want to deal with me anymore than you have to, Hershel. A cab works for me. I'll be seeing you later then, fully clothed, I hope…"

"No, that's not the case, I—it's just, well…" He rolled his eyes as his cheeks burned with a deeper pink than the brisk wind had already coaxed out of them. "When you're around, we end up talking away the day, so I can't risk my work going unfinished, you understand? I have only two days, classes end tomorrow, I have grades to put in, and—"

Laura interrupted with a bitter laugh. "You're funny."

"I…beg your pardon? What's so funny about it?"

"You just are…predictable. Funny, funny, funny."

"I—now, what's so predicta—"

"Look at how nervous you are! Flustered, even! You can't even talk to me in public anymore! It's hilarious. Yeah, yeah, I understand that expression, I'm going, I'm going!"

She scampered off towards the curb, giggling madly as he yelled something inaudible after her. Once she was out of sight, the Professor huffed and turned back towards his destination, feeling exactly as she described: nervous and flustered, even more so at how astute she was at picking up and describing his demeanor.

The large, looming building ahead of him was Main Hall, a centre of small eateries and shops for the students to use without having to venture far off of campus. Not that they were encouraged to stay on campus; the city yearned for business, and was more than willing to cater to college students' needs off-campus. But it worked for those students who didn't like to slop around in the slush and the chilling temperatures, so at the time, it was bustling, to Layton's chagrin.

He pulled his scarf out of his shirt and coat, loosening its grip around his neck. He removed his gloves and shook from them the trace snowflakes that had managed to cling to and melt on the brown fabric. Next followed his hat, which he removed and cleaned off hastily. Hat back on, gloves in pockets, scarf hanging loosely around his neck like a limp towel, he continued down the shiny tiled path, bright yellow Caution! signs placed everywhere to warn of the slippery surface. The signs' little graphic of a nameless, faceless person in mid-fall, almost breaking his back, made the Professor smile a little, his sadism getting the better of him, if only briefly.

Ambling about, avoiding heavy flocks of students, he came across a little gift shop. It was packed with rowdy students, clambering to snag last minute gifts to give to their families, friends, lovers, maybe enemies (there were some rather lewd gag gifts available, which Layton ignored with slight annoyance). A bright, whimsical card caught his eye and he grabbed it from the tiered card shelf.

"Ah, Luke would love this. Sparkling snow, little winter animals on the front—"

"Hershel, darling!"

Professor Layton jumped and almost dropped the card, barely recapturing it as it fluttered out of his hands. The voice was too close for comfort, the feminine drawl grating against his eardrums.

'I wish I didn't know that voice.'

"Caroline, what a pleasant surprise!" he forced himself to say, his fright none too subtle.

A woman with a perpetually condescending sneer rushed up closer to his side. Past the blatant candy apple lipstick and midnight black eyeshadow, she had sarcastic and shrewd etched deeply into her face, even deeper into her eyes. Her snow-white cashmere coat and matching scarf and ear muffs spoke even louder, a mating call to all company presidents and CEO's—anyone wealthy would do—within a 5 meter radius. She clutched onto a small handbag with one black-leathered hand, extending her other one to adjust the Professor's hat as she saw fit.

"Still sporting this little number? What a catch you are! I hear you were drowning in presents this holiday. Dean Delmona wasn't too quiet about it, he thought it was rather humorous. The stories we share over in psychology…you should join us sometime."

"I… Well, lately I've been out working on excavations, but whenever the occasion arises, I could—"

"And how are you doing?" she said with harsh emphasis, eyeing him carefully. Layton blinked.

"Well, I'm as swamped as ever, of course, but—"

"Your social life? You do have a social life, don't you, Hershel?"

"Well, I—"

"A girlfriend?"

"Good heavens, I—"

"Are you keeping up with…old friends?"

He caught on to her mediocre attempt to be subtle, her agenda too transparently displayed in her barefaced questioning. He sighed softly, exhaling slowly as he regained composure.

It had happened before, the interrogations. The deliberate stabs to his conduct, the attempts to put him on trial, the unrestrained questioning of his character and whether or not it had been breached. He often stood in silence in his office, all those years ago, wondering if he'd fallen foul, violated some unwritten rule. That's how she made him feel.

Caroline Thurman-Warner. A thrice wedded, constantly 'bedded', unforeseen thorn that had risen to headmaster status within a week's decision-making from the Board of Trustees. Headmaster of Grissom's, the next in line after the startling murder of Headmaster Ginlade, ten years ago. Nothing close to the jolly presence of the former headmaster, instead, Headmaster Thurman-Warner (as she demanded to be called) would troll the corridors, striking up conversations with the richest, building friendships with the most prominent, catering to any who would help her erect an empire fit for the most powerful of her female students, and only the most powerful (needless to say, she was a proponent of social 'natural selection').

From day one, her little birds would fly, preying on their fellows, bringing back rumors in an attempt to disrupt any notions of unrest within the student ranks. She would stamp out any 'problems', what her chosen few would see some situations and people as. The gossip was her sustenance, and those young women that found their newest Headmaster to be an inspiration enabled her gluttony.

Her first order of business: the young upstart archaeologist and his classroom pet.

The Professor now—even while eyeing her down in a college gift shop, holding a children's Christmas card—perfectly recalled his first run-in with the new Headmaster. He gave her the benefit of a doubt, his gentlemanly conduct overriding any reservations he normally would have had, given her standoffish appearance. It was a particularly stuffy day at the end of March, the heater in the conference room pushing out more hot air than a seasoned charlatan.

"I'd like to introduce our new headmaster, Professor Caroline Thurman-Warner from the psychology department," said a stout and jumpy professor with jumpy hair to match. It curled and extended from his scalp like a set of loose coils, only the color of baking soda. Layton wondered if it (his personality, not the hair) was because he was from chemistry, and he'd been blown up on several occasions due to the less-adept of his chemistry students. Although, maybe the hair had the same cause…

Enough about the hair. The new Headmaster strode to the front of the conference room, smiling and waving, shaking hands, the customary charade of kindness mixed with pomposity that most superiors tended to possess. She spoke a few words, and that was that. Nothing too over the top.

And then came the trap for her prey. Shortly afterwards, she had requested 'personal meetings' with those of the faculty she hadn't yet met, Professor Layton being one of them. Professor Layton being the only one of them.

He had come into her office, knocking before entering, as any gentleman would argue is the proper way to enter a room (especially a lady's).

"Ah, Professor Hershel Layton!" The Headmaster stood behind the large oak desk. She extended an arm, waiting a few seconds until Layton had closed the door behind him and made his way across the room. He took her hand in his, smiled, and greeted her as was common custom.

"The pleasure is all mine, Headmaster." He sat after shaking her hand gently.

"Let's not be stuffy snoots, Hershel, darling. Please. Caroline is just fine." She sat as well, her hands energetically flying about as she talked. "We're both adults, academics here! First names will do, don't you think?"

"As you wish, Caroline. I hope you are well, and are fitting into the fabric of this fine college with relative ease?"

"Quite. And, yourself? I read that you're an assistant professor of archaeology, a visiting professor from Gressenheller?" She pulled a few papers out of a cream-colored file folder, his name scrawled on the top tab. The Professor wondered if all members of the faculty had a folder, just for them. "You must be quite the expert, coming from such a reputable university!"

"You flatter me, Caroline. I merely love my work, and put in as much effort as I can."

"And I see you'll be a full-time professor this fall, a major component of the archaeology department! And so young! Go you!" She grinned as she pumped both fists forward a bit, her elbows resting on the arms of her wooden chair. If Layton didn't know any better, he may have thought she was genuinely happy for him. But her eyes spoke of something more. They said no words, but showed something other than enthusiasm, a secret agenda.

"Indeed, that is the plan," he said quietly, folding his hands in his lap. He felt this was about something more than getting to know one another, and was becoming impatient and worried about what the purpose really was.

"And….you're a puzzle connoisseur. How cute." She folded her hands in her lap, smiling a sickeningly sweet smile. "Here, have a go at this one. I just heard it the other day from one of my students, who seems to enjoy throwing me through a loop here and there with riddles."

It seemed he had no choice. "As you wish, I'll see if I can solve it."

"Okay, it goes like this:

Scarlet stream

Steel your mettle!

You'll need some grit

To smell my petal.

What am I?"

She blinked, then stared at him for a moment. The Professor cleared his throat and looked at his hands, massaging them as he thought.

"Hmm…seems to be a flower…"

"You're on the right track!" she giggled, amused. He really didn't like being helped along, but who was he to refuse the Headmaster's hinting?

"I'm going to say…a rose."

"And right you are!" she said loudly with a clap. "What gave it away?"

"Steeling one's mettle, the need for grit. I would say that the flower sounds a bit dangerous, if the one enjoying the scent needs courage. Plus, with a 'scarlet stream,' which hints at blood, that means the flower is capable of injury. Such a common flower exists, as we all know that roses carry thorns. Therefore, the obvious choice is a rose." He grinned with satisfaction, not bothering to hide it.

"Look out, world. We have quite the detective on our hands!" Her lips curled upward at the corners, much like a snake, but more sinister. "Yes, indeed a rose. Such beauty, yet lined with thorns. A lot like…love." Her voice made the Professor's insides curdle and writhe uncomfortably. "Enough of the games, you're too good. On to more important things, now that we've broken the ice. Tell me, how is your classroom? Your students. Do you enjoy your students?"

"They are a good bunch. Some smarter than others, but they all try with verve." He instantly thought of Laura and had to suppress a smile. He'd rather have a meeting with her than with this 'Headmaster'.

Caroline eyed him calculatingly. "Any in particular?"

"No, madam, they are rather evenly matched with one another in that regard, if I may say so. Good workers, all of them, and rarely any complaints, on their part, and mine."

She smiled cynically, her tone becoming boorish. "You know, it's rather funny that you say that, because I have been hearing differently, dear Hershel."

Her smile faded instantly, replaced by a taut grimace. Unblinking, her eyes drilled into his, trying to dig up any guilt that may be riddling his mind. The Professor's stomach dropped. His muscles tensed, his hands felt clammy. She was on to something and she was determined to put that something into jeopardy. Had it been months earlier, he'd have nothing to feel responsible for, but now… He tried his absolute best to hide his emotions. What did he have to feel guilty for? She hadn't mentioned anything specific.

"I…don't know what you mean. My students are as I have told you, my class is just fine."

"No, no, Hershel, I believe you misunderstand. It's not as if your class as a whole isn't functioning well. It seems to be well-oiled for the most part. Except, for one." She leaned forward, her long nailed fingers delicately gripping the ends of the chair arms. She clicked the nails against the wood-grain, her fingers moving like a wave, over and over. "I've been getting several…complaints, I suppose you could call them—comments? No, more like complaints—anyway, I've already been getting complaints about a relationship between you and one of your students."

'I'm going to have to lie, even if it goes against my code,' the Professor admitted silently and reluctantly.

"I'm afraid I do misunderstand, Headmaster. I treat all of my students equally. They all have the same opportunities, the same—"

"Please," she interrupted, a trace of irritation riding her voice. "Caroline, Hershel. Hershel, do you tutor a student after class?"

"Indeed, I do."

"On what premise?"

"That she requires extra instruction on the lessons until her grades improve," he said determinedly. "She has struggled with archaeology and history, and I teach her further after class to help her conceptualize the material in a different way than what is presented during lecture."

The Headmaster merely stared into him, expressionless. "This occurs daily?"

"Only after classes, which are on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of each week, unless I need to reschedule or cancel a course, then of course, it could be a Tuesday, Thursday…"

"I am informed that this student, Laura Haris, is quite the little prodigy. A recipient of a prestigious scholarship, and, quite amazingly enough, a certified genius with quite the list of talents and academic gifts. Surely, such a student wouldn't require remedial lessons so often?"

"I see you've done your homework," Layton responded with restrained derision. His smile never faltered, although his mind was furious, his patience burning away quickly.

"Any good headmaster would," she said, a crafty smile twitching at the ends of her mouth.

"Laura is indeed a gifted individual with a passion for mathematics and science, specifically, engineering. However, her skill set in other areas, such as in history and archaeology—my fields of expertise—are deficient, for the lack of a kinder word. Therefore, I suggested instruction outside of class, which she has been attending diligently, and—"

"And her grades have improved?"

He had no come-back, for indeed, they hadn't risen all that much. To his dismay, Laura still struggled to care about the course, even after discussing the material at great lengths in his office, or elsewhere.

'She's just not good with tests…and she's lazy when it comes to subjects she despises…'

"Not as much as we would have hoped," he replied bitterly, the words caustic on his tongue. "Her talents rest elsewhere in the wide world."

"I see." She cleared her throat, looking at him more sharply. "Hershel, I don't have the time nor the patience to quibble over things that are more than apparent to me, and those around you. It has been confided in me that you two share a bond stronger than that of a respectable teacher-student relationship, stronger even than that of a teacher, and a teacher's pet. Now, as we're both educators, don't think that I don't understand that we all have our favorites, despite how hard we try to be fair, impartial. I understand that. But…" She crossed her legs and sat up at full height. "I have reason to believe that the 'teacher's pet' is more of a 'teacher's companion'."

The shorter the better, Layton decided. "I do not see our relationship as you describe, Headmaster."

She didn't correct him about her name this time. She merely glared at him, hoping it'd make him break, spilling the truth through the crooked cracks. She knew who she was playing with, and was determined to crush the opposition.

"I have reason to believe otherwise, Professor. You might want to recall certain events where you perhaps enjoyed leisure time with Miss Haris? Times in London, around downtown? The HEFF conference? Venues as intimate as your own home? You don't recall anyone joining you? Ever? You're going to deny these examples?"

"If you are referring to the one time I was at the HEFF conference and accompanied Miss Haris, then I will say that you are correct. We both had awards to accept, so it only seemed logical to drive her there, since we live in the same neighborhood. I was there, as were several other professors, even the former Headmaster himself—God rest his soul—in order to support and cheer on our most talented students. I don't find anything outlandish about that."

"Being seen about London with a student is outlandish. You have no recollection of that, now?"

"I have had tea with Miss Haris on occasion, yes. I had been driving her to engineering classes at the University, as I had to be there anyway, and I was saving her parents the extra driving. I treated her to afternoon tea a handful of times, merely as a method of conversation and study. You could say that I was 'killing two birds with one stone', as tea is an afternoon staple of mine, and I might as well have conducted a study session while I was on break. This is not anything strange, as I know that the psychology department hosts weekly tea time with professors and students in order to establish a comfortable and inviting setting in which to communicate."

Headmaster Thurman-Warner growled, thoroughly defeated, yet unwilling to lay down. "It wasn't only tea! You were at a restaurant! An expensive restaurant, with Laura Haris!"

"A restaurant? And what restaurant would that be?" he asked, quietly amused with the woman's frustration, though he was loath to admit it.

"Does 'Regia' ring any bells under that hat?"

"Regia…? Ah! Oh, how funny, you are then referring to my old friend and classmate, Miss Greta Wienhoft. I had forgotten I went to that establishment, I'd rather forget that bill… I suppose I could see how you could get Miss Haris and Miss Wienhoft confused, they are quite similar in appearance. You should have said something, Headmaster, if you were there! I'm rather surprised you didn't come to my table to say something." The Headmaster said nothing now, but her face was as red as a vine-ripened tomato. "However, Miss Wienhoft is getting up there in age, if I may say so. She's around my age, so—"

Surprisingly, the Headmaster laughed. She chuckled first, then coughed, her chortling becoming a shrill cackle. "Oh, my, Hershel. Well, it seems we're both mistaken then? I find it very hard to believe, but this is going nowhere fast. Here's the thing. You mention a departmental tea setting between professors and students. Professors. Students. Plural. A group setting, not a tête-à-tête. Now, let's see you finagle out of this one. How about your house, Hershel? I've had it brought to my attention that Laura Haris was seen leaving your house on many an occasion."

The Professor feigned emotional injury. "I'm not trying to finagle out of anything, Headmaster. I'm merely giving you the factual truth. I had informed my class I'd be having group study sessions, and they would take place a few blocks from campus at my own home. I made dinner, tea, and some light refreshments, and invited them to come study for the end of the semester finals. The class as a whole was invited."

The Headmaster curled her lips into a hideous grimace, as if to say 'Checkmate'.

"Yet only Laura came."

"I feel as if there's unfair blame being placed on me. If that were the case, that only Miss Haris came, how could you prove it, unless another student really was present in order to confirm those in attendance? I'm curious as to whom you get your information from, Caroline. The person isn't very accurate, I must say…"

'Touché,' he blurted out, if only mindfully.

Caroline fumed behind the wreckage of her formally triumphant smile, now a mottled attempt at a friendly grin. "Look here, Layton. I don't know who you think that you're trying to evade, but you won't be evading me. I know you're up to something. You have your comebacks, but you're a schemer. I'd watch your steps if I were you. If you so much as think about flirting with one of your students, namely Laura Haris, I will know about it. Cut ties and severe any current romantic relationships you have now. I'll give you a chance. Either that, or you'll be facing a forced early resignation, or a blatant dismissal from the college. I don't care about your feelings. You're still a young, erratic-minded, impudent fool, and these girls don't need your charm gumming up the works. They need supportive instructors, not ones that will encourage a brief game of hide the bloody sausage."

The Professor, thoroughly surprised at the strange turn of events (too personal of a meeting, he decided), rearranged his hat and smiled despite the accusations and crude language.

"I assure you, Headmaster, that there hasn't been, nor will there be, anything done that will make you question or suspect a thing. If I may excuse myself, I have a departmental meeting in five minutes…"

She waved him off, grunting. "A good day to you."

"And to you, Headmaster Thurman-Warner."

He half-expected the correction of her name again, but the other half of him knew she was furious, unable to stick him with anything stigmatizing. She wanted him gone, and wanted silence, lest he wrench his name out of trouble again.

Her words and in-depth knowledge still struck a sickening fear and realization into his mind and heart: that suffering and causing suffering to make such a thing work—something more than infatuation—his relationship with Laura, might not be worth it in the end. Somehow, people knew. People suspected. He figured it was the gossip and harsh rumors of fellow students, even those in his class. For a brief moment, he cursed them, then felt sorry.

'I don't know what's best for Laura…for me…'

Ten years later, the words still chimed and rang inside his tired brain.

"Hello? Did you hear me?" came the voice of the insufferable Caroline Thurman-Warner, still as harsh as ever.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. My wits are near their end, this last week of school. Old friends? Yes, I still keep up with many of them."

"I see. You always were a crafty one, Hershel." She looked at him with feigned interest, then shook her head. "Well, it was lovely seeing you, even in a cramped little hovel like this!" She flippantly referred to the store with a stiff wave of her hand. "Stay clear of trouble, will you? Those around you know more than you think."

With a little giggle, she had turned and walked away, scurrying to a group of obnoxious girls who recognized her as their first-year psychology professor.

Thankful for the reprieve, Professor Layton hurriedly bought the sparkling card and left, his stomach in a tight knot. He recalled more than he had wanted, remembered more than he'd bargained for. The woman had dug up so much emotion, if only with her inadvertent ability to claw at people's consciences. The memories were one thing, the scathing words another. Had he done the right thing, letting Laura go? Should he have been braver, refusing to take Caroline's words to heart, confiding in Laura to conquer his fear?

'I said some things…but what about my actions? Where did I stand?

'Or…where did I fail to stand…?'

What a bore. Review. :]